What The F Issue 26

WHAT THE F

YOUR IRREGULAR PERIODICAL

Staff

Bella Lowe

Lindsey Smiles

Melissa Dash

Claire Gallagher

Michelle Wu

Sam Aupperlee

Tess Beiter

Morgan Butler

Claire Bletsas

Dimitra Colovos

Claire Emch

Ruhi Gulati

Isabel Hopson

Eli Merren

Anna Nachazel

Isabella Oh

Rachel Troy

Olivia Nolff

Ava Berkwits

Lucy Bernstein

Eleanor Durkee

Sivan Ellman

Catherine Hwang

Snowy Iverson

Eva Ji

Lila MacKinnon

Stella Moore

Maevis Rosengart

Elizabeth Wolfe

Maddie Gaudet

Colleen Hardman

Molly Kraine

Lydia Naser

Megan White

Nia Saxon

Izzy Basso

Maddie Krawczyk

Dylan Wade

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Aayana Anand

Payton Aper

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Makayla Kelley

Grace Martin

Lucy Perrone

Suhani Suneja

Grace Fisher

Adriana Kelley

Stella Fiorini

Blythe McCurry

Lena Schramm

Rhea Sridhara

Sana Hashmi

Logan Brown

Mary Corey

Fiona Henne

Gabby Rivas

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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.

WHAT T HE F

Table of Contents

Letter from the Editor

Aristophanes’ Myth

Shit I’m Afraid To Ask My Doctor: Myths of Pregnancy Loss

Down The Rabbit Hole: The Cult of the Manosphere

NJB

Breakdowns and Other Birthday Activities

Icarus and I

A Goblin In The Mirror

Vandalizing My Body In The Name of Feminism Into The Night

Role Model

Her Skill Alone

Mirani And The Myth Of The American Dream

Karma Isn’t The Bitch, You Are

The Ventorello Fact

The Downfall Of A Dream

Pacsun Made Me A Prison Abolitionist

The Medicalization of Childbirth

The Light We Choose To Turn Off

Misogyny, Mythology, And Medusa... Oh My! Art

Letter fromthe editor

Welcome to What The F, your feminist periodical!

Dear Reader,

Within these pages, you will find What The F’s personal mythology.

Our body of myths defy the bounds of time and space, ranging from the 7th century BCE in Ancient Greece, to the 21st century right here in Ann Arbor. We have found that this longevity lies in the inherent nature of myth, as folklore has traveled across cultures and filtered down the branches of family trees, outlasting generations. The overarching themes explored in this issue—reproduction, aging, assimilation, sexuality, beauty—have circulated since the onset of mythology. Yet, as we evolve to an ever-changing world, we find value in how we retell the familiar.

In the following tales, the writers question tradition as they reflect on their own lives. While you’re certain to meet their array of heroic protagonists, even more striking is the diversity of antagonists our writers identify. On the contrary to traditional myth, the following accounts humanize time-honored enemies by rewriting them in modern-day context.

Well-known female villains are dissected and recast as symbols of empowerment; mischievous, dwarflike creatures are reimagined as the token figures of humanity; entire worldviews on religion, soulmates, and masculinity are boiled down to their alleged counterfeit core—the possibility to evolve prevailing thought is demonstrated right here.

While at times myths prevent us from confronting reality, at others their narratives provide us great comfort in decoding an otherwise mystifying world. Regardless of your stance on stories as a means of explanation, the ability to construct a whole magazine devoted to their discussion speaks to their power.

At the heart of this issue lies the following sentiment: the most important thing we have is our words, our ability to tell stories, and the knowledge of how to make a lasting impression for centuries to come. Our hope is that the subsequent pages do just that. As always, we’re so glad you’re on this journey with us.

All my love,

Melissa Dash Editor-In-Chief

ARISTOPHANES’ MYTH

By Melissa Dash

Imagine the spectacle of roly poly humans cartwheeling on cylindrical necks.

The children of the earth catching momentum as their tandem tongues grace the grass in rhythmic orbit and all four ears take turns finding the early heartbeat of the world.

Nature’s first humans descended from the womb of sun, moon, and earth to nourish the land with lovers— two bodies bound by skin and limbs, Eros threatening the heavens.

Fearing the strength of unity, the gods sought to slice the humans in half. Ball-shaped bodies

severed and pried open, like legs off snakes, penguins’ clipped wings, breaking of self.

So the halved humans shoved against sliced navels, but failed to engulf the remains of lived-in lovers. The lonely two-legged creatures grieved division from native soulmates.

Earth’s children now wander the land on just ten toes—seeming to chase their first love, the raw complement to be completed once again. Torn souls ache for their natural state.

The determined find a partner, hugging weary hearts evermore— yet many stray from tradition; the myth of one love, while widespread, houses few loyal followers.

We have cylindrical necks, we’re already whole.

TO ASK MY DOCTOR: PREGNANCY

By Claire Bletsas

Pregnancy loss is widely underrepresented and misunderstood in our culture. While many people typically associate pregnancy loss with instances of miscarriage, pregnant people can experience loss due to stillbirth or medically necessary abortions, among other types of loss. Pregnancy loss is a heartbreaking and difficult experience, and because stories of pregnancy loss aren’t often shared amongst friends or shown in media, misconceptions about the phenomenon are rampant.

It’s a widely held belief that pregnancy loss is at the fault of the pregnant person, with observers often linking the loss of the fetus with an alleged poor decision made by the carrier. This piles shame and stigma on top of the grief that pregnant people already feel when experiencing a loss and perpetuates the cycle of misinformation and isolation that surround pregnancy loss in our culture. With an estimated 26% of pregnant people experiencing some type of pregnancy loss, it’s likely that you or someone you love will experience pregnancy loss at some

point in your lifetime. Understanding pregnancy experiencing loss, and garnering compassionate, emotional support can help lessen someone’s burden after suffering a pregnancy loss. Read on to learn the facts, not myths, about various types of pregnancy loss and suggestions on how you can help a friend, family member, partner, or yourself cope with the physical, mental, and emotional tolls loss can have.

an embryo or fetus dies before the 20th week of pregnancy.” Miscarriages can happen for a lot of different reasons, but you can count on the fact that normal activities like exercising, having sex, or taking prescribed medicines won’t cause a miscarriage to occur. Some circumstances known to cause miscarriage are serious infections or major injuries, certain severe illnesses, and anatomical abnormalities. However, these complications are

difficult or impossible to predict, and it’s important to remember that a miscarriage is not the pregnant person’s fault.

How would I know if I or someone close to me is having a miscarriage?

Miscarriages are more common than you might expect, with about 10-20% of pregnancies ending in miscarriage. Miscarriages don’t always cause symptoms, therefore making it possible for someone to miscarry and not find out until shown by an ultrasound. That being said, someone who’s going through a miscarriage will typically experience a number of the following symptoms: vaginal bleeding or “spotting”, severe abdominal pain, and/or severe cramping. These symptoms may last a few minutes or a few hours and may not necessarily be painful, but will likely cause discomfort. If you or someone you know thinks they are experiencing a miscarriage, it’s important to get in touch with a doctor about your symptoms. They’ll be able to let you know whether you should seek further medical attention and can provide resources for pregnancy loss or grief.

Stillbirth—what is it?

Stillbirth is another type of pregnancy loss. While miscarriages occur before the 20th week of pregnancy, stillbirths are defined as the loss of an infant after the 20 week mark. In the case of a stillbirth, the infant dies in the womb or during delivery. Medical professionals aren’t sure exactly what causes stillbirth, but they do know that stillbirth rates are higher in racial minority communities. This disparity is likely due, in part, to the detrimental health effects of chronic stress. It’s also important to consider the experience of minorities in healthcare settings, where doctors don’t always adapt their care to fit those with marginalized identities. And as all of us living under the American healthcare system know: medical help can be expensive and difficult to access in a timely manner. These issues are compounded in communities of color, who are more likely to be economically disadvantaged and live in areas with less resources.

What are the signs and symptoms of stillbirth? What happens next?

Often, a pregnant person will be alerted to a possible stillbirth when they notice the fetus stop moving or

kicking in the womb for an extended period of time. Once the fetus has died, the pregnant person will likely naturally go into labor within two weeks. This means the fetus will leave the pregnant person’s body via the vaginal canal, but it will not be born with a heartbeat. It’s also possible a doctor will suggest inducing labor for medical reasons. They may make this judgment if there is a risk of fatal blood clots to the pregnant person if they don’t give birth to the stillborn baby shortly after it dies.

What is life like after stillbirth?

Understandably, stillbirth can be heartbreaking for the pregnant person, their partner, family, and friends. The grieving process is different for everyone, and it’s impossible to generalize what life will look like after stillbirth for the pregnant person and their support system. However, we do know that experiencing stillbirth does not make you more likely to have another stillbirth in the future. After a stillbirth, a medical professional may suggest undergoing a series of tests to determine what caused the stillbirth in order to ensure the abnormality is resolved before another pregnancy. Fortunately, it is extremely rare to experience more than one stillbirth, and many people who have experienced a stillbirth go on to have a healthy and complete pregnancy later in their lives.

“Medically necessary” abortions—what are they?

We’ve heard a lot in the past year about access to abortion by pregnant people who wish to terminate their pregnancy. At What The F, we believe abortion access is a fundamental tenet of reproductive justice. While laws surrounding abortion shift nationwide, it’s important to keep in mind that abortion is also, in some cases, a crucial, life-saving procedure. Abortions can become medically necessary during pregnancy for a number of reasons. In cases where the pregnant person or fetus’s life is at risk during the pregnancy, a medical professional may advise an abortion.

Why would someone need a medically necessary abortion?

A number of complications can arise during pregnancy, some of which can be life-threatening to either the fetus or the pregnant person. Ectopic pregnancy is one of these complications that can

deem abortion necessary. Ectopic pregnancy occurs when a fertilized embryo implants somewhere other than the uterus, such as the fallopian tube. In this case, if the pregnancy were to continue, both the pregnant person and the fetus would die. Severe preeclampsia, which occurs when the pregnant person’s blood pressure is life-threateningly high, can also necessitate abortion. In this case, terminating the pregnancy allows the pregnant person’s circulatory system to return to normal and reduces the risk of stroke, seizure, or death to the pregnant person.

What might it feel like to experience pregnancy loss? How can I help someone who’s going through it?

Pregnancy losses of all types can bring with them feelings of grief, shame, relief, sadness, disappointment, or none or all of the above. Oftentimes, those who have experienced a miscarriage will keep it to themselves, or tell aeir feelings are valid and to support them in whatever way they prefer, whether that looks like giving them space, accompanying them to doctor’s appointments, or just being a listening ear and acknowledging the difficulties of their experience. If you or someone close to you has experienced pregnancy loss, it’s also worth checking out pregnancy loss resources in your area. In Ann Arbor, the Lunar Doula Collective offers comprehensive, inclusive counseling for those who have experienced pregnancy loss.

Overall, we have a lot of progress to make when it comes to understanding and supporting those going through pregnancy loss and breaking down the stigma or shame that comes along with it. Pregnancy losses are not the fault of the pregnant person and often is emotionally painful for the pregnant person most of all. Informing yourself on types of pregnancy loss, encouraging your employer to allow paid time off in the wake of pregnancy loss, volunteering with pregnancy loss support groups in your community, and doing what you can to support anyone who’s experiencing pregnancy loss in your life are all great ways to do your part in moving society forward.

P.S. Here are some helpful resources on the topic of pregnancy loss and abortion!

plancpills.org — Plan C is a friendly, easy-to-use interface that provides information about and access to at-home abortion pills, which may be the primary

option for those living in states with strict abortion laws.

@lunardoulacollective on Instagram — This is the homepage for the Lunar Doula Collective, an Ann Arbor-based support network for those experiencing pregnancy or pregnancy loss. LDC offers a number of ways to get involved and support their mission!

abortionfunds.org — This website is a centralized location to donate or request financial assistance in receiving an abortion. It can also point you to clinics and resources in your state, and outline your options for abortion access.

Planned Parenthood — Planned Parenthood is one of the leading organizations nationwide in reproductive health. Some Planned Parenthood clinics offer abortions, and all of them offer low-cost or free STI checks, cervical and breast cancer screenings, birth control access, and inclusive, professional support for anything related to your reproductive health.

Works Cited

1. Dugas, Clara and Valori H. Shane. “Miscarriage.” National Center for Biotechnology Information. Last modified June 27, 2022. https://www. ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/books/NBK532992/.

2, 3. March of Dimes. “Stillbirth.” Last modified October 2020. https:// www.marchofdimes.org/find-support/topics/miscarriage-loss-grief/ stillbirth.

4. Mayo Clinic. “Miscarriage.” Last Modified October 16, 2021. https:// www.mayoclinic.org/diseases-conditions/pregnancy-loss-miscarriage/ symptoms-causes/syc-20354298#:~:text=About%2010%20to%2020%20 percent,even%20know%20 about%20a%20pregnancy.

5. Planned Parenthood. “How do I know if I’m having a miscarriage?” https://www. plannedparenthood.org/learn/ pregnancy/miscarriage/howdo-i-know-if-im-havingmiscarriage.

Down the Rabbit Hole:

The Cult of the Manosphere

By Claire Gallagher

Trigger Warning: mentions of violence, sexual assault

When social media platforms first began to increase in popularity and usage, conversations about the dangers of social media revolved around concerns about self-esteem, cyberbullying, and stranger danger. Today, conversations about the dangers of social media have only increased in extremity, now also revolving around terrorism. The use of online platforms by extremist groups to recruit and organize is not a novel concept. Facebook and Discord were central to the organization of the Unite the Right Rally in 2017, a horrifically violent and deadly white

supremacist rally that took place in Charlottesville, and various social media platforms acted as echo chambers for the radical right to prepare for the January 6th attack on the Capitol. The FBI now lists online radicalization as a major factor in instances of domestic terrorism. The Manosphere, however, is only more recently garnering attention. And it’s a petri dish for extremism.

Introducing the Manosphere

The Manosphere is “a collection of radical anti-feminist communities” present on platforms like Reddit,

Facebook, 4chan, Discord etc. Online, anti-feminist communities began as a space for members to discuss (what they believed to be) social issues endured by men in the age of mainstream feminism. More recently, the term “Manosphere” was used by Ian Ironwood in his self-published book, The Manosphere: A New Hope for Masculinity. The phrase has been accepted by both members of the Manosphere, and by researchers, to label the anti-feminist communities that have grown to be more extreme in their ideology, encouraging violence against women, espousing male supremacy ideals, and promoting political agendas that include denying women the right to vote.

I’ll use Andrew Anglin to illustrate the ideology of a typical member of the Manosphere. Anglin is the neo-nazi founder of the Daily Stormer, a message board website dedicated to spewing alt-right bullshit. On his website, Anglin posts frightening propaganda such as, “the fact is, when you give women rights, they destroy absolutely everything around them…even if you become the ultimate alpha male, some stupid bitch will still ruin your life,” or false notions like, “women crave…being tied up, beaten, and raped.”

he called “The Day of Retribution.” Before his suicide, Rodger posted a Youtube video in which he outlined the hatred he held for women whom he perceived as having denied him sex, as well as for sexually active men that he envied. He ended the video with the following statement:

You forced me to suffer all my life, now I will make you all suffer. I waited a long time for this. I’ll give you exactly what you deserve, all of you. All you girls who rejected me, looked down upon me, you know, treated me like scum while you gave yourselves to other men. And all of you men for living a better life than me, all of you sexually active men. I hate you. I hate all of you. I can’t wait to give you exactly what you deserve, annihilation.

Rodger is regarded as a hero on many Manosphere platforms, often referred to as “Saint Elliot” in posts. In 2018, Alek Minassian, motivated by the ideology of Manosphere communities he participated in, drove a van through a crowded sidewalk in Toronto, murdering ten people and injuring at least sixteen others. Before his attack, Minassian posted to Facebook, “The Incel Rebellion has already begun! We will overthrow all the Chads and Stacys! All hail the Supreme Gentleman Elliot Rodger!” In a similar vein, you may remember the threat directed at UofM women in the Fall of 2021. The post read,

On October 4th, I’m going to The University of Michigan and blow away every single woman I see with an AR15. Because the #MeToo movement proved that Elliot Rodgers was right and those fucking animals deserve die…There is a violent pro-male revolution coming and you people better get ready for it.

Breaking Down the Manosphere

The Manosphere is an umbrella term for what is really a collection of discrete subgroups.

1.

THE SEPARATISTS

The separatists, also known as Men Going Their Own Way (MGTOW), advocate for a self-empowered life for men away from women. According to their beliefs, women have corrupted society beyond reform, so men should “go their own way” and separate themselves from the taint of women.

2. INCELS

Arguably the most well-known subgroup, incels is short for involuntary celibates. They hate women for not having sex with them, blaming women for their feeling undesirable. On UCSB’s campus in 2014, Elliot Rodger, a figure of prominence in the incel community, murdered six people and injured fourteen before killing himself as part of what

It was incredibly disappointing to see how many professors insisted on having their classes in person on October 4th, 2021. That insistence is evidence of how extremist male supremacy ideology is often trivialized in its threat to various communities, primarily women. The threat directly praised an event that took the lives of six people. Professors held classes on zoom for a year; they could have done it again for a day.

The important thing to understand about incels is that they are violent, raging misogynists. The description of being involuntarily celibate is insufficient in characterizing these men. Lots of people want to have sex and aren’t having it, but they don’t hate women or murder people because of it. When incels lament their virginities and rage against the gynocentric society that allegedly denies them their right to sex, it’s male domination that they are truly asking for. Incels conflate heterosexual sex with ownership of the female body, so sex becomes a means to achieving male domination. If it was really about sex, incels wouldn’t fetishize female virgins and underage girls as unclaimed territory to be conquered, while also labeling women with sexual experience as whores and sluts or, my

personal favorite, roasties (roast beef vagina reference). It’s mind-bogglingly hypocritical to shame women for having sex while simultaneously wanting nothing more than to have sex with women, illustrating incels’ warped perception of the act. Instead of understanding sex as a mutual act between two people, they view sex as something to forcibly take, hence the obsession with female virginity.

these comments as a lighthearted gag, Valizadeh is simultaneously able to protect his platform and invalidate the feelings and fears of women. Even if Valizadeh is being truthful about being satirical, I personally don’t think that’s the case, he would still be admitting to making “a joke” about the rape of women. I don’t think there’s anything I find less funny.

4. MEN’S RIGHTS ACTIVISTS (MRA’S)

You know this one. Feminism is stripping men of their rights. Come on guys, what about the men?!

The Manosphere’s Lure

3. PICK UP ARTISTS/SEDUCTION STRATEGISTS

Pick Up Artists (PUAs), as you may have gathered, claim to teach men how to pick up women. Truthfully, however, they teach men how to be sexual predators. There is even a company called Efficient Pickup that claims to teach men “rejection-proof” tactics for picking up women. Alex Smith, an instructor (gross) at the company, brutally raped a woman with one of his “colleagues” and one of their “students,” leaving the woman naked lying in her own vomit. The rapists later posted about the assault on Manosphere forums. For these men, part of the lesson plan on picking up women included committing a violent crime and leaving a woman for dead before recounting the act online. This act implies some level of pride or satisfaction for the perpetrators—or at the very least, an utter lack of remorse.

The accepted leader of the PUAs is Daryush Valizadeh, known as RooshV. Valizadeh has written posts calling for the legalization of rape on private property:

I propose that we make the violent taking of a woman not punishable by law when done off public grounds. . . Consent is now achieved when she passes underneath the room’s door frame, because she knows that that man can legally do anything he wants to her when it comes to sex. Bad encounters are sure to occur, but these can be learning experiences for the poorly trained woman so she can better identify in the future the type of good man who will treat her like the delicate flower that she believes she is.

While Valizadeh later claimed that these comments were satire, statements like these effectively promote dangerous perceptions of consent and sex. By excusing

A study on engagement with the Manosphere found that participating in the Manosphere significantly increases a person’s warning behaviors of radicalization. This speaks to the lack of restrictions and protections on social media, specifically regarding dangerous conversations and the ability to organize hate groups. The bottom line is that you don’t have to actually see anyone’s face or hear anyone’s voice to be radicalized today—you just have to stumble upon a Reddit thread. It’s unbelievably easy to find a community of like minded individuals validating one another’s bigotry and confirming the belief that men are better than the evil women of the world. All you need is wifi connection for a username on a screen to encourage you towards violence, rape, and murder—all in the name of your so-called beliefs.

The Manosphere Next-door

Before Andrew Tate’s Instagram was banned, I had around thirty mutuals with him, all of whom were UofM students. While the current sex trafficking and rape allegations against Tate had not been made public yet, my mutuals were still following a self-proclaimed misogynist, quoted as saying, “There’s no way you can be rooted in reality and not be sexist,” describing women as “intrinsically lazy,” as well as tweeting that women should “bear responsibility” for being sexually assaulted. In these three quotes alone are aspects of incel and pick-up artist ideology. I’ve spoken of the extremism in the Manosphere, how online communities can give rise to terrorism and violence, but what these communities take to the extreme

is still basic misogyny. The Manosphere is rooted in the fundamental notion, embedded in society since its creation, that women are not equal to men, and unfortunately, this ideology is not confined to these fringe communities. It’s why women are judged for their body count when men are not, or why women who have been raped are not believed despite false allegations comprising only 2-10% of sexual assault reports. It’s why Manosphere members call women roasties, and strangers on TikTok comment “I know it’s pink” on teenage girls’ videos—with no repercussions.

Women are susceptible to the dangerous narratives of the Manosphere as well, specifically in the belief that men are somehow inherently owed sex by women. If I had a dollar for every story I’ve heard about a woman having sex because she felt like it would be rude not to, I’d be rich.

To be clear, I’m not claiming that this sort of escalation goes, step 1: expect a blowjob from the girl you just bought dinner for, step 2: commit an act of domestic terrorism. To reiterate, members of the Manosphere are extreme. But there are kernels of Manosphere ideals in regular, everyday conversations about women and sex. And that’s fucking terrifying.

There’s a powerful narrative that women are crazy, dramatic, sensitive, unable to take a joke, etc., when they display the normal spectrum of human emotion. Influential members of the Manosphere like RooshV perpetuate this narrative when they get away with making comments encouraging the legalization of rape only to walkback and claim to be joking, or like Andrew Tate when they retain a mass, mainstream community of followers despite his posts being consistently and blatantly disparaging towards women. The goal of gender equality isn’t just damaged by violent misogynists, it’s also damaged by invalidating the feelings and fears of women. Because as the Manosphere demonstrates, there’s precedent for women to be afraid.

Works Cited

1. Hendrix, Justin. “Evidence in Trial of 2017 Unite the Right Rally Organizers Reveals Role of Facebook, Discord. Tech Policy Press, March 17, 2022. https:// techpolicy.press/evidence-in-trial-of-2017-unite-the-right-rally-organizer-revealsrole-of-facebook-discord/.

2. O’Sullivan, Donie, Audrey Ash, and Zachary Cohen. “Jan. 6 Committee failed to hold social media companies to account for their role in the Capital attack, staffers and witnesses say.” CNN Business, January 26, 2023. https://www.cnn. com/2023/01/26/tech/jan-6-committee-social-media-companies/index.html.

3, 4, 5, 7, 11, 12, 25. Hussam Habib, Padmini Srinivasan, and Rishab Nithyanand. “Making a Radical Misogynist: How Online Social Engagement with the Manosphere Influences Traits of Radicalization.” Proc. ACM Hum.-Comput. Interact. 6, no. 450 (November 2022): 1-28. https://doi.org/10.1145/3555551.

6. Ging, Debbie. “Alphas, Betas, and Incels: Theorizing the Masculinities of the

Manosphere.” Men and Masculinities 22, no. 4 (2017): 638-657. https://doi. org/10.1177/1097184X17706401.

8. Lavin, Talia. “The Neo-Nazis of the Daily Stormer Wander the Digital Wilderness.” New Yorker, January 7, 2018. https://www.newyorker.com/tech/ annals-of-technology/the-neo-nazis-of-the-daily-stormer-wander-the-digitalwilderness.

9, 23. ADL. “When Women are the Enemy: The Intersection of Misogyny and White Supremacy.” Last updates July 20, 2018. https://www.adl.org/resources/report/ when-women-are-enemy-intersection-misogyny-and-white-supremacy.

10. Numerical order here functions only for denoting structure, not for severity, level, etc.

13, 14, 15. Garvey, Megan. “Transcript of the disturbing video ‘Elliot Roger’s Retribution.’” Los Angeles Times, May 24, 2014. https://www.latimes.com/local/ lanow/la-me-ln-transcript-ucsb-shootings-video-20140524-story.html.

16. Edwards, Stassa. “Saint Elliot Rogers and the ‘Incels’ Who Canonize Him.” Jezebel, April 27, 2018. https://jezebel.com/saint-elliot-rodger-and-the-incels-whocanonize-him-1825567815.

17. “Toronto van attack: Minassian guilty of killing 10 people.” BBC News, March 3, 2021. https://www.bbc.com/news/uk-56269095.

18. Branson-Potts, Hailey and Richard Winton. “How Elliot Roger went from misfit mass murderer to ‘saint’ for group of misogynists — and suspected Toronto killer.” Los Angeles Times, April 26, 2018. https://www.latimes.com/local/lanow/la-meln-elliot-rodger-incel-20180426-story.html.

19. Ruberg, Emma, Jasmin Lee, Barbara Collins, and Liat Weinstein. “UMich police, FBI identify individual responsible for shooter threat at University of Michigan campus.” Michigan Daily, October 2, 2021. https://www.michigandaily. com/news/unverified-shooter-threat-against-umich-women-next-mondaycirculates-on-social-media-dpss-to-increase-risk-mitigation-measures/.

20, 21. Tolentino, Jia. “The Rage of Incels.” New Yorker, May 15, 2018. https:// www.newyorker.com/culture/cultural-comment/the-rage-of-the-incels.

22. Fenton, Siobhan. “Pick up artist jailed after raping women and blogging about the attack. Independent, December 14, 2016. https://www.independent. co.uk/news/world/americas/pick-up-artist-jailed-after-raping-woman-andblogging-about-the-attack-a7473831.html.

24. Fitzgerald, Kelly C. “Mapping the Manosphere: A Social Network Analysis of the Manosphere on Reddit.” Thesis, Naval Postgraduate School, December 2020. https://www.hsdl.org/c/abstract/?docid=850267.

26. Radford, Antoinette. “Who is Andrew Tate? The self-proclaimed misogynist influencer.” BBC News, January 12, 2023. https://www.bbc.com/news/uk64125045.

NJB

By Rachel Troy

He’s pursuing a graduate degree but cannot figure out how to do his own laundry. He wrote a fifty page honors thesis but responds to your texts with one word answers. He wears a Jewish star on a chain but once skipped synagogue on Yom Kippur to tailgate. He posts his homemade Challah on Instagram but chucks a half-eaten protein bar at you before kicking you out of his house on Sunday morning. His mom tells him that he’s wonderful and special; your mom also tells you that he’s wonderful and special. Who is he? His Tinder bio says it all: “Nice Jewish Boy”.

If you’re unfamiliar with the concept, you might be puzzled. The completely, totally hypothetical person in the description you just read calls himself a “Nice Jewish Boy” but does not sound “Nice”, he actually seems like a huge douche. He is not particularly “Jewish” as far as religious observance or moral values are concerned. And although he may act like a “Boy”, he is technically a grown ass man. So what makes him a “Nice Jewish Boy?” Clever marketing.

In my “expert” Jewish opinion (read: I am not an expert by any means), the “Nice Jewish Boy” is a myth. It’s a persona born out of hope for the survival of the Jewish people in the historical context of various tragedies and also a brilliant marketing scheme devised by those determined to preserve them. There is a widespread anxiety that if Jewish people date and marry non-Jewish people, they might not raise their children Jewish, which means that Jewish traditions and culture will not be preserved. Some (generally more religious)

Jewish people feel that having Jewish people marry each other will help repopulate the 6 million of us lost in the Holocaust (and the millions more lost to Pogroms and other acts of antisemitic violence). This

perspective essentially asks, what’s the fucking point of your ancestors surviving various bouts of antisemitic violence and genocide if your kids are going to throw it all away by getting their kids a Christmas tree? Through this flawed (but understandable because, trauma) prism, the secret to keeping Judaism alive is ensuring that Jewish people marry other Jewish people. The key to that? Convincing younger generations that Judaism is nonnegotiable and (dare I say) sexy in a potential spouse.

Thus, many Jewish-American parents like mine urge their young daughters to seek out a “Nice Jewish Boy” to spend their life with. They look at their little girl, or more accurately their grown woman daughter who they see as a little girl, and picture her with someone very specific. He’s family oriented. He’s well educated. He’s successful. He’s funny. He’s attractive enough but physically non-threatening so that he can’t hurt her. Generally, he has Ashkenazi (Eastern-Europeanish) features: Andy Samberg is an NJB. Paul Rudd is an NJB. David Schwimmer is an NJB. Noah Schnapp is an NJB… now only available to other NJBs, sorry ladies. What about Drake? Taika Waititi?

Lenny Kravitz? Depends on how racist your parents are (not all Jewish people are white, but those of us who do benefit from white privilege have the capacity to be racist despite our people’s history with persecution…the irony!). Most importantly, the ideal future husband grew up Jewish with a degree of religious observance identical to

It’s worth mentioning that not all Jewish people require their children to marry other Jewish people or think that they themselves have to marry other Jewish

people: in fact, the majority don’t. I have friends who grew up in interfaith homes that feel very connected to their Jewish religious and cultural practices. I myself still celebrate all the major holidays and keep kosher despite being in a relationship with someone who doesn’t know what “kvetch” means. I can only speak to my own experiences, and I know that Judaism, traditions, relationships, and parental pressure are very individual things.

That being said, promoting the hell out of potential partners because of their ethno-religious background has insidious consequences on those little girls and the aforementioned grown women daughters. Emphasizing the “Jewish” in “Nice Jewish Boy” pushes young, Jewish women to believe that Judaism is the only necessary trait in a romantic partner. It leads young, Jewish women to assume that all those wonderful “Nice” traits that their parents value (intelligence, humor, hard work) automatically come along with Jewishness. It teaches young, Jewish women to put up with immature and disrespectful “Boy” behavior in adult men, simply because they are Jewish and superficially fit the Andy-Samberg-shaped mold. It also trains women to automatically feel safe around a man because he is Jewish, even though he might be dangerous (or a douchebag at the very least). Additionally, the word choice of “Boy” rather than “Man” infantilizes grown men and encourages behavior that would normally be unacceptable in a partner.

There is all sorts of implicit bigotry in this problematic mythology where the “Nice Jewish Boy” is second to god. For instance, the “Boy”-ness of the “Nice Jewish Boy” completely disregards queer, Jewish women and our relationship prospects. The shame of never wanting to give up your parents’ dream of a Nice Jewish son-in-law keeps some women in the closet longer than they would have been otherwise. While some well meaning parents may change their tune from “Nice Jewish Boy” to “Nice Jewish Girl”, (another fun pedestal that ignores the existence of nonbinary people) in the event that their daughter comes out, there is still a harmful domino effect. Jewish women, like Jewish men or any other people, can be immature and unkind. If you’re a queer, Jewish woman seeking the same, the odds are stacked against you: Jewish people make up only 0.2% of the world, and only half of those people are women, and only 10-20% of those women are queer, and who knows how many of them are compatible with you! The scarcity mindset of “I must end up with someone Jewish” makes a lackluster partner look good enough and keeps you with them when you deserve better, and that mindset is only compounded when you have fewer options.

The “Nice Jewish Boy” expectation might make partners of other genders and ethnicities seem like casual options rather than end game to young, Jewish adults, leading us to disrespect partners who don’t fit the mold. I have Jewish friends who haven’t told their parents about their very serious, long-term, (I’m talking YEARS) non-Jewish partners for fear of disapproval, leaving their partners to feel unloved and ashamed. I know of many Jewish women who are attracted to multiple genders but view their queer partners as a secret kink rather than human beings who are worthy of respect: what’s the point of seriously entertaining a queer relationship if you are going to end up with a “Nice Jewish Boy” anyway?

If you’re a “Nice Jewish Girl” and currently looking for love, take a good, hard think about your prospects: Is this person respectful? Are they kind? Do you feel safe around them? Do you laugh with them? Are they proud to be with you? Are they good in bed? Do you have common interests? Do they remember your birthday? Do they remember your birthday without you having to call them to remind them that it is your birthday? Do they support your successes without getting insecure? Do your friends think they’re good for you? If you answer yes to all of these, THEN ask yourself: “Are they Jewish?” and consider whether that matters to you.

If your partner isn’t Jewish, ask yourself: Do they make (or laugh at) antisemitic jokes? Do they join/ support you when you choose to observe holidays or traditions, or do they get uncomfortable? Are they willing to listen respectfully to the ways your religion and culture shapes your life? Do you support the way that they approach religion and the traditions they observe? What will you do in the event that (if applicable) they want a Christmas tree? (I would just start sneezing from the pollen.)

If it’s important to you or your faith to be with someone Jewish, no problem! Having similar experiences, backgrounds, and beliefs can definitely play a part in fostering a healthy relationship. I’m a product of two Jewish parents (in the world’s most disgustingly loving and healthy marriage) who felt that it was important to end up with someone Jewish, and I turned out great, albeit a little bit anxious and with some sinus issues. There are truly kind, mature, Jewish men out there whose moms are right about the fact that they are wonderful and special: just sort out the red flags BEFORE you start salivating at that Jewish star on a chain, and maybe consider looking outside of the University of Michigan.

Breakdowns and Other Birthday Activities

By Tess Beiter

On the morning of my nineteenth birthday, I spent about thirty minutes crying. And by morning, I mean the hours between midnight and two a.m. If you’re going to cry, I highly recommend this particular time frame. The world is quiet, for the most part. It’s torn between the memories of the day that’s just ended and the possibilities of the one that’s just beginning. The current of time halts, suspended in a strangely beautiful liminal space that echoes with familiar memories. It’s neither today nor tomorrow; all is dark and silent, and the moon politely looks the other way when tears stream down your face. The stars shine, cold and indifferent, averting their gaze when you crumple to the ground in an attempt to relieve the unbearable ache in your chest.

To be honest, this was an anomaly for me. I don’t cry often—I’ve never found it helpful or cathartic. It’s uncomfortable for me to face my feelings in such a vulnerable state; as unhealthy as it may be, I generally prefer to rationalize, compartmentalize, and move on. And to my knowledge, I’ve never cried on my birthday before. That isn’t to say that I’ve always enjoyed my birthday, though. It’s funny, birthdays are supposed to be happy celebrations—a special time for people to appreciate what you mean to them—but my relationship with my birthday has always been more convoluted.

When I was younger, we couldn’t afford extravagant parties, so we normally held a small family celebration instead. We usually had a dessert of our choosing and a few presents, and then played a board game or two. I always loved those small, modest parties; my family is

infinitely complicated, but still such a dear part of my life. Our nine birthdays, spread from February to October, offered brief respites from the conflicts of everyday life, in which we could all reflect on our memories together and remember why we were a family. A dark, selfish part of me, however, has always felt a bit ashamed of my birthday. Our unassuming celebrations seemed to pale in comparison to the large parties my friends threw and the expensive gifts they received. The inevitable questions directed toward me about the plans for my birthday made me acutely aware of these differences. As this coupled with my growing insecurities and anxieties, it trained me, year after fleeting year, to avoid the glaring spotlight that one’s birthday casts onto them. I was growing uncomfortable with the attention, and my lack of festivities compared to my peers was simply another difference, highlighted glaringly in my mind.

Also inevitable were the exclamations over my age. In elementary and high school, I was a year younger than the majority of my peers—a fact they seemed to always forget in the short 364-day interval. Their shock that I was only eleven or that I was only just able to get my driver’s license was deeply uncomfortable. I’d tried so hard to measure up to my peers, working against a full year of developmental difference, that any comment about this factor that I couldn’t control was not received well. I’d smile through gritted teeth and leave the conversation with discontent seething low in my stomach. Not only that, but every remark made and every hesitant wish given just served to remind me that time was sliding slowly by, slipping out of reach. I distinctly remember that my theater director witnessed my discomfort at the proceedings the morning

of my sixteenth birthday—I was ambushed with a plethora of “happy birthdays” and yes, the expected age-related remarks. When she questioned me privately, I haltingly expressed my unease with what people said; I didn’t like being noted as different, whether it be due to my age or the fact that it was my birthday. It knotted a tangle of emotions uncomfortably tight within my ribcage. But she told me dismissively that they were all just meant as compliments. You’re lucky to be so young, she said smilingly. Enjoy it while you can. It doesn’t last. I don’t remember my response. It was probably flat and tired, and definitely insincere. Thanks, I imagine having said. I’ll keep that in mind. But an impulsive part of me, deep down, wanted to grab her by her shoulders and shake her. Don’t you see? I wanted to yell, to scream. Don’t you see that’s part of the problem?

We’ve all heard it for years, after all. The customers at the grocery store I worked at when I was fifteen, the aunts I’m only dubiously related to, the speaker at my older sister’s high school graduation—countless adults, for longer than I can remember, have told me that these will be the “best years of your life.” I truly don’t know what the intention behind that statement is. Is it meant to be comforting? Encouraging? A way to perversely express the envy they feel towards us? All it’s ever done is suffuse me with a mounting sense of anxiety. What is the purpose of reminding me, day after day, that life will only go downhill from here? Why would you tell a literal child that this is their last chance to enjoy living before flatlining? It’s only ever made me feel like I’m running out of time; it’s only ever reminded me that I’m stuck in a race I can’t win, in which every step I take is a step closer to the eventual and unforgiving prison of adult life. At the end of every school year, or summer break, or family vacation, I find myself dreading the inevitable current of time, flowing ever onwards.

I remember one November night when I was fourteen, after my family and I had returned from our annual trip for Thanksgiving. Every year, we visit my grandparents and extended family for a large family reunion-esque gathering—emphasis on large. It’s a trip that I still look forward to, even now. My memories throughout the years are filled with too many inside jokes to count, ridiculously intense board games, beautiful mountain treks, and more. After this certain trip, I was struck with a strange sort of dark melancholy. I recall this occasion so vividly, I think, because it was the first time I had my own room when we returned. In years prior, I would unpack with the sisters I shared a room with, laughing and complaining about having to attend school the next morning. Their presence had been enough to stave off the impending panic, leaving it to lie in wait, restless and simmering, until the next occasion. But this time, I carried my bags up to my cold, empty room and sat heavily on my bed, alone. I could feel,

as real as if it were physical, the time slipping through my fingers. I remember feeling like I was drowning, fighting against a current, gasping for breath as I realized that I was growing up and there was no going back—ever. The river of time continues on unforgivingly. It was my first panic attack.

That point in life led me to realize that a part of me had somehow become convinced that each happy moment might be my last, and I’ll only be able to look back bitterly on the good times I used to have. If I reflect for a second too long, worries about the bleakness of my future and the looming monotony of adult life will close over my head like the waters of a cold, forbidding ocean. This anxiety has taken root over the years, blooming invasively in my chest. It’s wrapped around my ribcage like vines snaking around my bones, squeezing ever tighter as my lungs struggle to inflate and keep me alive. This parasitic fear of growing up juxtaposes appallingly with the intense nostalgia I feel for the bliss of childhood, which has become especially apparent since I started college and am forced to reckon with the changes I’ve undergone. Throughout my college experiences, I’ve grown into myself and become the person I think I was always meant to be—more independent, more confident, and more true to the girl concealed deep inside. And while these changes have been incredibly welcome, and are mostly for the better, I can’t shake the feeling sometimes that I don’t recognize myself.

This feeling came once after a night out. I was walking home alone, having split from my friends for the last ten minutes of my walk, promising to text them the minute I arrived. It was pleasantly chill outside, so late that it was early, and the moon’s silver light did little to illuminate the deep shadows of campus. The streets were completely deserted as I unsteadily made my way home. In that moment, with no one around but the gods of the night keeping watch, and no sound but the breathless whisper of the wind, I was blindsided by a feeling of intense depersonalization. Harshly swept away by a swift current of thoughts about the life I was living and loving—so fundamentally different from the one I used to know—I realized with a shock like ice-cold water that the younger version of me would be absolutely appalled. I remember thinking numbly, as I stopped and looked at the campus buildings towering over me, How the hell did I end up here? In my state, I couldn’t reconcile the person I am with the person I was just a few short years ago. I didn’t recognize myself. If I’m being honest, I didn’t even feel like a person. And then, as quickly as it had hit, the feeling dissipated, leaving me incredibly shaken. I walked the rest of the way home trembling, but nonetheless admiring the way the moon bathed my surroundings in a beautiful, lonely silver.

Have you listened to Lorde’s Ribs recently? “This dream

isn’t feeling sweet / we’re reeling through the midnight streets / and I’ve never felt more alone / it feels so scary getting old.” Every time I hear these words, they strike a painful chord in my heart, so intense that it’s more than just emotional. These words remind me of selfishly uncomfortable birthdays, of isolated moments on dark campus streets, of leaving your past self behind and always regretting it. They evoke sorrow at the realization that I’ll never be able to return to the person I used to be. When those moments of depersonalization hit, all I want is to be nine years old again, listening to the warm, soft sounds of summer nights.

With all of these sentiments buried deep in the damp earth of my heart, I think it’s fully understandable why a part of me will always dread my birthday.

A veritable battalion of emotions was fighting to reach the surface of my consciousness at the beginning of my nineteenth birthday. In all honesty, I don’t quite remember what I was doing when the day slipped silently from October 23rd to the 24th. Cleaning, maybe. Whatever it was, I was mindlessly whiling away the time, avoiding the truth. At some point, though, the suspense was too much, and I eventually couldn’t bear it any longer. I turned on my phone, and there it was in stark relief: I’d been nineteen for thirteen whole minutes. My thoughts halted; I was suspended in an odd moment of complete confusion as I set my phone on my coffee table and sank down to sit on the floor. I stared, unseeing, attempting to process the complex emotions warring deep within me. I sifted through them carefully, running my hands over them like the spines of well-worn books, as I desperately tried to rationalize what I was feeling. I was worrying about the bleakness of the future; I was mourning the softness of the past; I was scared and overwhelmed and, above all, boneachingly tired.

I don’t know how long I sat there; it could have been seconds or years. For once, I didn’t care to measure it. When I finally decided I was done pitying myself and stood up, I checked my phone one last time before heading to bed. But I was stopped in my tracks, frozen in disbelief, as I saw a handful of messages. In the short time since the clock ticked past midnight, five people had already reached out to wish me a happy birthday. And at that realization, I immediately began to cry uncontrollably.

The birthday wishes were such simple, innocuous gestures, but the beauty of them struck me so sharply that it physically hurt. My ribcage actually ached with the depth

of the emotions they invoked. The fact that I had sat alone, isolated and struggling, while five people decided that they wanted to make me feel appreciated on my birthday was such a shock to my system. It dredged up years of anxieties over being the center of attention, and yet reminded me that I, nonetheless, had people who cared about me. It prompted me to confront the selfishness of ignoring the ways that the people I know try to celebrate what I mean to them, simply because of my discomfort. It reminded me of the time I’d lost to the dread of growing up, but also all the experiences and memories I’d gained at the same time. It called to mind every futile attempt to control the inescapable passage of time and every time I’d tried to gloss over the ivy of emotions tangled around my ribs. That infinitely complicated web of emotions—grief, love, guilt, joy, anger, appreciation, shame, pride—attempted to loosen while I cried. And for the first time in a long, long while, crying felt wonderfully cathartic. It felt right.

The idea that our high school or college years are the best of our lives is truly just a myth. These years are exciting, yes, but they’re just one phase of our lifelong experiences. We can’t distill our entire human experience down to just one four-year period. We can’t spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders, bitterly wishing we could hit rewind. We can’t live in fear of growing up or reaching adulthood. Each step forward, each day we live, is filled with potential. There is truly no way to know what your future will look like, and isn’t it incredibly odd to expect that it won’t be as fulfilling as it is right now?

Maybe it won’t be. Maybe the river of time truly will be unforgiving, but it’s pointless to try to control what it will bring or constantly mourn what used to be. Reminiscence is powerful and beneficial, but it can become insidious if we allow ourselves to focus excessively on the past. Birthdays are, after all, an appreciation of life; they are not a funeral for the year that has slipped away. It’s a lesson I’m still trying to learn as I work to unravel, slowly but surely, the knots of ivy tangled inside of my chest. It’s a path of small steps, working to change the way I’ve always been taught to think. It’s focusing on the positive aspects of the future and realizing that while college is exciting and incredible, it’s also unsustainable. It’s allowing myself to miss what used to be while also looking forward to the wide, blank canvas of the future. It’s working to let go of my feeble attempts to control the pace at which the stars spin. The river of time will continue, meandering inexorably onward, and all I can do is lay down on its silvery banks and listen to the warm, soft sounds of nighttime while the moon watches serenely overhead.

Icarus And I

By Morgan Butler

I imagine that if I do in fact fall, it’ll be in spring. I like to imagine that Brueghel will paint me and Carlos Willimas will write of me as I lived and as I dreamed. Always out of my depth, always flying too close to the sun.

The truth is that mine would not be a failure neither unknown nor uncommon. It begins with the fashioning of my wings. It begins with cursing my mother. For combing my hair to the wrong side, dressing me in clothes that anyone could afford, for dropping me off at school in a car far too old and letting me walk in always one trend behind my peers. And for not giving me wings until I went to college, and for never going herself and getting her own pair.

Laying in my wings, made of feathers and hot glue found in the basement of the house I once shared with my family, is my destiny. I remember my mother crouched over a white plastic folding table we only brought out on holidays, meticulously hot gluing each feather together, furrowing her brows, taking sips of Diet Coke and then cooling her hot glue burns on the side of her can. My mother, sick to her stomach over years of repeating the same patterns of her mothers’ mother’s mother made my wings to help me escape.

When I arrived at college, it became glaringly obvious that my wings were unfit for flight. It seems that everyone but me was born into their wings. Symmetrical assemblies of pristine, white, feathered wings were braced gracefully between their shoulder blades. Their wings looked as if they floated behind their bodies, never weighing them down when they walked through the halls. Their wings always seem to effortlessly tuck themselves away at the most appropriate times, whether it be sitting down in preparation for a lecture they probably didn’t need to be in or while sitting in the dining hall alongside all the friends they made in high school.

When I walked into my first college class, my wings bent right between me and the chair that I didn’t quite fit in. People looked at them, misshapen, missing feathers that I was trying to grasp out of the air before they fell to the ground, and they wondered whether or not to feel sorry for me. On one hand, it wasn’t my fault that I didn’t inherit wings from my mother. It wasn’t my fault that she didn’t choose to go to college, as she was preoccupied with graduating high school with a baby on the way. Before I moved to college, my mom sat me down and advised me that “comparison is the thief of joy.” While she is right and while I accept that my wings will never be as natural as those whose mother’s mother’s mother passes them down, my own mother was misguided in her advice.

She forgot that which she could never understand. She forgot that my wings would never hold the strain and the flight that others do with little to no effort. She forgot that she isn’t here, watching everyone take off with ease, gliding through the air, kissing the sun with gratitude. She’s not stuck in some basement floor classroom that no one is supposed to be in for another hour, hopping off of chairs, asking the gods to let her fly.

But I am. And it’s not my mother's fault.

I choose to fly closer to the sun each day, and I choose to maintain faith in a dodgy set of homemade wings strapped to my back. I push them to their limits, and each time I fly closer, I look over my shoulder, grieving the feathers I’ve lost on the way while counting the ones that remain. And each time that I land, failing once again to have reached the sun, I know I’ll be met with my mother. She will choose to carry me as my wings couldn’t, and she will sit as she always has, gluing each wing back in place and giving me the only chance I have to fly again and feel the warmth of a sun she never kissed.

By Michelle Wu

It’s strange to attribute much of my limited worldview as a child to goblins, or the Korean term, dokkaebi, to be exact. But before my fascination with princesses in fairy tales began, the protagonists of all the stories I loved the most were goblins. I can vividly recall sitting on my mom’s lap with a Korean children’s book laid out on the ground in front of us. Her index finger pointed to each word she read so I could follow along, but instead, my eyes were busy feasting on the vibrant illustrations on the page. Monstrous creatures with bright red or blue skin, horns growing out of the top of their heads, crooked teeth and equally crooked arms lugging large clubs. I was charmed.

The thing is that goblins, contrary to their narrow depiction in the West, are creatures of diverse personalities and identities. I’m sure when I first saw an illustration of one, I was probably giggling or possibly a little scared based on the context of the story. Yes, goblins are drawn to look ugly and grotesque most

times, but never did I view them as being completely dissimilar to the human characters in their stories. In many of the tales, the goblins were dumb or mean in endearing ways such that their flaws could be laughed at and forgiven by the end of the story—no different than the character arc of the humans. In others, they were humorous and silly, making me laugh so hard that sometimes I fell asleep in exhaustion before my mom could get through all five of the books I picked out that night. It was always entertaining to see a pair of bumbling goblins with their frightening appearances and large frames navigating their way through life (and failing miserably multiple times). Sometimes goblins were wise, possessing the secrets of the universe, and the villagers in the tales would make long, arduous journeys to ask for their advice. In a few stories, they were almost godlike, serving justice to peasants and aristocrats alike. I have come to realize the traits—wit, knowledge, humor, ambition, cruelty— that goblins possess in the folktales and children’s stories that

I’ve encountered make them seem human adjacent.

Until I was presented with Western mythology, I had no idea that goblins were “supposed” to be sickly, green, nasty, evil monsters. What became increasingly appalling in these children’s stories were the consistent tropes of evil characters, goblin or otherwise. Stepmothers were meant to be evil, because why else would Cinderella, Rapunzel, and Snow White all suffer at the hands of the same character? Witches existed to be petty and vengeful by casting spells and curses (think: Ursula, Maleficent, and whoever it was that created the Beast in Beauty and the Beast) or even going as far as deciding which children would be a tasty little snack to cook in the oven (think: Hansel and Gretel). In these highly regarded tales, there is little redemption arc for the antagonist. Furthermore, the way that these characters are all predestined to live within the same tropes became damaging as I started to expect those stereotypes to be true for the individuals in my own life’s story. But perhaps the worst crime was for any antagonist or similarly “othered” character to be depicted as inconsistent with idealized beauty standards. I went from an accepting, fantastical world of goblins in all shapes, sizes, and personalities to a narrow and unforgiving view of the story’s adversary.

Suddenly, it was shameful to not have a cute button nose, impeccable skin, straight and shiny teeth, and a skinny figure. To stray from these standards meant that I was well on my way to becoming a villain or an outcast and that I would be stuck in that role. While it seems ridiculous now, I carried this early childhood message with me, as I entered a middle school in a new town, awkward and with a mouth full of braces. I wonder if I would’ve had the same insecurities if I hadn’t forgotten about the ugly, endearing, flawed goblins that were replaced by tales of perfect princesses and irredeemable villains. And then I think about how different children’s perceptions of themselves and the world could be if goblins were prominent characters in their childhood stories. It saddens me that most people who only experience Western storytelling do not know about the existence of such accepting characters. Exposure to a “goblin” is so important in the early development of an inclusive set of beliefs.

I finally witnessed an intersection between Korean folklore and Western media sometime during high school when the K-Drama Goblin (or Guardian: The Lonely and Great God) was released. It became an instant hit. I can’t even count the number of people I know who traveled to Quebec to take a picture in front of the iconic red door, hoping that they too would have a fateful encounter with a handsome, immortal goblin. Even as someone who claims to hate the awful cliches of K-Dramas, I ended up watching the entire series. Like many other fans of the drama, I was drawn to the cross between folklore regarding goblins and—I hate to admit it—the modern-day romance storylines. I would’ve never imagined that there would be a day when people all over the world swooned over a goblin (although it definitely helped that Gong Yoo was playing the main role). Even if people were only interested in the goblin because he was Gong Yoo, it was definitely a way to shine a light on how diverse the character of a goblin could be. His version of the goblin possessed kindness, loyalty, love, courage, and most of all, humanity. Moreover, goblins were now allowed to be criminally handsome

beyond the borders of Korea.

But why is it that Korean culture prioritizes the diverse portrayals of goblins? And to follow up, why is it that Western culture does not place the same value on this? While there are no definitive answers to these questions, I think this difference has to do with the fact that goblins are supposed to be real and raw characterizations of people, and much of Korean folklore has a fable-like element in teaching the reader a lesson. If Korean storytelling is one of representation, I think that Western storytelling can arguably be considered one of aspirations. Children are supposed to read the stories and aspire to be like the princesses who are beautiful and perfect and get the happily ever after. They are supposed to scorn and learn what they are not supposed to be, and what better way to present these characters than as the exact antithesis of the aspirational characters?

While today I can acknowledge the beauty behind goblins and the message they share with their readers, I was not always so accepting of this mentality, especially after finding out from Western literature that antagonists (and therefore, goblins) were supposed to be shunned. With conflicting opinions on whether goblins should be accepted as human-like characters or if they, too, should be ostracized for their features. Amid this confusion, I decided that I would rather be like Belle in Beauty and the Beast and have the entire town fawning over my looks and perfection, than a goblin labeled as ugly who was only endearing in a few instances because of their clumsiness.

Growing up, I recall one book that I dreaded listening to, while for some reason my mom delighted in reading aloud to me. It was a children’s book about a young goblin girl named Saebom and I despised that I shared the same name as her. This wasn’t because she was a goblin, but because in the story she abuses her toys until they come to haunt her in her nightmares. She eventually apologizes and corrects her behavior towards her toys, but I was still sulky every time my mom teased me about being the goblin girl. I think I was more upset about being compared to a “flawed” character than the fact that she was a goblin. It stung that the only time my name was mentioned in a story was when I was a toy abuser who got punished in the end, rather than being a beautiful princess waiting for a Prince Charming to sweep me off my feet. But honestly, I love that story now. Ultimately, it was beneficial because I learned that having normal, negative traits is just part of life—not something that should curse me into a life of evil or misery as exemplified by typical Western antagonist tropes.

But my mom wasn’t completely wrong in calling me a little goblin girl, even if she meant it as a joke. From these stories, I’m not afraid to acknowledge that I am petty and mean at times. Kind, silly, dumb, wise, irrationally angry, paranoid, scared, sad, or happy at other times. And when I look in the mirror, I see the reflection of a twenty-year-old child who can look endearingly cute at times or extremely monstrous at other moments. It’s like seeing a dokkaebi.

Vandalizing My Body in The Name of Feminism

By Dimitra Colovos

My body is not a temple. My body is an ashtray. I’ve often heard the famous phrase “don’t put a bumper sticker on a Bentley” growing up, meaning don’t ruin your natural beauty with tattoos. Society’s standardized image of beauty is incredibly stressed in our culture, and if you can be beautiful naturally, you are God’s and everyone else’s favorite specimen. People who try too hard to change their appearance aren’t beautiful; they just don’t have it. But as I’ve grown older, I’ve realized that 1. This is not true, 2. I do not give a fuck about cars, and 3. I would definitely put a bumper sticker on any of them. So, after my 18th birthday, I got my first tattoo. On my right buttcheek. Then, I got three more within the year. Many people from, say, my parents’ generation, believe that these tattoos mean I am ruining my temple, as though the tattoos are graffiti. This idea is easy to digest and become consumed by—always focusing on how we look and what we can do with what we have, careful to praise our looks as temples, and worrying that any changes will result in fewer worshippers. But why can’t tattoos be the art of the temple, the intricate details that make it so beautiful? Is a temple any less sacred if fewer people worship it?

My mom smoked cigarettes growing up; she thought I didn’t know, of course. She wouldn’t dare tell me after my grandmother had to walk around carrying an oxygen tank all the time because of her lung damage as a result of always smoking cigarettes, but sometimes she would smell like cigarettes, and she would incriminate herself. I liked the smell, I often found it comforting as I realized it was a lingering scent on her. I wrote a wonderful essay about her struggles for my fifth grade DARE program. Then,

like my mother, I lied about never smoking cigarettes so I would never be like my grandmother. I became addicted to nicotine like any other bored, Midwest teenager that started vaping just to be cool and to have something to hold while feeling socially awkward at high school parties. Eventually, I became infatuated with the drunk cigarette when I had an Ann Arbor porch to enjoy one on. In the cold air, with only the glow from lights on through the window, I’ll sit with my friends and inhale warm, stale air. Something about knowing it’s a novelty makes it romantic; time will stop for a bit just so my friends and I can enjoy a few more minutes of conversation before we strip off our clothes that smell like my mother’s did and make our way to bed. This love story with cigarettes began when I started drinking and going out in my college town, and I had a reason to enjoy smoking afterward. This was also around

the same time that I was starting my foreseeably long journey of covering my body in tattoos. I have committed to ruining my body. And I have never felt more beautiful.

Feminism is really all about choice. Let women choose to do what they want. Break out of those societal norms, baby! Yet these choices are always convoluted in the face of beauty. People always say that our natural selves are so beautiful, but that is only true to an extent. Yes, that means that we don’t have to wear makeup, stretch marks are okay, and not shaving should be more normalized if you ask me. But when this narrative goes too far, when we see our bodies as temples, so much of that choice is taken away. Viewing our bodies as temples implies that there are expectations of these temples—like following the rules of a religion. Bodies are meant to be praised for their appearance, similar to how women have only been praised for their looks. When we are told that we are vandalizing our bodies by making any choices in how we treat or change them, we are forced to believe that we will not be found beautiful by our own tastes and notions of how we enjoy ourselves. We are told that our own bodies cannot be an expression of who we really are, we have to present how society would like us along lines as strict as religion. I am begging, dear god, please just let me damage my body in the name of feminism.

We do not have to be natural to be beautiful. We can cover ourselves in entirely unnatural things, in fact, and still be beautiful. The concept of poking holes in our bodies and filling them with shiny metal is terrifying, really, but it can offer so much confidence. Similarly, I never loved looking at my naked body in the mirror until I looked at it covered with a tiny little poppy flower, a small house, a dainty pomegranate, and a shopping bag full of flowers and bread (no, this tattoo does not mean literally anything to me either). My self esteem was boosted, not only from the beautiful designs themselves, but also from the idea of committing to a permanent decision on my body and feeling solid in my choices of art. The myth that “your body is a temple” is entirely bullshit. We are forced to believe with immense pressure that we have to piously take care of our bodies, but this ignores how I, and other individuals, don’t see these artificial additions as taking care of ourselves as we can find our beauty. And despite what we are told, women

deserve vices. Bad food, piercings, tattoos, alcohol, nicotine—all of it.

I don’t think this is an unpopular argument to make. I think most feminists would agree that this is true because we do eat junk food, smoke cigarettes, and cover our bodies in expressive art as we wish. But the argument that women’s bodies are temples is all too familiar and all too flawed. The idea that women need protection from ruining our bodies is unnecessary and in the end, anti-feminist. Naturally, we are compared to a place of worship. Women are told we should praise our bodies and thank them for all that they have brought us because that is all that women are good for after all. But when this idea that we have to be so careful with our bodies or that we should aspire to be the divine feminine goes too far, touching or damaging ourselves can be scary, even if we feel that is what would make us feel better in our own skin. What if we somehow become less liked by society because our efforts to be beautiful make us fake—even though we have been encouraged to wear makeup and use photoshop—because society cannot decide which side of the natural vs. fake debate women should fall on to be most appealing or where the line that separates the two sides exists.

In the name of feminism, let me choose to ruin everything that could be beautiful about me because that is when I feel most beautiful. I feel the most elegant when I am “manspreading,” swearing, or doing anything that my parents would deem “unladylike.” I wish that feminists could decide what side of the spectrum we are on, natural or not. I want to praise those being themselves naturally to the fullest extent. Yet, I don’t want to give into the belief that letting me have my vices—which are entirely necessary under the crushing weight of the patriarchy—is ruining what is so wonderful about women and being accepted as what we are. Let loose. Be unhinged and disgraceful and disgusting. I have never loved my body more than looking at it and knowing a scan of it would show black lungs and a cry for help every time I get another tattoo or piercing. Real feminism is letting women ruin themselves. Real feminism is realizing this isn’t ruining them, but showcasing what we believe makes us the most beautiful and comfortable in our own skin.

I nto The Night

By Claire Emch

In between the forests deep and wide and beyond the shining lakes, there lived a girl who could float. Lilabet could remember the year that it started for it had been the worst year of her life. That was the year she could not get out of bed, always felt as if every problem was the end of the world, and could not stop her mind from swirling the thoughts of others. Then one day, when it all felt too much, she began to lift up as if gravity had ceased to exist. She only had seconds to grab onto something to secure her ascending feet to the ground. Lilabet had always assumed she had slighted the wrong witch or walked under one too many ladders because this surely was a curse that had been cast on her. Thankfully, no one from her village ever caught her in the act for they would proclaim her a devil or demon sent to test their faith. But truthfully, that’s not what frightened Lilabet the most. What she most feared was that one day she would reach too late for something to anchor her, and she would rise forevermore into the sky and the space beyond. Pulling herself down from small bouts of floating was feasible, but rising above the town like an abomination or a terrifying witch was another thing altogether. There was a possibility she could float down, but the damage would already be done. Her sister, her mother, maybe even the whole town, would never see her the same way again.

She hated thinking of things like that. But, the thought of losing her grip on the life she had built for herself seemed to breath down her neck constantly. Because of this reason, she almost never left the house. Her mother didn’t care much, as she was usually busy in the next village over and needed someone to do the chores in the house. As for her sister, Evangeline, she ventured out almost every day and never seemed to question why her sibling did not do the same. It was a lonely life, but Lilabet could not bear the alternative, so she sat with her chores and

thanked God for every day she spent on this Earth.

One day, her mother became ill and begged Lilabet to run to the apothecary and fetch her something to ease her fever. Her sister had gone at the break of dawn to see the woodsman (or the woodsman’s son), leaving Lilabet as the only person for the job. So, as quickly as she could, she hurried down the road to the apothecary, dust picking up in her wake. When she arrived, however, she found the old shop was closed. The only other option was to visit the old witch who lived at the edge of the village. Lilabet had heard horrors about that place from Evangeline, who could only dare whisper them into her ear. She knew, however, that she could not return to her mother empty handed. With great trepidation and nowhere else to go, Lilabet approached the hut at the edge of town. Though before she could knock, she heard a strange, croak of a voice.

“Come in, child. Come in. You waste time with formalities.” Shaken, Lilabet slowly entered. Inside, she found a hunched old woman wrapped in an assortment of cloths so numerous, that she could hardly discern her wrinkly face.

“Great Sorceress, I come here humbly inquiring for a treatment to ease the ailment of my mother. I hope I have not disturbed you too greatly.” At this, the witch only smiled and replied, “Is it your mother with the ailment or you, my dear? That is the real question.” Lilabet tried to protest, but was swiftly cut off by the witch who had begun to move around the hut, sifting through her many oddly colored vials of liquid.

“Your mother can be cured with a few cool washcloths, but you…to be cured, you must first tell only the truth.” At this, she looked up with a wicked gleam in her eyes that made Lilabet shudder and think of her sister’s whispered tales. But great as her fear

was, she was even more curious, a seed of hope trying to bloom in her chest. Could the witch really remove her curse? Could she finally live a normal life? Before Lilabet could stop herself, she started, “It is true I have been cursed with the most horrible affliction. By some twisted magic, I find myself lifting up to the sky and beyond. Old Mother, I know of your power and I would do anything for this curse to be wiped clean.” The sorceress paused for a moment then turned to face Lilabet.

“For a curse as great as this one, none of my potions or incantations will do. You will have to fetch two ingredients for a spell that could cease your troubles. First, the silk of the grand silkworm deep in the forest of Goll. Next, the wood of the woodcutter’s personal stash. With these two items, there may be hope for you yet.” Lilabet’s heart shrank as much as it grew. There was a cure. Her life could be fixed. But the tasks that the old hag had laid out…Lilabet had never ventured more than a handful of times outside. She doubted she would be a match for the world beyond her home. Nevertheless, she thanked the witch for her generosity and hastily made her way back towards the village. After a few washcloths, her mother’s fever broke just as the witch predicted. Now, to help herself, it was just the matter of the witch’s ingredients. With a basket to collect the silk, an apron carrying a few crusts of bread for her dinner, and a courage too slippery to hold fast to, Lilabet ventured into the vast forest of Goll.

The first task was daunting. Lilabet had never heard of the grand silkworm; the only clue the witch had given her was that the creature lived where the forest sang the loudest. The forest itself, however, was gorgeous. She had never seen so many wonders in her entire life. The dragonflies that flitted across her face, the proud oaks standing rich and tall, the emerald green of the leaves; it all felt too much like a dream. If she were free from the

curse, could she always experience the world this beautifully? Lilabet swore that if the spell worked, she would make it so. As if someone cruel was listening to her thoughts, her feet started to rise from the ground. She had never floated so far from home. She tried grabbing hold of a bundle of leaves that tore immediately and was almost at the tops of the trees before she found a large branch that held under her grasp. By that time, she was breathing heavily and trembling from how close she came to floating away. Slowly, she made her way down the tree and continued to the river, holding on to various bushes as she went. After about an hour, she heard a rushing like the roar of a lion and discovered a river wide as a house. There, next to the water, she could see a silkworm iridescent like the sun. Lilabet hurried toward it.

“Grand silkworm! I have traveled very far with instructions to gather your silk. I have no coins to pay you, but this silk would change my life; I will do anything for your service.” The silkworm did not reply; instead it beckoned for Lilabet to extend her basket. As quick as magic, the silkworm created enough silk for a spool and nodded for her to keep it. When Lilabet insisted she must do something in return, the old silkworm only bowed its head. She bowed her head to copy the polite gesture, but it did not feel enough. Before she could stop herself, she began to tell the silkworm of her plight, ”Sometimes, I feel as if this world is trying its hardest to shake me from it. Like it made a mistake dropping me on its surface and it desperately wants me to let go. And I try my hardest every day to hold on to it because I love it so deeply; I love everything about it. But it gets really hard, “Lilabet’s

voice started to break, “and I get so tired from the effort of it. And I wish all the time that I could wander these forests and swim in the lakes without having to worry that this is the day it might finally win.” The silkworm paused; it told her that anyone who knows the true beauty of the world deserved to return to it. It hoped this silk would make that a reality. With tears in her eyes, Lilabet thanked the silkworm and continued back to town.

She hoped that the woodcutter would be just as generous as she approached his lodgings. For the second time that day she needn’t have knocked at all for the door opened to a tall, broadshouldered man. The woodsman took one look at Lilabet and showed off the widest grin she had ever seen.

“Lilabet! Your sister has told me much about you. Any family of Evangeline is a friend of ours. Come in and share a meal; you are just in time for dinner.” He ushered Lilabet in and sat her at a table full of people: the woodsman’s family, the baker’s family next door, and a few others she did not recognize. They all welcomed her and as the night went on, she talked and laughed with the rest of the group. “I don’t know why I haven’t met you all before now. I feel so foolish to have been frightened of such good people. Sometimes, it feels so overwhelming by yourself and you forget how people make you feel. You forget how they ground you. Thank you for reminding me.” When it was time to leave, she asked, almost ashamed, if she could have a few pieces of wood from the woodcutter’s personal stash. Without blinking, he gave it to her and said it was a gift from neighbor to neighbor. Lilabet had never smiled so wide.

Lilabet ran back to the witch’s hut as

fast as her legs could take her; the silk and the wood tucked in her basket. The witch met her outside and when Lilabet handed the items to her, she broke into a smile, though Lilabet could hardly tell under all the cloths.

“Wonderful child, wonderful. In a few short hours, you will be free.” Lilabet felt her breath catch in the back of her throat. She never believed she would hear those words spoken aloud before. She should have thanked her, the witch who had helped her for nothing in return, but all Lilabet could feel was the grass beneath her feet and the sun, hot as freedom on her face.

Until her body began to rise into the air.

She screamed and flung out her hands for something to tether her, but she was already too far into the air. This was it; she had finally risen too high. Her greatest dream turned into her greatest nightmare. It had been her own fault to trust another with her secret.

Suddenly, she felt something ensnare her left boot. She looked down at the witch, her hands wrapped tight around Lilabet’s shoe and her many cloths falling from her face. And it wasn’t wrinkly or ugly or fearsome at all, it was the beautiful face of her sister pulling her down to the ground.

“Sister? It was you all along?” Her sister wrenched her from the sky, holding her until her feet were settled next to her own.

“How slow you are! Lilabet, you think I do not see like the rest of this town? I have not always known why you hid, but I knew there was something you would not tell me. So, I told you

stories of a powerful witch in hopes that one day, if your problem ever became too much to handle, then you would find your way to me. How stupid you are to think I would not help you.”

“But your solution was a lie! I still fell into the sky!”

“Oh Lilabet, you stupid girl.” She brandished the wood she had brought her, now cut into thin strips. The elder sister worked like lightning, ordering the pieces together like a puzzle.

“The wood given by a neighbor, to show the warmth of good people.” Next, she took the raw silk Lilabet had collected and strung it through the wood, weaving it into a thin piece of fabric, the width of a thumb. “Silk, procured through the wonders of the forest.” After some time, she held up her creation, but Lilabelt was still left in a state of confusion.

“My dear sister. I am a fraud like you say; I am not a witch. I bade you to get these items partly to see everything that you have been hiding yourself from and how good life can be if you hope it can be better than what you’ve known. I cannot take your curse away as much as I wish that I could. But with this ribbon,” she knelt next to Lilabet, fastening the fabric to her wrist, “I would gladly bind you to me,” with the other end of the ribbon, she tied it around her own, “so that you will never float somewhere I cannot pull you down from.”

RoleModel

By Eli Merren

I am just like them, we’re all someone’s sons. Though, they spit words that carve deep holes in my chest mining sapphires but revolted by the shimmer. At least I’m one of the good ones.

“You don’t rub it in like the rest of them.” Black smoke pours from their guns Behind closed doors, their victim and I are one; but I am not him Because I’m one of the good ones

“But you don’t wear makeup and shit.”

Be as you wish, I was told once You’d think I need their approval to breathe Because, after all, I’m one of the good ones.

Her Skill Alone

Triggering Warning: violence, attempted suicide

Every time Arachne arrived at the stone house with the big red shutters, she had the same thought. It would make a beautiful tapestry. The stately columns and beautiful mosaic floor. The garden in the courtyard and the rooms that seemed to go on and on. And Arachne herself, hunched over and wearing a dress soiled with sweat after walking 8 miles with her wares strapped to her back. The best art is about contrast after all.

A young boy led Arachne up the stairs and to the door of the Gynaikon, where the women of the household gathered. She was sure she could have found her way on her own, but the house was large enough that she didn’t mind having a guide.

The room was packed with rich women and plush couches. Arachne stayed careful not to accidentally bump into the socialites and their wine cups as she moved to the center of the room where her client was holding court.

“Arachne!” Hilaron said in a high, breezy voice. “Is it done already?” The women around her quieted down.

Arachne moved the pack off her shoulders and untied it, revealing the piece. “I try to make it a habit to stay ahead of schedule.”

Whispers skipped across the pool of women that had stepped over to see what all the fuss was about. Hilaron stepped forward and scanned the work with a critical eye. Once that would have made Arachne nervous, but now she stood calmly, awaiting praise.

“How lovely!” Hilaron proclaimed after she finished inspecting it. “It’s almost as if it were Theseus himself.”

Hilaron and the servants left to see where best to hang the tapestry. Some of the women followed her. More, though, stayed in the Gynaikon and swarmed Arachne.

Many of them started to ask her

By Anna Nachazel

questions, but one voice was the loudest. “Who is your mother, dear, or whatever woman it was that taught you such an art?” A woman dressed in silk asked in a haughty tone. Arachne had seen her here before, though not as often as most of the other guests.

“My mother died when I was young. She taught me the basic skills, but my weaving is the result of my own practice, not anyone’s instruction.”

“No teacher?” The woman sounded like she didn’t believe her. “But your father must have brought in someone to guide you.”

“None but my own hands and the many scars upon them. I’m afraid my father didn’t have the resources to provide much more than my loom and some wool. I found the situation perfectly adequate, though.”

“Such skill and no teacher. My dear, you must have been taught by Pallas Athena herself.”

The words had the cadence of a compliment. Yet it felt much more like snobbery from a person who couldn’t fathom that a poor girl could create something worthwhile, let alone beautiful.

“My work is my own. My gift is not one given by a goddess. I gave it to myself.”

“You would be wise to be more gracious when speaking of the daughter of Zeus. She does not take kindly to insults.”

Arachne didn’t understand how the truth of her life could be an insult. If a goddess had helped her, she’d probably be the one wearing silk and lounging on couches. There had been days when she’d hoped for such a miracle, but it had simply never happened. “If she takes such an issue with my statements, let her contend with me. I’d like to see who wins. She can punish me as she pleases if she can prove herself better.”

The women went silent. A few glanced around nervously like they were waiting for the goddess to appear. Arachne didn’t share their fear. She meant what she had said. She’d spent her entire life learning her craft, and she relied on that skill every day. She wasn’t some renowned figure with great beauty, nor did she have other resources to depend on, but her skill with the loom had yet to fail her and she didn’t expect it to do so any time soon.

Arachne rushed home once she was paid. It was an easier journey without the weight of the tapestry on her back. Once she arrived, she ate with her father and then retreated to her own Gynaikon, a much simpler room, to finish up some weaving before bed. She was about to begin when she heard a knock.

She walked to the door and opened it. There stood an old woman who Arachne had never seen before.

“Hello. What is your business here?”

“I speak for the goddess Pallas Athena,”

the old woman croaked. She had gray streaks in her hair and was hunched over and leaning on a stick. The woman at Hilaron’s house must have told the priestesses what she’d said. Arachne couldn’t believe they had sent someone so frail.

She tried to guide the woman to a chair inside, but she refused. “I am old. But old age is more than what you fear. Experience comes with lengthened years. Hear my advice. Confine your contest of skill to the mortal realm. You may be the greatest of your own but yield to the goddess and beg her pardon truthfully. She will grant it with my entreaty.”

“You should not have come here. My opinion has not changed. I know myself. I know my craft. If your goddess is so displeased by that, why is she not here herself?”

The old woman started to shrug in her cloak, but her shoulders stayed high. Her back straightened and the gray streaks at her temples melted into gold waves. The wrinkles on her face gave way to smooth, youthful skin. The stick in her hand shrunk into a shuttle, like the one Arachne used in her weaving, but much more beautiful. It was engraved with olive branches, and the spool in the center was made of a glowing bronze.

“She is here.”

Athena saw the young weaver’s face go red, but it still remained set in an annoyed expression. She was arrogant, but at least she wasn’t a coward. “You declared that you would face me in a contest and accept punishment when you fail. Has that opinion changed?”

“It has not.” The words came quickly out of Arachne’s mouth. She felt a flash of fear, but it was too late to beg forgiveness now. She waved a hand over to the pair of open looms in the room.

Athena nodded and took her seat. There was a pile of wool between the two looms,

but the goddess had no intention of using inferior supplies. She waved her hand and a glowing spool of thread appeared. The thread would allow her to pick the perfect shade and texture for each stitch at will. She turned to the girl seated at the loom beside her. “You may take the time necessary to ensure your tapestry is finished and at its finest quality.”

Athena began by crafting an image of her father. Then Poseidon, his waves, and his horses. He was an imbecile, but competing with him had been less insulting than with an arrogant mortal girl. Across from the sea god, she wove an image of herself with her shield, Aegis, and the olive tree that defeated him.

Athena looked over to check Arachne’s progress. The girl had filled an impressive chunk of the loom. She looked nervous though, and somehow younger than when she’d opened the door.

Arachne’s Gynaikon did not share her youth. It was decaying. Bits of dust had collected in the corners, and there were spots where the wooden walls had begun to rot. And yet its owner had the gall to challenge her. To compare herself to Athena. To put them on the same field of battle. The audacity was almost too much to stomach. Athena wondered if it would’ve been wiser to ignore the girl’s claims. If acknowledging them gave them more credit than they were due. But the gods did not tolerate mortal arrogance.

Athena started weaving in a fury. She filled the last corner with a portrait of a weeping Cinyras. His daughters had claimed to be as beautiful as goddesses. So, they were turned into steps up to a temple, and he was cursed to become a stone statue that eternally grieved over his loss. She bordered the tapestry with olive branches.

Despite her initial fear, Arachne had forced herself not to think, to lose herself in the weaving. She didn’t let herself

pause and acknowledge her situation. She chose no theme, made no plan, drew no sketch. She simply wove, bit by bit and image by image as they came to mind.

The goddess finished her tapestry first. Arachne didn’t recall seeing her switch colors even once. Was it cheating if a goddess used magic? It didn’t matter. Arachne couldn’t afford even a moment of distraction. She didn’t allow herself to look at Athena’s finished tapestry; she just kept weaving.

There was Europa. Deceived and seduced by Zeus in the form of a bull. The Titaness Asteria, who fled his pursuits in the form of a bird. He turned into an eagle and chased her down. Then Leda, queen of Sparta, who’d lain with him in the form of a swan. For Antiope, he took the form of a satyr. For a woman from Tiryns, he stole the face of a man. Rain, fire, serpent. Her tapestry showed the king of the gods in all his forms. Each more disgusting than the last. Other gods made appearances as well. Poseidon as a bird, a ram, a steed. Apollo as a hawk, a lion. Saturn, as a horse. Gods in disguise, committing the vilest of crimes, encased in a border of innocent flowers. The result was perfect. It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever woven. But the gods it depicted were not beautiful. They looked repulsive and almost cowardly. Zeus was the worst of all.

Arachne barely had the chance to admire her own work before Athena ripped the tapestry from the loom, the threads snapping as she tore it, shredded it, and threw it on the ground behind her. Rage seemed to pulse within her like a mortal’s heartbeat. How could this fragile, insolent girl have woven something so beautiful, so flawless? What right did she have to set forth such an insult against the king of the gods, Athena’s own father?

The girl was sitting on her bench, stunned, further infuriating Athena. Was she shocked by the goddess’ reaction? Did she expect Athena not to take offense? Perhaps she thought the beauty

of it would outweigh the insult. If anything, that made it harder to swallow. Athena wasn’t even certain that her own tapestry had been better. She’d never know for certain, now that this one was destroyed.

Athena felt the weight of her boxwood shuttle in her hand. She raised it and slammed it into Arachne’s forehead. The girl fell off the bench with a scream. She landed on her hands and flipped back around to face the goddess. Athena could see her eyes darting around, looking wild and panicked. She swung again, hitting Arachne in the left temple. The girl’s head hit the floor solidly. She seemed to be stunned at the very least. Athena wiped a bit of blood off her shuttle and looked back at her own tapestry.

She had done a fine job. It was a worthy effort. But the memory of Arachne’s tapestry ate at her. She walked over to the pile of shredded fabric that it had become and picked one of the slivers up. It was falling apart, but not entirely. The girl had woven the threads tightly and with skill. The colors weren’t as vibrant as the ones in the goddess’ tapestry, but the desaturated palette seemed to fit the subject matter.

Athena heard a sudden movement behind her. She whipped around and saw Arachne pulling a piece of thread that she had knotted around her own neck. Athena could hear the girl starting to choke and see veins in her neck popping out. But she kept pulling. She was more terrified of Athena than of a dishonorable death.

The goddess walked slowly towards her. With each step nearer, the girl seemed to pull more fiercely. She looked desperate. Athena could likely have made it to the girl quick enough to pull the rope from her neck. Death didn’t seem the right punishment for her arrogance. It didn’t seem like proper justice for her crimes.

Athena had never been anything but just. She’d punished mortals, but she’d saved and advised just as many heroes. Yes,

there had been Myrmex, Medusa, and the Trojans. But there had also been Perseus, Jason, Bellothropon, Heracles, Orestes, Odysseus, and more.

Arachne collapsed on the floor, but she was still pulling. Her arrogance, the insult she’d levied, and her actions then, with the thread, were all damnable offenses. But it was possible that she had been right. That she was better than Athena, at least at this one thing. Athena couldn’t leave her to die.

She retrieved a powdered herb given to her by the goddess Hecate from her pocket. Athena dumped the powder in her hand and blew it over the girl’s body.

Arachne’s hair fell off her scalp. Then her nose disappeared, melting into her face. Her body began to shrink, her head most of all. Her arms folded into her torso and her fingers began to grow into spindly legs. Her middle section and legs became one and out of them flowed a thin silver thread. Arachne became a spider. The first the world had.

“Weave on indeed, wicked one,” Athena said. “But still hang.”

Works Cited

“All You’ve Wanted to Know About Ancient Greek Homes.” https://www.oldest.org/ancient/greek-homes/.

Hemingway, Colette. “Woman in Classical Greece.” The Met Museum. October 2004. https://www.metmuseum.org/ toah/hd/wmna/hd_wmna.htm.

Polyzoidou, Stella. “Women’s Fashion: What Did Women Wear in Ancient Greece?” May 28, 2021. https://www. thecollector.com/womens-fashion-what-did-women-wear-inancient-greece/.

The Metamorphosis of Ovid. Translated by Henry T. Riley. https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/21765/ pg21765-images.html#bookVI.

Tifa, Carlos. “The Writing Instrument (The Reed and Quill) and Ink.” Dartmouth Ancient Books Lab. May 23, 2016. https://sites.dartmouth.edu/ancientbooks/2016/05/23/ the-writing-instrument-the-reed-and-quill-and-ink/.

MINARI AND THE MYTH OF THE AMERICAN DREAM

By Isabella Oh

A creek, deep in the Arkansas Ozarks, grows minari. A rather strange place for a plant originating in East Asia. A water weed found in many Asian dishes and despite its simplicity— it’s comfort, it’s hard work, it’s home. Whether you’ve heard of minari from the award-winning A24 film or from the side dishes and soups you ate as a child, its gravity and its permanence in Asian cuisine is more than just taste, it’s a symbol of resilience. Its tolerance and flexibility come from its ability to survive through cold wet mornings and hot dry afternoons with little to no care or attention.

This resilience is reflected in the film as well, where we follow a family that immigrated to the U.S. in search of a new beginning. Through them, we see the embodiments of all the characters of a classic immigration story: from the strong and bold who are confident in the belief that with hard work comes success, to the hesitant and doubtful who are aware that they are leaving everything they know for an unpromised future.

These personalities are found in Jacob and Monica, a married couple who are willing to sacrifice

everything if it means their two children, Anne and David, live in vibrancy and contentment in America. Jacob is ambitious in his farming business and pushes through adversity and struggle—everything from feeling ostracized at church to his produce going rotten and therefore being unsellable—because he’s sure all the hardships will be worth it in the end, even if he himself is unable to reap the benefits. He grows fruits and vegetables common in Korea to sell to vendors in Dallas because he wants to show his children that there is more to him than just

sexing chicks, which was his previous job. He wants his job to be more than the only option he was given; he wants his job to be reflective of his passion and grit. He wants to be there as a father the only way he knows how, by working hard and showing his children that with hard work, success will find its way.

Monica, on the other hand, doesn’t know what to make of this new life in Arkansas and its uncertainty. She doesn’t hold the same beliefs as David and is doubtful of a prosperous future for the family. She approaches everything with

trepidation and hesitancy, even condemning their son David for running considering his worsening heart condition. It’s easy to assume the worst of Monica, as her pessimism makes her a character that takes away the possibilities and hope of her family succeeding. But her role is far deeper than the role of the pessimist, she’s in fact the realist. She’s aware that the United States she’s traveled to will not make success easily attainable for her and her family. She and her family will be on the receiving end of strange looks and unwelcoming glares that seem almost threatening. They will never feel like they truly fit in, and everything they do will carry the pressure of not being given the mercy of second chances. But her perceived pessimism is reflective of the real world. And her realism is what creates a story of balance. The dichotomy between her and David is what takes this story beyond the typical American Dream trope. It reflects all the hardships and burdens every immigrant has had to face. As Monica’s valid hesitations burgeon into more significant fears, her mother ends up embarking on the arduous trek from Korea and bringing with her parts of home.

From chili flakes to dried anchovies to minari seeds, she brings the foundation for creating something that lasts in the form of a plant from home. Despite the entire family’s tireless work, they see no light at the end of the tunnel, and they’re unsure what their livelihoods will cost them. In their moments of hardship, all they have are each other, which is what ultimately becomes their salvation.

Minari is more than just a plant or a reminder of home in this story; its deeper metaphor encapsulates everything it means to be an immigrant. To begin, minari carries extreme health benefits despite its humble origins in creeks and swamps. It flourishes in the shade, away from the sun, basically growing in its own shadows. Similarly, many immigrants come from humble beginnings. They face weird looks for their accents and not being fluent in English. They are outcasted as unknowing of American culture and habits. They suffer through foreign environments all while growing themselves to be something greater. They are not here for the spotlight of prestige or applause

for their resiliency; they are here to grow their roots and make something that lasts. In addition, anyone who’s cooked with minari knows that it’s a second-batch product. This is the very heart of the film and the heart of any immigrant moving to the U.S. for something better. Immigrants—specifically immigrant parents— struggle to develop these roots and overcome the harsh climates but remain resilient because their success isn’t for themselves. It’s for the generations that come after them. When growing minari, the second batch produced is always better, just as Jacob and Monica’s struggle means Anne and David will live better lives than they did. The film was never about the work or the fight it took for their family to get here, it was about them being together and staying together throughout.

Minari’s ties to what it means to strive toward the American Dream draw from

what it means to have hope. Not hope for your labor, but hope for the ones you love. In the end, David runs through the fields of what his father has built for them with careless abandon for his heart. Because his heart is fighting. It’s overcome every obstacle it’s faced and because of it, he is able to run to the very thing he calls home; his family. Monica’s mom and the Yi family, from Korea, have created something that lasts, whether it be minari or their place in that country. The American Dream doesn’t exist in spite, it exists because. It exists not because of every adversity they’ve overcome but because it creates something greater for those to come.

At this very moment, I feel that my life is a constant state of noise. Every decision I didn’t make, every encounter with people I now call strangers blends into a chorus of voices echoing in my head. Whispers of past mistakes and future goals intensify the more my mind diverges from the present moment. The voices grow so loud that I can no longer differentiate them from my own.

And that’s when the voices turn into faces, and the faces grow limbs, and the limbs turn into arms, all pulling me in different directions so that I begin to lose my footing. Everything is everywhere, so I decide now, in order to regain my balance, to strip off every layer I have put on myself for the last 18 years until I reach the one part of me that has always remained constant—my name.

My name is Ruhi, but for the longest time I wanted my name to be more normal, like Julia. Julia was the girl who everyone liked. She had long blonde hair and pearly, hairless skin. She listened to mainstream music like Taylor Swift and took ballet lessons. During lunch, she ate pizza and burgers instead of spicy, yellow noodles called maggie or round, doughy bread called roti. She was the first girl to be asked to the fifth grade dance, and no one dared to pull their sleeve over their hand so they wouldn’t touch her. Instead, every boy wanted to hold her hand. No one ever asked her to repeat her name or said her name was too difficult—not important enough—to pronounce correctly.

Julia was the type of girl fairy tales were written about—bedtime stories in which a prince slays a dragon, witch, or some other form of monster to win over the princess’s hand so they can live together, happily ever after.

These were not the bedtime stories I had grown up reading. Instead, my parents spent many nights reading me stories from the religious Hindu text Mahābhārata, the largest epic in the world with over 100,000 couplets depicting the struggle between two branches of a family, the Pandavas and Kauravas, over the throne that erupted in a full blown historic battle called the Kurukshetra War. However, if you asked me now to recite by memory at least one of the many, many stories, I would tell you I couldn’t.

Despite how much I loved the moment when the moonlight peeking through the window lit my

parents’ faces and the passion in their voices as they shared with me the same stories they heard when they were children, I let go. Despite how much I loved learning about strong female representation in Hinduism like the virtuous, intelligent single-mother Kunti, I let go. Despite how much I loved learning about family, duty, love, karma, and happiness through the tales of kings and queens and gods and warriors, I let go of these stories and my culture along with them.

I erased the parts I hated; I straightened my hair every day, ended my kathak dance lessons, and stopped bringing Indian food to lunch. Yet, I unknowingly also lost parts of my culture I loved; I stopped listening to Bollywood music and traded Hindu mythology for the fairytales of Western culture. I strived to be someone I wasn’t, like a puzzle piece that never quite fit. I spent so many years attempting to jam that puzzle piece in place, wondering why the final picture was never right. I held onto the belief that one day, a prince would save me from the monstrosity that was life, and we would fall in love, living happily ever after.

But now, I realize fairy tales are fiction and living happily ever after is a myth. By constantly rejecting my culture—or rather my true self, I was digging a hole. And by always waiting for happiness, waiting to live instead of simply existing, the voices with their faces and their arms were dragging me down that hole. The disconnect between my ideal, “white” self and my true identity, between existing and living in the present was feeding into my tendency to overthink.

I live with so much noise because I spend so much time waiting for that perfect, fairy tale life. Every action that diverges from that image tends to rot in my head, and I end up disappointed when this perfect version of myself does not match up with who I really am. I know I am not the Western beauty standard. I am not a princess whom princes pine after, but I am also not a woman who needs saving. I am someone who grew up with a rich culture and a beautiful family; it is time I cherish that. It is time I stop creating an unattainable world and start grounding myself in reality.

As I strip myself of every disappointment, shame, or doubt casting a weight on me, I begin to erase this image of the perfect life I have constructed since I was

a child. I cut the strings tethering me to those voices; I stop waiting for that moment, for that everlasting happiness. I come back to my name, Ruhi, or rather the meaning of my name, soul.

And in Hindu mythology, souls are powerful. In the Mahābhārata, there is a scene in which the protagonist, the great warrior Arjun, refuses to fight against the Kauravas because it would mean fighting his own friends and family. He asks for guidance from his charioteer, Krishna, the ninth incarnation of Hindu God Vishnu. Krishna explains that our souls are indestructible and that the spirits of his family and friends would not die. While I am not certain about the idea of reincarnation, I certainly believe in the power of souls. And I certainly believe in what Krishna says to Arjun next.

Krishna tells Arjun that it is his duty to fight in this war—that every person is given a role, and it is their job to fulfill that duty. However, Krishna explains that one must perform their duty without being attached to the rewards of their actions. Western civilization understands karma as the principle that actions have consequences—both good and bad. Yet, this is where the Western definition of Karma falls short. Karma is not revenge; it is not a form of punishment people receive for their misdoings, nor is it a reward for good behavior. Karma’s not a cat, and karma’s definitely not your boyfriend (sorry Taylor, I still love

you though). Unbeknownst to Western civilization, Karma is not a bitch, and if you still believe that, then you are one.

Originating from Hinduism, karma is about balance. And balance is about peace. Karma means performing your duty and working to the best of your abilities without being attached to the materialistic rewards. Attachment stems from desire and unfulfilled desires create anger. Rather than constantly waiting for happiness to be bestowed upon me, I choose to attain peace. To act without focusing on the results. I choose to fall in love but to not be trapped in it. I choose to set goals but to not chase after them. I choose to look for adventure but to not get lost in it.

By choosing to believe in karma, I set myself on a new path. A path that puts an end to my overthinking and reinforces the idea of living in the present, not focusing on the past or the future. By focusing on the present—on my duty, not the consequences of my actions—I can enjoy all of the new experiences occurring around me and enjoy the person I am in this moment, right now.

I live in a constant state of noise. And it is exciting.

By Logan Brown

“You know he killed a man with his bare hands, just like that,” my Nonno boasts, “I could have done it too if I wanted to.” I look across the table to see my mom roll her eyes. Letting my gaze travel around my extended family, I am met with looks that an outsider might label unamused. Some of them look unbelieving, but even so, most are captivated. We’ve heard this story a hundred times over by now, and I know that should’ve diminished the shiny quality of it, but every time I hear it I am drawn into the fantasy of my Nonno’s life before I was born—fantasy in which only my family can differentiate between reality and exaggeration.

My aunt Diane coined the term, Vettorello Fact, after my Nonno’s family name. What started out as an endearing term joking about the liberties the men in the family took with the truth, soon transformed as a way to describe the role those stories played in bringing my family together. Taking on many forms, the Vettorello Fact represents the unity these halftruths and elaborate stories signify.

At first, my family referenced this term when one of us explained a fact based on nothing but assumption and confidence. Often during a conversation, for example, my older brother will interject with a self-proclaimed fact: “That’s actually because of the….” Over time, the Vettorello Fact extended to fake statistics, faux definitions, phony histories—you name it, we will create it.

Coming from a family of lawyers, nurses, and engineers who love to learn and have a healthy dose of curiosity, I often welcomed these “facts” as insight others possessed that I couldn’t have possibly known already. With open ears and a mind that couldn’t yet separate fact from fiction, I embraced the knowledge that my family was always offering up. As a kid then and even as an adult now, my first impulse is to take my family’s words as sacred. My respect for them often makes me forget to question whether a statement or story contains a Vettorello Fact.

While the Vettorello Fact originally referred to the quick-to-exclaim facts my family would spew, I now see its application in the stories my family tells to humor each other. Some of the stories were based on truths that were ironically twisted to be works of fiction. Other stories about family history were exaggerated for the hard-hitting effect. All of them incorporated parts of our lives that we desired to share with the ones we love. Childhood stories were the ones I found most captivating for the desire to uncover traces of my childhood embedded in theirs. Either lazily sitting around the table after a beautifully made meal by my mom or strewn across the mirrored living room of my Nanna and Nonno’s home, I would laugh and eagerly listen in on the story that I simply couldn’t resist feeding into. The stories sounded so absurd, that even at my young age I was hesitant to fully accept

them.

“Do you think he really killed a man?” I would ask my family on the 45-minute drive home from Farmington Hills, Michigan. My brother’s answer, “Of course not, Logan,” was interrupted by my Mom arguing, “You never know.” These stories we told kept us creative, curious, inquisitive—they had us searching for the truth and for meaning, separating the history from exaggeration.

I dedicated my childhood to remembering the stories I heard over and over—I could recite the story of my Nonno moving from Italy to Canada like it was my own, knew his friend Frank as if he were our nextdoor neighbor, and could almost taste the cardboard Wonder Bread that disgusted my Nonno during his childhood. Storytelling had an addicting hold on our family during the times we were together: my Nanna, uncle, aunt, and mom would often join in, recounting their past lives. Although my Nonno is our most ardent storyteller, all members of my family would gift us stories of their childhood adventures and young adult mishaps—all completely captivating while some completely contradicting.

The stories that my family told gave me the unwavering understanding at a young age that my family consisted of the most interesting people on this earth. Captivated for hours on end, I was inspired by the paths each of my relatives had taken before me to get to this exact spot. Emboldened by the environment of shared secrets and stories, my family uncovered parts of their lives that I was desperate to know more about.

I recognize Vettorello Facts in my life outside of my family as well. They are there when my friends and I are overconfident when offering “facts” to the conversation and when we embellish our stories to make them that much more compelling, captivating each other with a slip of exaggeration here and there. I know my family is not the first to exaggerate their stories or make fact-like claims. This tendency to hyperbolize is more of a universal than a rare phenomenon. While I am hesitant to claim exaggeration is human nature, I see those around me exchanging stories, useful information, and “facts” as a form of currency. What is a foundation to my family is likely shared by others; although a unique term that

my family coined, the Vettorello Fact represents this universal human impulse to exaggerate for the sake of connection with those important to us. There is something powerful about the links we make through the stories we share, but there is also something even more compelling about a connection so strong you can distinguish between the ebbs and flows of reality and fiction. The Vettorello Fact fosters a connection in my family that surpasses mere storytelling.

Just because my family’s stories are commonly embellished to a humorous effect does not mean that my family consists of liars. In fact, that notion couldn’t be further from the truth. These stories, with hints of exaggeration, were never for the sake of spinning tall tales or falsifying our experiences but for sharing our lives in creative ways. More often than not, the facts my brothers tell are correct—annoyingly so during the times I decide to counter their commentary. And the stories my family tells are never complete works of fiction, just sometimes embellished enthusiastically. I feel closest to my family when we’re sitting down at the table weaving the stories of our lives together. I could go years without seeing all of my family members together—as I often do—but these stories are what connect us again and again after the time apart. With conversations lasting hours, this pastime made me feel like I was welcome, as if I was given a membership to a secret society. My family could tell as many stories as possible and I would always be there to listen. These stories reminded us of how we were family.

When my mom first explained the term Vettorello Fact to me, it concretely defined the quips of information that my family will throw out with little hesitation. As a kid, this term morphed into a phrase that represented the love and inspiration I felt for my family after every gathering. The exaggeration and the maybe-facts and the expanded-upon stories are not the important aspects of my childhood, but it was rather the sense of unity that brought me closer to my family as a result. The common understanding in my family is that these stories may be exaggerated, and the “facts” may be mere suppositions, but this doesn’t diminish their importance.

These stories and facts (based on fiction and reality) nurtured my passion for listening which has in turn cultivated the meaningful relationships I have in my life. The Vettorello Fact not only brought me closer

to those in my family who I look up to but gave me a chance to laugh at the absurdity of the things that brought us together—I learned about their lives but did so while laughing and sharing the inside jokes that those exaggerations created. From intergenerational connection to immortality, these stories live as long as we can find the truth in them and laugh at the fiction as well.

The meaningful glances across the table shared by my Mom and Dad, the conspiracies that my brothers and I shared after family gatherings, the shared knowledge of and sense of connection from the history that came before us—all are the result of the stories my family spins. Lies based on the truth and truth based on the lies: the Vettorello Fact.

The Of A Dream Downfall

By Lindsey Smiles

I had always looked forward to turning twenty-one. It felt like the age when I would finally be an actual adult, not a child simply masquerading as one. It’s as if my mind determined that the ability to buy alcohol with my real ID was the defining characteristic of true adulthood. Twenty-one was the year that things were going to happen for me, like graduating college, getting a big girl job, and moving to some cool new city. For years, I operated under the impression that I would have it all figured out by the time senior year rolled around, and for a while, I thought I did.

The older I grew, the more I indulged in this fantastical version of myself that I thought I would be when I turned twentyone. I dreamed of the day I would finally become her. By the time I started college, she had become a real person in my head. She embodied every personality trait I craved—confident and charismatic and effortlessly cool. She had a concrete idea of what she wanted in her future career and a detailed plan on how to get there. She knew what she wanted, and that was to be done with college. She believed that success wouldn’t truly come until she had a career, but unfortunately knew she

needed a degree to get a job first. How could she be successful when she was still a student?

I was so close to becoming her last summer when I interned as a copywriter for a marketing firm in Los Angeles. As I contributed to pitch decks trying to secure million-dollar-deals with Netflix and AMC and sat in on meetings with the senior producers and graphic designers who helped launch HBO Max, I could feel her coalescing inside of me. My work on Audible’s social media accounts was valued. Captions I had written were getting posted to their Instagram and Facebook. People who held the positions that I so desperately wanted, from Group Creative Director to Associate Digital Producer, were taking me seriously. I was so proud of myself, and I thought that copywriting was going to be my entrylevel position in that world. The only piece missing was actually being twenty-one. I had always known that I would be twentyone when I graduated college, started my career, and finally became MarketingLindsey, and I had convinced myself that no part of my future plan was possible until then. I was so excited to finally get everything I had always imagined.

I almost got there, too, with my birthday on the horizon in early September.

But then the school year started.

It just all fell apart so quickly. One second I knew exactly who I wanted to become after graduation and the next everything was slipping out of my hands like water. I tried so hard to keep myself on the path to success that I built years ago, but soon enough, I no longer had control over everything—over anything at all, really.

My downfall began, I think, with my English classes. Marketing-Lindsey didn’t have time for “Introduction to Autobiography” or “Death and Dying in the Middle Ages.” They were a hobby she enjoyed on the side but not what she devoted the bulk of her attention to. But when crafting Marketing-Lindsey, I had forgotten one crucial fact—I was only taking English classes during the first semester of my senior year. Four of them to be exact. This was to be expected, as I am an English major. MarketingLindsey just needed a degree, not any particular major in order to be successful, and so the classes I was taking shouldn’t

have affected any future plans. That belief turned out to be far from reality. I couldn’t have predicted that my English major would lead to an entirely different future than I was planning.

The first sign of cracks in MarketingLindsey came in the first paper I turned in for my “Advanced Essay Writing” class. It began as a love letter to What the F but quickly spiraled out of my control and into a physical manifestation of the fear I felt towards graduating. Seeing my dread displayed so clearly on the page in front of me had me dry heaving over the toilet one night. I wasn’t prepared for my own emotions to confront me so brazenly. I really, really did not want to graduate, but if I didn’t graduate, then I couldn’t become Marketing-Lindsey, and if I couldn’t become Marketing-Lindsey, then who was I going to turn into after college? I became convinced that I was doing something wrong, that I shouldn’t feel this way, that I shouldn’t be so scared. My therapist told me that it was normal, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get that pit out of my stomach.

That pit only grew when I realized this newfound fear of graduating wasn’t actually new at all. Instead I discovered that my essay writing was just the newest outlet to express my concerns. In the previous few months, my nerves hid

behind the safety that my internship brought. My intern experience had gotten me so much closer to becoming Marketing-Lindsey, and it felt like I was undoing all of that progress with a single essay. But as September turned into October and I got some space from my internship, the more I realized that I actually kind of hated my summer position. I liked the company I was at and the people I worked with, but I didn’t like my actual job description. I found copywriting to be incredibly unfulfilling, but I hadn’t recognized that because I was so caught up in the pride felt towards having the position. As soon as I let myself admit that, I knew that working as a copywriter would become monotonous so quickly that I would probably start to hate every step of the process. But I didn’t let that deter me. Maybe copywriting wasn’t for me, but there were plenty of other marketing positions that I could apply for instead. Marketing-Lindsey was still alive and well.

The second clue appeared when reading an in-class poem brought me to tears. The storyline followed a man, who was able to see his dead child again in a dream that he had. The grief he felt over his daughter was eerily reminiscent of the grief I felt over my own dad who died, and I felt like I had been cracked open. While the pit still lingered in my stomach, I wiped the tears off my cheeks as I tried to frantically finish speaking about the father’s grief in the poem. But I told myself that Marketing-Lindsey shouldn’t be getting that emotional over some words on a page. She should be able to compartmentalize, set her emotions aside to deal with later, and not put them on display in front of all of her classmates. It hit me then that maybe MarketingLindsey was wrong. Maybe that wasn’t my path to happiness. Maybe there was another life out there for me that differed from a 9 to 5 spent writing Instagram captions less than a hundred words long that had to go through seven different people before finally, finally getting posted.

The third clue manifested in the feeling of immense relief that filled my entire body when I realized that I didn’t have to become Marketing-Lindsey. Almost at once, this falsified myth of who I was “meant” to

be shattered into a million pieces. I had tied myself to her for so long because my future felt predestined, like it had been set in stone years ago. But as soon as I recognized that she was just a character that I created, and not a real person, I finally allowed myself to contemplate a different future, one with a few years off and the possibility of grad school down the line. If Marketing-Lindsey wasn’t actually me, as I had long loathed to acknowledge was the case, then I felt a lot less shackled to some unfortunate future. This was the first time since coming back to school that I felt anything other than dread towards graduating, and I couldn’t find it in myself to resent that.

But now, in the final months of my senior year, she still haunts me. I cannot get her ghost to leave me alone. When I’m researching grad schools, she’s whispering in my ear about how I’m tossing any sort of job security out the window. When I tell people that I’m planning to spend the next year working an hourly job making coffee or stocking the shelves of Target, I can feel her sneering at me. I don’t want to be her anymore, but there is still a part of me that cannot help but feel guilty about that, as though I’m somehow failing myself by choosing to turn away from Marketing-Lindsey, from this myth of a person I created when I was eighteen with little consideration of the fact that I would inevitably change.

I feel so stupidly young now, like allowing myself to have more freedom over my own future made me go from twenty-one to eighteen in the span of just a few short hours. Idealized twenty-one-year-old Lindsey was confident and sure of herself, but actual twenty-one-year-old Lindsey is not. I’m really, really not. I’ve never felt more unsure of myself at a time when I feel like I should have it all figured out. And I know that, logically, I don’t have to, but it’s difficult when I got so close to becoming that mythological character, only to willingly step out of MarketingLindsey’s skin and into my own. It fits a lot better, and although it doesn’t come with a five-year-plan for success, there’s something so fantastically freeing about a future with endless possibilities.

Triggering Warning: sexual assault

When I think about men that I resent (and boy are there a lot of them) the first image I can conjure is the distorted face of Gunter from Friends—as his lookalike is the antagonist of the following tale. In reality, the extent of the similarities between this man and Gunter likely end at blond hair and fair skin. Nonetheless, his obscure features are permanently etched into my brain.

If you experienced any of your teenage years from 2013 to 2019, you understand the absolute chokehold milling around the mall had on my freetime. Nearly every weekend in late middle school and early high school, my besties and I would beg our parents to drive us to the mall so we could sip on

By Lucy Perrone

our Wetzle’s Pretzels’ Lemonade, and frequent the classics: Forever 21, Hot Topic, PacSun, American Eagle, and Victoria’s Secret. Some of my most iconic and questionable purchases are from this era, including my first Victoria’s Secret bra purchased at the ripe age of 13 that still fits me to this day, 9 years later…huzzah! Sustainable queen—though I no longer wear bras. This era also marked the beginning of my conscious self, a person with real thoughts, an inner monologue, and (in theory) a memory ready to capture the highs and lows of girlhood.

One particular low occurred within the walls of PacSun—and, no, it wasn’t after a Brandy Melville induced meltdown. On this specific afternoon, the store was relatively empty except for me and my friend, the employees—who couldn’t have been

too much older than us—and a middle aged, pasty man wandering around the women’s section. If you identify as a woman or even know a woman, you probably can guess where this story is heading. While my friend was standing in front of a display table, the man walked up behind her and groped her. I watched as he got uncomfortably close to her and prayed that my eyes had deceived me. After the incident she immediately walked over to me, tears brimming. At 14, I had no idea what to do or how to react. I asked her if she was sure. Of course she was sure. I knew she was sure. I asked her if she wanted to tell somebody, the people working there, maybe. She asked me to do it on her behalf. But we couldn’t see the man anymore and I wanted to be able to point him out if he was still in the store. I walked around in search of him, eventually finding him in the dressing room, door wide open, undressing himself, evidently waiting for someone to see. At that point, I approached the female presenting employee for help, who at the time seemed mature and capable but couldn’t have been older than 18.

“Excuse me. I don’t really know how to say this, but that man touched my friend,” pointing towards the dressing room. This queen lept into action immediately, calling mall security and cornering the man inside the store. Right as security arrived, he decided to make an unsuccessful dash towards the exit. He was taken away and my friend and I were left to answer the police’s questions. The male cop was particularly punchable. Even at the time when I was still conditioned to respect police and see them as protection, I was wildly uncomfortable in his presence. His advice: “Next time, just kick him in the balls.” Next time? Great, thanks, I’ll keep that in mind. Oh how I love being a woman.

No amount of binge-watching SVU could have prepared me for court. As the only witness in a store lacking cameras, I was called to testify. I’d like to think I’m a decent public speaker, but this defense lawyer really tried to pull one over on me. Rage manifested in slow, hot tears rolling down my face. I hated that man. I hated his lawyer. I hated the system that made me relive the experience over and over. The jury found him guilty, and he was sentenced to a few years in San Quentin, as this was not his first offense. I was relieved, but the feeling was short lived. Where was the justice? He refused to own up to the harm he had caused and would be out soon enough without any resources or chance for change. My friend was left to her own devices to work through the trauma. I was left consumed with guilt, feeling undeserving of the pain I was experiencing. I wasn’t the primary victim, but I was experiencing the ripple effects of the harm. I became convinced it would be me in her shoes one day, that assault was unavoidable and could happen at any moment. I have always been weary of men in public spaces, as every woman is, but now even more so.

To this day I have no idea what happened to him or where he is or if he ended up back behind bars.

This experience was a main catalyst for my curiosity about the prison system. Additionally, attending a public high school with an evidential discriminatory police presence and gravitating towards gender studies and sociology courses early in college, led me to take a class on mass incarceration and the prison industrial complex. This class (and several other courses) introduced me to Angela Davis’ “Are Prisons Obsolete.” In this work she writes, “[Prison] relieves us of the responsibility of seriously engaging with the problems of our society, especially those produced by racism and, increasingly, global capitalism.” Learning about prison abolition and restorative justice has necessitated a reflection on my high school experience with the criminal justice system.

Thinking about how the situation was handled, realistically not much harm reduction occurred. In theory, we send people who have caused harm in their communities away to prisons as a way to prevent them from causing more harm and to reduce violence. The US operates on a punitive system of “justice.” However, no one involved in the harm (categorized as crime) receives the resources they need to heal and successfully reintegrate into their communities. In my friend’s case, she didn’t receive any mental health or healing resources from the state. Instead, that precious money was used to send her assaulter to San Quentin State Prison for three years, only for him to get released, likely more violent than when he went in due to the violent conditions that prisons breed. As a teenager, I held several assumptions about the carceral system that are actually common myths, including the idea that prisons reduce violence. So, let’s go through some of these common myths about mass incarceration!:

1. Private prisons are the corrupt heart of mass incarceration: Only 8% of the prison population are held in private prisons. The real root of mass incarceration is the Prison Industrial Complex, however private prisons garner more attention because they are for-profit and thus deemed particularly unethical.

2. Prisons are “factories behind fences” that exist to provide companies with a huge slave labor force: Only about 7% of the prison population work for private companies. The vast majority are hired to keep the prisons running internally through janitorial work, cooking, etc., while being paid almost nothing. A common misconception is that prisons were created in order to cage people and force them into labor, similar to slavery. While mass incarceration has ties to slavery, it was

actually created in order to manufacture an industry around caging people to employ lower income, working class Americans.

3. Releasing “nonviolent drug offenders” would end mass incarceration: Only 20% of incarcerated people are convicted of drug offenses and even less of them are considered “nonviolent.” While releasing them would certainly be a step in the right direction, it would not end mass incarceration nor be considered “meaningful decarceration” (more than 50% of the prison population is released).

4. By definition, “violent crime” involves physical harm: People (and the law) use “violent” and “nonviolent” to mean “serious” vs “non serious” and these terms are coded and racialized to label people. “Violent” is used for many crimes that don’t involve physical harm such as marijuana possession.

5. People in prison for violent or sexual crimes are too dangerous to be released: Rehabilitation is possible for everyone, and these people are actually the least likely to recidivate.

6. Crime victims support long prison sentences: A majority of victims actually prefer alternatives with a focus on prevention, rehabilitation, and education.

7. Some people need to go to jail to get treatment and services: Prisons and jails do not provide adequate services/resources for mental health or substance abuse. Additionally, almost every drug that’s available on the outside is also available inside.

8. Expanding community supervision is the best way to reduce incarceration: Community supervision, including ankle monitoring and probation, focuses on small mistakes that people are making under debilitating restrictions. “Technical violations,” which don’t usually cause harm, lead to high rates of recidivism.

Dissecting these myths caused me to reflect on my own experience with greater clarity and helped me understand and appreciate restorative justice. I contemplated how even when I was working on the side of the system as a witness, I felt powerless. My friend and I were both incessantly questioned to find holes in our story. She was told (by men) that maybe if she hadn’t been wearing leggings at the time she wouldn’t have been subjected to such “negative attention.” The process was exhausting and retraumatizing, and I only felt temporarily safer. It’s more about the systems of harm than this single incident. He was going to be released, worse off than he started. And somehow, this was the “best” case scenario. “Justice” was served. He was found guilty and locked up. You’re probably thinking, “There must be a better way.” Well let me introduce you to

restorative justice! RJ is one facet of prison abolition activism that pushes back the punitive carceral system and on the idea that victim healing and perpetrator punishment are synonymous. Instead, it focuses on healing, perpetrator accountability, and maintaining or restoring harmed communities.

Restorative justice and decarceration activism require imagination in implementation. You know that cheesy saying your friend consoles you with after your situationship wrongs you?: “Hurt people hurt people.” Well it’s true (in this case)! Many of those committing sexual harm are victims themselves. What would their lives have looked like if they had received help in the first place? What would happen if we could stop the harm at the source or help alleviate the pain soon after it happened? If we diverted the amount of money and resources poured into the police state and carceral system, we’d see safer communities. Low income communities of color would start to look more like wealthy communities, where resources are abundant and members causing harm are already treated with a restorative approach rather than punitive.

Fun fact, actually really really sad fact, the U.S. incarcerates more of its citizens than any other country in the history of the world. There is so much more work to be done, but hopefully through an abolitionist lens and activist framework, methods of decarceration and restorative justice will spread. Although I’ve since lost touch with my friend, this experience, and the countless other horrors of growing up we went through together, will always stay with me. I stopped patronizing Pacsun long ago. But with a longstanding shopping addiction, it was less the result of trauma and more the development of a less embarrassing style. Who would’ve thought that the hunt for an ill-fitting crop top would have led me down the path of prison abolition?

Works Cited

1. *In the meantime, corporations associated with the punishment industry reap profits from the system that manages prisoners and acquire a clear stake in the continued growth of prison populations. Put simply, this is the era of the prison industrial complex. The prison has become a black hole into which the detritus of contemporary capitalism is deposited” (AD). In other words, PIC describes the overlapping interests of the government and industry that uses surveillance, policing, and imprisonment as solutionsto economic and social problems. It develops and maintains the authority of people who get their bower throwugh racial and economic privileges. Mass incarceration responded to the “detritus” (social challenges caused by a lack of resources) of racial capitalism which requires that some people be rich and some people be poor. Thus prisons thrive on the rich getting rich and those who are hurt in the wake (homeless people, mentally ill people, etc) are dumped into prisons as a solution.

2. Sawyer, Wendy and Peter Wagner. “Mass Incarceration: The Whole Pie 2022.” Prison Policy Initiative, March 14, 2022. https://www.prisonpolicy. org/reports/pie2022.html.

Medicalization Of Childbirth

By Nikki Pallante

Cesarean sections are on the rise worldwide (at about 21% of all live births globally), and are growing in popularity especially in more “developed” (for lack of a less colonialist term) countries. Since the ’90s, the CDC has reported that the U.S. c-section rate has increased from 21% to 32% in 2021. In one generation of mothers, there has been a significant increase in c-sections, but we have not seen the same increase in positive health outcomes for mothers and infants. Instead, over the past 25 years, the U.S. has had an increase in maternal mortality threefold since the 1980s, particularly among Black women who are 3-4 times more likely than white women to die from childbirthrelated complications. If we have such an advanced healthcare system, ranked 6th worldwide for scientific advancement, why are we seeing this rise in both maternal mortality and maternal morbidity?

Every part of labor is so incredibly human. It is the culmination of our evolution to be able to give birth if that is what we choose, and in the modern era, it has become completely medicalized. Many of us are taught from a young age that it is completely normal to give birth with an epidural, a surgeon in the delivery room, and nurses 24 hours a day. While this is a completely valid way to give birth, it is far from the only choice. We do not need to deliver in a hospital room, and the biomedical paradigm has presented otherwise nonexistent risks for both mother and baby. Birth is treated as an illness under this philosophy, one that requires monitoring and often surgery. Obstetricians provide life-saving care when complications occur with the labor process, and they fill a necessary role in the medical world, but their specialty is surgery, not vaginal birth.

The shift towards surgical births can be linked to the aversion the U.S. has to midwifery as a practice. As discussed in Scientific American, midwives started to phase out and were replaced by obstetricians in the early 20th century, virtually disappearing from the American medical system for decades. They have recently started to make a comeback as the accessibility of information around natural birth has grown and home births have started to rise in popularity. Many women are opting to have the experience of natural labor rather than risk surgery, as vaginal births have better maternal health outcomes and fewer major complications following labor. For some, birth in a hospital setting can create an atmosphere of extra stress and anxiety as it is an unfamiliar environment; it is impersonal. Many of our mothers had terrifying experiences delivering in hospitals. I know mine did.

Although medical birth may be the right choice for many mothers, it is not a universal fix. There is no

one perfect way to give birth, no matter what we may be told by doctors who are trained to do one thing. Experience in surgical birth does not equate to experience in natural childbirth, and to expect both from a typical OBGYN makes no sense. Surgeons perform surgeries and surgeries come with risks. I am not saying that natural childbirth is any walk in the park. It is dangerous, and the medical advancements made in the past century have saved thousands of lives, but the female body has been perfected to give birth. We, like any nonhuman animal, are biologically programmed to be able to reproduce. Do not confuse this with our purpose, for women do not exist solely to provide offspring as humans have developed far beyond that, but we can do it. We are fully capable of giving birth as our grandmothers and great-grandmothers and theirs before did for thousands of years. Birth is totally natural. Being born is the most natural thing we do; it is the ultimate universal experience. That being said, no two births are exactly alike, and it is time that the medical system stops treating them like matching diagnoses waiting for a medical solution.

Works Cited

1. Betra, Ana Pilar, Jiangfeng Ye, Ann-Beth Moller, Joao Paulo Souza, and Jun Zhang. “Trends and projections of cesarean section rates: global and regional estimates.” BMJ Global Health. https:// gh.bmj.com/content/6/6/e005671.

2. Roser, Max and Hannah Ritchie. “Maternal Mortality.” Our World in Data. https:// ourworldindata.org/maternal-mortality#:~:text=Starting%20in%20the%20second%20half,just%20 a%20few%20generations%20ago.

3. World Health Organization. “Maternal mortality.” Last modified February 22, 2023. https:// www.who.int/news-room/fact-sheets/detail/maternal-mortality.

4. “U.S. Healthcare System Ranks Sixth Worldwide — Innovation but Fiscally Unstable.” Peter Peterson Foundation, February 3, 2022. https://www.pgpf.org/blog/2022/01/ us-healthcare-system-ranks-sixth-worldwide-innovative-but-fiscallyunsustainable#:~:text=The%202021%20World%20Index%20on,among%20the%20 world%27s%20healthcare%20systems.

5. “The U.S. Needs More Midwives for Better Maternity Care.” Scientific American, February 1, 2019. https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/the-u-s-needsmore-midwives-for-better-maternity-care/#:~:text=The%20roots%20of%20 America’s%20aversion,care%20and%20pushed%20midwives%20aside.

6. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. “Births - Methods of Delivery.” National Center for Health Statistics. Last modified January 31, 2023. https://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/delivery.htm.

The Light we Choose to Turn off

By Isabel Hopson

“Get back to your side!”

“I’m already on my side!”

I turned on the light in the backseat, determined to prove my younger brother wrong. We were on the way to visit our grandparents and, due to pure exhaustion, my skin crawled every time I felt his leg touch mine. At seven and ten years old, my parents loved our constant bickering. My mom’s eyes darted over her shoulder before returning to the road,

“Do you two want to get us pulled over?

Panicked, I anxiously fumbled with the overhead switch. I understood, as my mom had so earnestly explained to me, that having the light on in the backseat of a car was illegal. The image of police officers strolling to our car, sporting guns that could end the lives of even the strongest people I knew, made its way into my childhood nightmares often. Earlier that year, I

had picked a flower from a fire department garden and cried all night, wholeheartedly believing I was a criminal on the lam. Rest assured, I turned that light off immediately.

I learned to drive myself when I was 17. Although I lived in a city where public transportation eliminated the need for a car, I got so bored throughout COVID quarantine that I caved to societal pressure. One night, flying down Lake Shore Drive, I realized my brothers had left the backseat light on. A wave of memories flooded in and my thoughts spiraled:

Wait, is this illegal? How would police even regulate this? It feels like an infringement of rights. I’ve never seen anyone pulled over for this before. Should I turn it off? Is it a hazard for other drivers? Oh god, I can’t even get back there to turn it off. There’s absolutely no way this is illegal—I never learned about this in Driver’s Ed. Of course it’s not. I’m 17 years old, why the hell would I even question this?

After a minute of rapid fire self-questioning, I finally decided: my mom told us that turning the light on in the back of the car was illegal because it made it harder to drive. This difficulty while driving meant she could crash the car. Crashing the car meant that she could hurt someone or lose one of us. This was the same reason she kept a chair in front of the door when we slept or had to check she’d turned off the dryer twice before leaving the house. Habits, I might add, that I picked up myself.

Parents lie to their children, in many instances, to protect them from the truth. This is a pretty common understanding and, from an adult point of view, white lies guide the actions of kids without instilling fear. My mom didn’t need to ask, “Hey, can you guys turn off that light? It makes it a little more difficult to see, and I could get in an accident. If you two die, I will forever be ruined.” Lies are easier.

But I was engrossed in my mom’s lie. It was silly and random. It was unique and effective. It was her.

The things our parents tell us are usually thought to be a reflection of their parenting skills. My brother and I listened so, in this sense, my mom succeeded. But, sometimes, these lies are actually a reflection of their own identity. My mom was anxious because she couldn’t ensure she’d be in control. Now that I truly know my mom, I understand what was actually happening.

The mythology of our childhood is filled with realities for someone else.

When my parents divorced, I saw their pain as intrinsically connected. I couldn’t see the individual heartbreak of those who were once happy. I didn’t know the people who once wrote love letters and traveled the world together. I never considered my mom’s excitement as my dad met her family for the first time or my dad’s passion as he watched my mom walk down the aisle. As kids, we’re blind to our parents’ real lives.

I picked up on this fact when I experienced life as my parents once did. When I graduated high school, I wondered what my mom felt at her graduation. I knew of her ugly boyfriends and stressful band practices, but I imagined them in a world other than my own. I knew that my dad followed my mom to the U.S., but I had never considered what it would actually be like to start a new life. Only when I fell in love for the first time did I fully recognize love’s power. As a child, the stories I heard played on a screen when I closed my eyes. I never thought that they could exist in the world I saw with my eyes open.

Fifteen minutes later, on that trip to my grandparents, we hit ice and spiraled out wildly. In the far right lane, we spun through five other lanes to the left, slowing only upon sliding down the ditch on the other side of the highway. Our screaming softened when the car stopped, and my mom sat frozen. We sat in the ditch for the next couple hours, and I marveled over what had just happened. I know now, my mom was instilled with the fear of God. As a kid, there’s a level of inevitability to everything. As an adult though, you are painfully in control.

I fell for that childhood myth. It’s understandable and, honestly, if I started over, I’d fall for it again. Every decision the adults in my life make shape them individually, just as mine shape me now. I’ll take every part of who I am into parenthood and, frankly, that’s a terrifying statement to make. I’m training for the day I’m driving (as always, in fear) and scream into the backseat,“Turn that light off! Do you want me to get pulled over?” I’ll wait to smile until I turn back around. I’ll know that I don’t have my shit together. And I’ll know my kids will forever think I do.

There is never a time when identity becomes fixed. It’s important to see those around you as themselves, apart from characters in your own world. Life isn’t anyone’s story, it’s everyone’s.

Misogyny, Mythology, and Medusa... Oh My!

By Eleanor Durkee

Triggering Warning: mentions depictions of rape and sexual assault

The ole’ ball and chain, the old lady, and a pain in the ass— just a few classic “terms of endearment” among husbands to refer to their overbearing wives. Disturbingly, this dehumanization of women is rooted in our history and has survived for centuries. This misogynistic mentality dates back more than 2,700 years, as seen specifically in Ancient Greek mythology. In these works, women were created by gods to punish mankind (read: men-kind) and to cause male characters pain and suffering. In Hesiod’s poem Theogony, the creation of women began with an unnamed maiden that we would soon come to know as Pandora. In a vengeful response to the god of fire, Prometheus, stealing fire from the gods and granting it to humankind, Zeus created women in the form of Pandora to wreak havoc on the earth. Hesiod is quoted as saying, “For from her is the race of women and female kind: of

her is the deadly race and tribe of women who live amongst mortal men to their great trouble, no helpmeets in hateful poverty, but only in wealth.” From this first description of women came a long line of interpretations that would survive for centuries.

Similarly in his poem Works and Days, Hesiod describes Pandora as a “graceful and difficult desire” and “dog-like, [with a] shameless mind and thieving ways.” Hesoid also writes that Pandora’s breasts were “implanted with deceits and wheedling words, the habits of a thief.” According to this myth, women drove men to insanity with their flirtatious and manipulative nature, caused them to abandon all self-control with their bodies and faces, and made them feel emasculated with their unbearing nature. These characteristics were given to Pandora and then were to be inherited by women for generations.

We all know how the myth

ends: Pandora opens a pretty box she knew she wasn’t supposed to, releases all of the misery and evil into the mortal world, and at some point has a jewelry company named after her. She was created to be the sorrow of mankind and the inferior and foolish counterpart to men. While Pandora was the “first woman” to cause suffering for mankind, she wasn’t the only one. Medusa, the notorious snake-haired demoness who turned men into stone, was once said to be a beautiful maiden like Pandora. Thrusted into a circumstance that seemed predesigned for her (much like Pandora), Medusa was created to ignite fear in the eyes of men and her death was to be a prize won by the strongest hero. The similarities between Medusa and Pandora demonstrate a pattern of misogyny in ancient myth that continues to perpetuate negative interpretations of women’s struggles in a world controlled by men.

Origins of the myth of Medusa vary, with her first depiction

seemingly in Hesiod’s Theogony. Born from the ancient marine deities Phorcys and Ceto, Medusa was the third gorgon sister introduced into Greek mythology. In this version, Medusa was born with her petrifying ability and wreaked havoc on Greece with her sisters. Historically, painters and sculptors have depicted her as the snakehaired monster the majority of us know her as, but other contemporary artists in and after the 5th century BCE have portrayed her as the “faircheeked Medusa”, a beautiful woman who was later a victim of a curse (Milne, 1946). In Metamorphoses by Ovid, he details how the goddess Athena, driven by anger and spite, cursed the beautiful Medusa by turning her hair to snakes and causing any man she looked at to turn to stone. This has remained the most popular and widely recognizable interpretation of Medusa.

As a mortal woman, Medusa was noted for her beauty and piousness, but when she

caught the eye of the sea god Poseidon, jealousy quickly ensued as goddesses such as Athena began to notice. Athena envied Medusa’s beauty and the attention she received from Poseidon, and when he pursued Medusa into Athena’s own temple and had sex with her on the temple floor, Athena was unable to contain her anger. As a punishment, she cursed Medusa with a head full of snakes and the power to turn anyone who looked at her into stone. Since the consequences of her power were directed towards men, this is what ultimately caused the demand for her execution. It wasn’t until the hero Perseus, with help from a mirrored shield gifted to him by Athena, beheaded Medusa and ended her tirade. Her head, still imbued with the stone transfiguration power, was then used by any wielder at will. Medusa was considered one of the scariest monsters to exist within mythology, and her power has been repeatedly referenced in society in this way. Her story has continued to circulate as an example of the presence of misogynistic opinions in Greek mythology. This circulation has made its way to modern day. Yet this time, Medusa’s story is shifting from the classic misogynist narrative, as she has recently been reintroduced in a new light. Aside from her likeness being used in many public avenues, like the Versace logo, Medusa has had some other rebranding in the past few years. A quote from the book Female Rage: Unlocking its Secrets, Claiming its Power by Mary Valentis and Anne Devane states,

When we asked women what female rage looks like to them, it was always Medusa, the snaky-haired monster of myth, who came to mind ... In one interview after another we

were told that Medusa is ‘the most horrific woman in the world’ ... [though] none of the women we interviewed could remember the details of the myth.

The reimagined idea of Medusa as a symbol of feminine rage has a lot of footholds in modern society. First, the power of Medusa’s curse is an act of vengeance for any wrongdoing directed against her, which is strongly in line with the ideals behind feminine rage. Medusa has also been referenced in modern day to support misogynistic viewpoints. In the 2016 presidential election, Democratic candidate Hillary Clinton was compared to the mythological character, and journalist Elizabeth Johnston wrote for the Atlantic in 2016 that, “In so doing, we unravel a familiar narrative thread: In Western culture, strong women have historically been imagined as threats requiring male conquest and control, and Medusa herself has long been the go-to figure for those seeking to demonize female authority.” As women constantly have to jump through hoops to prove themselves in modern settings, and are still labeled as “emotional” and “unable”, it isn’t a surprise to see Medusa popping up frequently as a topic of discussion when it comes to powerful women. While some people might use Medusa as an insult, many women have seen the advantageous aspects of using her as a symbol. She struck fear in weak-willed men before, who is to say she can’t do it again?

Since Medusa has been up for much discussion recently, fans of Greek mythology have taken to the internet and popular social media platforms such as TikTok to discuss their interpretations of the famous myth. One rendition that has

recently gained traction is the idea that Medusa was gifted her power in response to her sexual assault. In this version, Medusa was a beautiful mortal woman who caught the eye of Poseidon, but she rejected his advancements. He ended up trapping her in the temple of Athena and raping her on the floor. Athena watches these events unfold and out of pity, she gives Medusa the same curse she did in the original myth, but this time it is no curse at all. Instead, it is a power of protection to use against the men who might one day take advantage of her again. Victims of sexual assault have adopted this interpretation because it makes a symbol out of Medusa for survivors. Although survivors of sexual assault don’t have the ability to turn their attackers to stone, they can embrace Medusa’s story and find parallels between their experiences. This view allows survivors to see power being used against a similar type of aggressors they may have faced. Through this rendition of the myth, Medusa provides strength, courage, and the necessary anger needed to heal. This interpretation also calls attention to victim-blaming in rape cases. With the change from consent to assault, Athena is reimagined as an ally rather than a bitter and jealous goddess, and the power bestowed is healing and empowering in nature.

Although Medusa’s story has been reimagined in recent years, it’s important to remember that she was originally created by men as a cautionary tale of the frightful and untrustworthy nature that women can possess. Similar to Pandora and her box, Medusa served as a reminder that the nature of women is to enact pain and suffering on the world. Women, however, deserve

more. The original myth of Medusa has given us a good foundation to tell her story, but the intermittent details are what can be reimagined in the effort to create a more positive narrative. This new-age interpretation of Medusa has allowed women to break centuries-old barriers created by influential men. It has helped women find the courage to reclaim myths like Medusa to mean more than the stereotypical tale of an evil woman who is cursed to kill men. Medusa’s story holds many complexities and nuances that can be interpreted in multiple ways, and there is no single “right” interpretation. These aspects help prove that these myths are never their fault, but the fault of the system put in place so many years ago that has just unfortunately stood the test of time.

Works Cited

Devane, A., and M. Valentis. Female Rage: Unlocking Its Secrets, Claiming Its Power. Carol Southern Books, 1994. Hesiod. Theogony ; and, Works and Days. Ann Arbor :University of Michigan Press, 2006.

Johnston, Elizabeth (6 November 2016). “The Original ‘Nasty Woman’”. The Atlantic. Retrieved 5 December 2018.

Ovid, 43 B.C.-17 A.D. or 18 A.D. Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Dallas, Tex. :Spring Publications, 1989.

(Pythian Ode 12). Noted by Marjorie J. Milne in discussing a red-figured vase in the style of Polygnotos, ca. 450–30 BC, in the Metropolitan Museum of Art; Milne noted that “It is one of the earliest illustrations of the story to show the Gorgon not as a hideous monster but as a beautiful woman. Art in this respect lagged behind poetry.” (Marjorie J. Milne, “Perseus and Medusa on an Attic Vase” The Metropolitan Museum of Art Bulletin New Series, 4.5 (January 1946, pp. 126–130) 126.p.)

Art Credit

FRONT COVER

Art by Olivia Nolff

bathroom stall

Art by Lucy Bernstein

Aristophanes’ Myth

Art by Maevis Rosengart

Shit I’m Afraid To Ask My Doctor: Myths of Pregnancy Loss

Art by Ava Berkwits

Down The Rabbit Hole: The Cult of the Manosphere

Art by Lila MacKinnon

NJB

Art by Sivan Ellman

Breakdowns and Other Birthday Activities

Art by Maevis Rosengart

Icarus and I

Art by Lila MacKinnon

A Goblin In The Mirror

Art by Eva Ji

Vandalizing My Body In The Name of Feminism

Art by Stella Moore

Into The Night

Art by Lucy Bernstein

Role Model

Art by Stella Moore

Her Skill Alone

Art by Eleanor Durkee

Mirani And The Myth Of The American Dream

Art by Maria D’Ambrosio

Karma Isn’t The Bitch, You Are

Art by Olivia Nolff

The Ventorello Fact

Art by Catherine Hwang

The Downfall Of A Dream

Art by Olivia Nolff

Pacsun Made Me A Prison Abolitionist

Art by Abigail Schreck

The Medicalization of Childbirth

Art by Olivia Nolff

The Light We Choose To Turn Off

Art by Madison Quist

Misogyny, Mythology, And Medusa... Oh My!

Art by Snowy Iverson

There are no simple solutions. feel

Art by Sivan Ellman

Back Cover

Art by Olivia Nolff

funny, fresh, fierce, feminist, fuck!