What The F Issue 20 by What the F Magazine

University of Michigan

What the f

Your Irregular Periodical

May 2020 issue 20

Staff

Caylin Luebeck Co-President Emily Spilman Co-President Alexandra Niforos Blog Editor Lia Baldori Cielle Waters-Umfleet Rocio Cuesta Julia Haberfield Aditi Kannan Elya Kaplan Maria Wuerker Maggie McConnell Jessica Burkle Ariana Shaw Regina Egan Emma Goodman Hayleigh Proskin

Editor-In-Chief Assitant Editor Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer/Artist Staff Writer Staff Writer Art Director Assistant Art Director Assistant Art Director Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist

Lindsay Calka Jill Graham Livvy Hintz Kendall Lauber

Design Director Designer Designer Designer

Sophia Jacobs Claire Bletsas Nikki Keramati JJ Wright

Events Events Events Events

Director Coordinator Coordinator Coordinator

Gracie Meinke Social Media Staff Emily Bedolis Social Media Staff Lindsey Hentschel Lindsey Smiles Emma Keer

Finance Director Finance Staff Finance Staff

Maria Marginean

Website Manager

What the F is a non-partisan, non-profit publication

operated by students at the University of Michigan. What the Fâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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.

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funny, fresh, fierce, feminist & fuck!

issue 20 may 2020

Letter from the Editor

Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor: Breast Health Letter to a Young Black Man Rose City Has No Thorns An Observation: We Love Hate-Watching The Truth About Coming of Age Be Nice Growing Pains: My Choices with Body Hair My Nani, Urmila Shukla Beginnings & History Untitled Words of “Wisdom” from WTF Seniors

Letter

from the editor Welcome to What the F, your feminist periodical ! Wayyy back in January, before social distancing replaced the public spaces we knew and loved, we made the theme of this issue “Growth.” It seemed appropriate with our beloved seniors heading out into the world and the promise of spring on the horizon, but with the shutdown of in-person classes on March 11th, the significance of “growth” took on a whole new meaning for us. With the writing and art only half-done and our plans for distribution obliterated, we weren’t sure we’d be able to navigate through the COVID-19 chaos to pull Issue 20 off. Still, we were willing to try. There were miscommunications. There were freezes during Google meetings. Suddenly I was making illustrations. (What?!) But in the end, our endurance persevered. Behold, the digital fruits of our labor. Though clicking through pages isn’t as satisfying as turning them, I’ve never been prouder of this staff. In addition to a vibrant collection of articles, this issue is a reflection of our ability to adapt when thrown an especially tough curveball. If that isn’t growth, I don’t know what is. Speaking of bittersweet changes, I regret to inform you that I will not be returning to What the F as editor-inchief next year. It has been a privilege to play such a prominent role in the production of each issue, and after two gratifying years of nitpicking every article we publish, I feel it is only right that I make room for a new executive voice. I am confident that Cielle Waters-Umfleet will take over for me with the grace, eloquence, and creativity that she has brought to the table as our assistant editor and author of Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor. I’m excited to see her witty one-liners and poignant insights in the Letters from the Editor to come. Like any farewell, mine calls for an outpouring of gratitude. This marks the end of a wonderful era for me, and much of that is due to the What the F community. I’ll hold our wine nights, brainstorming sessions, and icebreakers that sent our meetings off on exciting tangents in my heart forever. With regard to Issue 20, special thanks to all the writers for their flexibility, to Maggie for making sure every piece got an illustration despite abrupt schedule changes, and to Lindsay for kicking ass on layout and always accepting this letter five days after I say it will be done. (It’s happened with every issue! I know, I know, Who let me in here?) I wanted to commemorate my departure with a huge banger of a launch party for this issue, but instead I’ll be sipping Baileys minis and re-watching Twilight from the comfort of my bed. At least there’s no chance of me embarrassing myself from here. If you’re feeling festive, you can do the same before you start reading. What the F looks forward to the day when you can hold our pages in your hands again. Until then, stay safe, stay informed, and stay vocal about what you believe in.

Lia Baldori Editor-in-Chief

Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor

B r e a s t H e a l t h By Cielle Waters-Umfleet Boobs. Breasts. Mammaries. Tatas. Melons. Jugs. Whatever you call them, everyone’s got ‘em, and no two are exactly alike. Heck, few organs change as frequently and as drastically between puberty and old age as breasts do, and many find their chests to be more mystery than treasure. Whatever your stage of life and cup size, breasts require tender love and care in order to stay in tip-top shape. So ease some of your anxieties about nature’s stress balls and read on to learn how to better tend to your bust!

What’s the Sitch with All This Squish?

You’ve probably heard that breasts are mostly fatty tissue, yet somehow they produce milk to feed babies. While the first statement is true, boobs are a little more complicated than that. As you can see in the diagram, breasts are divided into six main parts: lobes, lobules, ducts, stroma, nipples, and areolas. Each breast has 15-20 lobes, each containing 20-40 lobules for a total of up to 800 individual lobules. The lobules are the milk-producing units of the breast, and fun fact, people born male do not develop lobules at all! Muscular tissue then pushes the milk into the ducts, or passageways that lead to the opening at the nipple. The darker ring around the nipple is called the areola, and it has bumps that release lubricating fluid during breastfeeding. The stroma is the fatty tissue around the lobes and ducts, which you have to thank (or blame) for your bra size. In addition, breasts have a complex network of lymph vessels, blood vessels, and supportive tissues called Cooper’s ligaments running throughout. With all those working parts, it’s easy to see why it’s hard to define a “typical” breast. Although a certain type dominates mainstream media, lots of shapes and sizes fall within the “normal” range. For example, did you know that there are four types of nipples, and that what you have on one side might be different than the other? (By the way, these types are flat, protruding, inverted, and unclassified, which usually means you fall into multiple categories.) It’s also normal for one breast to be larger than the other, often the left because it’s closer to the heart. Stretch marks, visible veins, and hair on your nipple are some other normal features that you may have. But breasts like to change, and often. Breast growth and development can continue even into your 20s, well after puberty is finished. Many people also experience tenderness or swelling before and during their periods that goes away

for the rest of the cycle. During pregnancy, breasts may grow and appear veinier, and nipples may begin to leak fluid. While breastfeeding, of course, milky discharge is normal. Then as menopause draws near, breasts begin to sag and become less dense as the milk-producing tissue breaks down and the pair heads south for the winter. Over the course of a lifetime, that’s quite a journey, which is why it’s important to be familiar with your breasts at every step. Looking in the mirror and feeling your breasts, including the outer edges, can be great ways to examine yourself. Medical experts remain divided over how effective self-exams are and if everyone should be doing them, but regardless, your boobs are a part of you! They deserve just as much respect as any other body part, if not more.

Uh-Oh, That’s New...

So let’s say you’ve been doing your self-exams. You’ve been checking yourself out in the mirror and feeling your breasts all the way to the outer edges. You know your rack inside, outside, and upside-down. But one day, something is different. Maybe the shape of your breast has changed. Maybe something feels thicker or swollen. Perhaps your skin is dimpled, puckered, or painful. There could be discharge from your nipple. Or, heaven forbid, you find a lump. What then? First of all, don’t panic! Remember that change happens, and it happens a lot. Ask yourself a few questions first: Am I near my period? Have I switched medications recently? Is there a chance I could be pregnant? If you answered yes to any of those, wait a couple weeks to see if things go back to normal. If not, it’s time to see a doctor.

Is It Because of My Bra?

Good news: Bras do NOT cause breast cancer, contrary to some rumors on the Internet. A study published in 1995 claimed that underwire bras restrict lymphatic flow and therefore cause cancer, but later research has shown that this is not the case. However, bras, if not fitted correctly, can be the root of other problems, namely chest, back, and shoulder pain, as well as premature sagging. And with about 80% of bra-wearers having the wrong size, this leads to a whole world of hurt! Granted, it can be difficult to find a bra that fits. There is no industry standard for cup sizes, meaning they vary from brand to brand. To make sure a bra fits, try it on attached at the middle hook. This allows for you to shift the band if need be. The underwire should be sitting on top of your ribcage, never on breast tissue. If you push the wire down and it bounces back, that’s a good indicator that it’s in the wrong place. The bridge between the cups should be resting flat on your chest. The cups themselves should neither have gapping nor make your boobs spill over the top. If the bra fits, it should lift your breasts off your ribcage, ease back pain, and improve posture, especially for people with larger busts. Take care of your bras by washing them frequently (yes, you’re free to groan) and replacing them when they’ve gotten stretched or misshapen, usually within six months to a year. For those who choose to chest bind (i.e., compressing your breasts to minimize their appearance), similar principles apply. There are several methods out there, but some common options are layering sports bras, wearing athletic compression clothes, and using professional binders. One material to look for is neoprene, which is a rubbery substance that is used in some athletic gear. Whichever style suits you best, remember that you’re still squishing tissue, and moreover tissue that’s really close to your heart and lungs. Binding carries a real risk of damage not only to your breasts but to your ribs, back, and internal organs as well. Because of that, it’s essential to follow a few rules. First, never bind with duct tape or bandages. These can easily restrict movement and make it hard to breathe. Second, try to limit how long you bind. Veteran binders recommend no more than eight hours a day and suggest skipping days if you at all can, such as weekends. Most importantly, listen to your body. Putting excess pressure on your heart and lungs can quickly become dangerous. If something hurts or you suddenly can’t breathe, take off your binder!

What Can I Do to Keep Myself Healthy?

If you’re a generally healthy person, chances are that your breasts are already healthy. Most of the current research on breast health is related to cancer prevention, and surprise, surprise, the same factors that affect your risk for other cancers also affect your risk for breast cancer. Some factors, you can’t control—race, age, sex, and genetics are huge variables for your likelihood of developing breast cancer—but many, you can. Limit alcohol consumption to one drink a day and smoking to not even once. Use sunscreen when you go outside. Eat lots of leafy green vegetables, maintain a healthy weight, and exercise frequently. Sleeeeeep. Every night. It’s pretty simple to take care of your boobs if you think of them as just another part of you. But it doesn’t stop there. Your breasts can be influenced by outside factors, namely, your bra. Step one: Fit your underwire bra properly. Step two: Don’t wear it all the time. A famous study done in 2013 by Jean-Denis Rouillon, a French researcher, concluded that wearing bras long-term contributes to sagging, while going braless may cause breasts to become perkier. More research is needed to support or refute his findings, but in the meantime, it’s probably a good idea to let your jugs jiggle for a few hours a day to strengthen their internal structure. And whatever you do, don’t sleep in an underwire bra. Some people are more comfortable sleeping in bralettes or wireless bras, but this isn’t necessary. Still, before you go throw out all your bras, note that sports bras serve a noble purpose in preventing sagging. A sports bra that fits should hold your breasts in place without restricting your ability to breathe or hurting, which protects your Cooper’s ligaments from injury. During exercise, the frequent up-and-down motion puts stress on the connective tissues in your breasts, and over time, that can stretch them out. Sports bras keep everything tucked squarely where it should be, and all the jumbling stays to a minimum.

Conclusion

Love ‘em or hate ‘em, you’ve still got ‘em, so you might as well take care of the breasts you have. Breasts are far more than stagnant lumps of fat on top of a ribcage and deserve to be treated as such. Lobes, lobules, ducts—most of us probably had no idea what a complex and beautiful network lay beneath our skin. Consider this as a time to recognize how little we actually know about our bodies and an opportunity to get to know yourself more intimately than ever before.

Second, even if you do find a lump, most lumps (over 80%) are not cancer and are easily treatable. Most are cysts, which happen when lobules become filled with abnormal fluid. Still, it’s always better to be safe than sorry, so go to your doctor to check out any lump, especially if it’s localized, comes with nipple discharge, irritates your skin, or doesn’t go away after six weeks. Make sure to get all of the tests that your doctor recommends, which usually starts with a mammogram (X-ray of your breasts) and continues with biopsies (taking tissue samples) and sonograms (ultrasound pictures) if need be.

letter to a young black man

by Kenneth Daniel

Dear Young Black Man,

Tip #1 ~ Find Your Space As much as we like to believe that people exist in environments that are open and accepting, unfortunately this is not true for many communities, especially for communities of underrepresented minorities that are marginalized. Predominantly white institutions routinely point to rising enrollments of marginalized students as evidence of their commitment to diversity, equity, and inclusion. Regardless of shifting percentages, however, enrollment numbers are poor metrics for inclusivity. They say very little about the social integration of students who are in minority groups. Why does this matter? Because in order for you to be the best, you have to feel your best. All individuals seek to be comfortable within their surroundings, to be able to fully express their thoughts and feelings without fear of being ridiculed, and to know that they will be heard. In some spaces, many within marginalized groups do not feel that, and this is where safe spaces come in.

Growing up, I often would ask myself, “What does it mean to be Black?” Does it mean having a history rooted in slavery and oppression, or does it mean a future with constant hope and motivation, or does it mean having a community rooted in Hip-Hop and Rap, or does it mean being musical trailblazers in the creation of Jazz and Motown, or does it mean having an eccentric culture, or does it mean having a culture that everyone wants to appropriate but never appreciate? These are the questions I grew up with, in an effort to make-sense of the identity given to me at birth, which has evolved as I have gained exposure to life-changing experiences. From some of the life-changing experiences I have been blessed to have, I have realized that that narrative of “Being Black” encompasses everything connected to Blacks, both positive and negative. I am writing this to let you know that wondering “What does it mean to be black?” is not abnormal, you are not alone. As a Black, first-generation student who attends a predominantly white institution, I understand what it is like to feel lost, to feel like you don’t belong, to feel as though you are going to fail, and to wonder if everything that you will go through is even worth it. IT WILL BE!! This letter is meant to act as a reference, from my perspective, of being a black-gay-man on a college campus, and furthermore in life. Because what’s more connected than the life of a single, double, triple, or quadruple minority? Identity. We all have multiple factors that make us who we are. They poke at us to think about our identities in singular terms (I am male), but also as multiple and intersecting parts (I am a Black twenty-two-yearold, gay male from Detroit.) Most importantly, these questions lead us to consider the meaning of identity. Beyond “Who am I?” these questions frame our individual identities in a broader social and historical context and in relation to other groups. Part of understanding our identity, therefore, means understanding how we fit in (or don’t) with other groups of people. It also means being aware of the fact that some groups have more social, political, and economic power than others. This is the reason why, even when we’re not actively thinking about our identities, they are still affecting us. We all have different levels of our identities, some that we show to the world, some that we internalize, and some that we push down so deep that we forget about them ourselves. Where to begin? That’s a question that only you can figure out. With this being said, I can give you some insight on what I have done to better understand the intersection of my identities in life, and what I wish I would have done.

The most dangerous thing in the world is an educated Black person, and there are people in this world who are willing to do anything to keep students like you and me from becoming upwardly mobile, or from continuing the growth of generational wealth. On campuses, this is seen from the prevalence of anti-Black incidents and the growing presence of white supremacist groups, which suggest that America has not achieved true inclusivity for Black college students — and is losing ground in some places. But, let’s not forget the intersection of your identities, of my identities, of all of our identities. As a Black-gay man, this space may look different for you than a Black man, or as a Man, or as a Gay Man. This is why you have to find your space. But what does this mean? Is this a space that is filled with only black people, only gay people, only people in your major, only people from your high school? That’s not an answer that I can give. But what I can say is finding your people is extremely important, and vital to your success. Community is an elusive term, and its vagueness can make it hard to find your own. When entering college, it is difficult to gain a sense of community, especially when your university’s population is over 40,000 students, and only a fraction – of a fraction – of those students share the same identities as you.

My community began when I was selected to attend the Summer Bridge program at the Universtiy of Michigan, during the summer of 2015. In Bridge, I was able to gain a net of friends and select individuals that I would consider family. This gave me a foundation for the beginning of my freshman year. Once the summer was over however, and the rest of campus began to move in, I began to feel more closed off and lonely. My Bridge family was spread between Central Campus, North Campus, and the Hill. I felt like I was in the middle of the Atlantic, with a gray fog looming upon me and no land within sight. I could imagine that this is how a great deal of freshmen feel during their first couple weeks in college.

Tip #2 ~ Reaffirm That You Belong I don’t know why, but I always feel the need to “prove myself,” in terms of social status, whether I am in a group of peers or strangers. Whenever I am in situations where topics of class, education, work experience, etc. come about, I feel like I have to be on the same level or higher than the individuals I am interacting with. I’ve been subconsciously doing this for years, but I find it interesting that I have been consciously “proving myself,” ever since I was admitted to Ross. I feel, as a Black student from Detroit, I have to constantly prove myself to my more resourced peers. When I can’t relate, or have an “upper hand,” or even confidently express my perspective with peers, I feel powerless, as if my voice doesn’t matter. Both the dynamics of power and the incorporation of psychological safety are two huge factors that must be considered when making a decision or supporting a belief.

This feeling is OK! It’s normal, because we’re breaking glass doors/ceilings/windows/mirrors—you name it, we’re breaking it. That doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Tip #3 ~ Integrate Your Identities Into Your Profession & Your Passion My awareness of my personal identities, and how they don’t necessarily align with the homogeneous community that make up the ideal American, has always been heightened. This is through social, professional, and academic experiences, as well as the way in which my identities are portrayed in the media. My experiences have allowed me to recognize how my black and gay identities provide me with less societal privilege than the majority of heterosexual and white individuals. For instance, I took a class last semester about “Leadership in Organizations,” and the course content highlighted diversity, but from the point of view of those with innate privilege. As a result, I struggled to feel 100% confident in my leadership capabilities—I thought that my blackness and gayness would get in the way. But WHY, WHY should WE feel like this?!?!

Why should our Blackness/Gayness/Ability Status/Gender/Citizenship or whatever identities we feel hold us back keep us from being the best us we can be?

Whenever that self-doubt runs through your mind, or you feel that you don’t belong, or that you are the only representative of your race, reaffirm that you are an individual. Turn your “I don’t belong here” to “I do believe in me!” It’s harder said than done, but it’s needed:

The answer is simple: we shouldn’t. But fully accepting all of our identities and bringing our full selves into the academic/professional/social settings we live in is not easy. It is possible, but only with time. My advice is to be patient. Please, don’t ever let anyone tell you that you’re too “black” or “gay” or “poor” or “stupid” for anything!

Tip #4 ~ Support Your Mental Health In the black community, there is a negative stigma surrounding mental health issues, especially for us men. Instead of seeking professional help for conditions such as depression and anxiety, which I’ve personally had battles with, many within our community resort to self-medication (drugs, opioids, alcohol, etc.) or isolation in an attempt to solve the problems on our own.

Speaking from experience, I know that we both know how we grow up in culture that tells us “men are not supposed to cry,” that we “should deal with problems on our own.” And most importantly, that many of us— NOT ALL, Don’t get it twisted—either don’t have a male role model at home, or don’t have a positive male role model at home, to learn these skills from.

The first step in working toward a goal of obtaining a psychologically safe lifestyle is to identify and reduce psychological hazards. Psychological health, in general, refers to a person’s ability to think, feel, and behave in a healthy way in an environmental they constantly interact in, i.e. school, work, or community organizations. Ongoing exposure to psychological hazards can lead to burnout and, in some instances, mental illness.

This only enforces the idea that it’s not okay for us to say we are hurting inside. Over my 22 years, I have spoken to countless friends who, out of fear of being labeled as weak or “less than a man,” don’t want to acknowledge or vocalize any of their pains. Let’s Break The Stigma! I’ll Start…I’m In Therapy. Out of my desire to create long-lasting change for young black gay men, I want to use this opportunity as a platform to help others. I have heard one story too many of people in the black community struggling in the darkness, and I don’t want that to continue any longer. Anyone, regardless of how strong they are or how much they appear to “have it together,” may be struggling with their mental health. You are not alone in your pain and you are not “weak” or “less than” because you are hurting. It’s time we reach out and ask for or offer help—because that’s what it takes to achieve the true healing we need.

Tip #5 ~ Reflect … Breathe … Reflect You have to remember that you do not have to bear the weight of the world and you do not have to try to tackle every problem in it. Become at peace with the areas in life you cannot change, even if just for a brief moment. This peace will allow you to put time and energy into the areas in life that you can change. When you do decide that you are ready to face the things that you can change, do it with 100% commitment. That doesn’t mean 100% perfection. It’s important to know the difference. Start by making a plan. Write it down, memorize it, put it on Post-It notes around the house, do whatever makes it the easiest for you.

But when you are developing that plan, it is imperative that you define the line that you won’t cross. Find your moral compass. Identify the part of you that draws you to make this change. What are you most passionate about? Who do you feel the most compassion for? You also have to determine: What are you willing to do to advance or get ahead? What are you willing to ignore or overlook? Who has value in this society according to your standards? Think through your plan logically, take into consideration your strengths and weaknesses. Remember to do the hard things first once in a while, the relief is sweet in the end. Make a checklist, use an App, tell your best friends about it so they can keep you accountable too. I want to touch briefly on that last part, telling your best friends about your goals. This ideology is powerful because it will determine if some of the most powerful influences in your life truly support you and your growth. You can substitute friends for peers, coworkers, or membership groups. Who you choose to align yourself with will influence your belief system, your work ethics, your ideas, and your actions. It will affect your ability to collaborate, share ideas, and information, especially when there is no personal benefit for yourself. The right group of people can support you with a growth mindset.

Tip #6 ~ Go Abroad

For much of my life, I struggled with the idea of being a Black American and having African heritage, yet knowing very little about African culture. The little bit of African culture that I do know is based on enslavement practices implemented throughout the United States. Furthermore, how can my sole-ethnicity be rooted in a culture that is as diverse, complex, and varied based on each region within the continent of Africa? I have been questioning this, for the sole fact of wanting to know, Who am I? Where do I come from? and Which practices of my ancestors do I carry with me today? Going abroad was a life-changing experience that allowed me to realize that the narrative of “Being Black” is rooted in the larger narrative of all Black people, not just those in America. This is a sentiment that was unearthed during my excursion to Cuba, where I had the opportunity to challenge my ideas and most importantly learn The Meaning Behind Being Black.

“The African culture had a huge impact in the development of both the Cuban and the African American cultures. A caveat to this, however, is how apparent the African culture’s impact is in both of these sub-cultures.

It’s simple. Being a Black-Gay-Man is learning from the past, living in the present, and slaying in the future. Even though there may be times when you feel as if you are at your lowest point, remember the only place that you can go is up. Find reassurance in the weakness. The best is yet to come! In the meantime, work harder to make your situation better and find ways to be grateful. There are so many things to be thankful for.

One of my largest takeaways so far has been how the African culture remained strong within Cuba after slavery. It seems to have been wiped out in Black America after slavery. I don’t know which is right and which is wrong. If Black Americans were still in touch with African culture, the strides with Black Americans have made, in making our own narrative in America, might not exist. On the flip side, I think knowing more about the actual tribes my family belonged to in Africa, and the cultural practices they embarked on, would be interesting.”

Be strong and know that you are in great hands. Everything will work out. It may not be today or tomorrow, but eventually, the pieces will fall into place and you will understand why the battle was worth it. So, if by the end of this letter, you feel the need to breathe, cry, stare out a window, or go for a walk, do that. I know this was a lot to take in, but I know you can take in every word, as I am you, and you are me.

Tips #7 ~ Just Ten Things My last piece of advice for you is to write down “Just 10 Things” that you want to accomplish in life. Every time you do one of these things, cross it out, and add something new.

Ken’s Just 10 Things: 1. Graduate from University of Michigan 2. Visit every country in Africa that I have a lineage connection to 3. Mentor/Coach an underrepresented minority student 4. Endow a scholarship for students who are from Detroit and become a member of the Preparation Initiative program 5. Endow a scholarship at Cass Technical High School, for students pursuing alternative career paths (Career and Technical Education) 6. Continue growing my marketing consulting agency and evolve it into a social enterprise 7. Sky Dive 8. Continue my self-discovery journey 9. Love myself 10. Pursue a Masters Degree

Where To Go From Here?

I hope you got this letter in time, because if it wasn’t for someone saving me, I wouldn’t be here today to write this to you.

Love, Ken Daniel 11

from my parents. In the fall, I entered college without my usual summer catharsis, which seemed to be a sign for how the year ahead would unfold. I was one of the few people I knew from my hometown who hadn’t been excited to leave for college the previous August. I hadn’t particularly wanted to go to the University of Michigan but ended up here, nonetheless; I knew myself, and I was positive that attending a big school with a well-known party culture was a place in which I would struggle. I was right, and I spent much of the year locked in my room focusing on school. Since I didn’t like to drink, I had trouble making friends, and though I didn’t realize it at the time, I was struggling with anxiety. My saving grace was thinking about summer, and after learning in March that I was offered my childhood dream job of Arts & Crafts Director, the rest of the school year breezed past. In mid-June, I packed up my trunk once again to make the drive to my personal paradise. The problem was, the other eight college students hired in the remaining director roles were people I didn’t know or knew only in passing. It was like going to college all over again. The night before I left for camp, I lay in my bed in my old room at my parents’ house, staring at my white popcorned ceiling in deep thought. At some point, I noticed my father, looming 6’ 4’’ in my doorway. He had poked his head in to say goodnight but walked all the way in when he sensed my mood.

Rose City Has No Thorn

By Alexandra Niforos

Sitting on the edge of the bed, he rested a hand on my leg and said, “So, are you excited for tomorrow?”

It was a route my family and I could travel with no thought at all: Get off at Exit 202, sail through the tiny town of Rose City that stretches just barely over a mile, turn left onto Valley Road, and continue down the dirt path until the looming wooden sign reading “WELCOME TO MDSC” appeared through the cloud of dust like the gates of heaven. My mom’s SUV plunged into the opening in the woods and followed the tunnel created by the towering pine trees overhead until a clearing opened and we were in the gravel parking lot, surrounded by the cabins I knew so well.

The words came at the same time as the tears. “I’m really nervous,” I managed to say, my heart racing with anxiety about trying to make friends again after a year of failing at just that.

The Metropolis of Detroit Summer Camp, or MDSC, is a haven nestled in the Huron National Forest in Rose City, MI. A summer getaway for Greek Orthodox youth in the Midwest, it’s a sleepaway church camp like any other, with swimming lessons, arts & crafts, and cabins full of rickety bunk beds. For one or two weeks every summer since I was seven, I had packed up my pastel pink trunk, left behind my phone, and traveled three hours north to leave the “real world” behind. I never had a choice in going; it was just the natural course of life for my family. My parents actually met as counselors at MDSC in the ‘80s, and less than 10 years later, my dad proposed to my mom in the outdoor chapel that faces the shimmering lake. Twenty years after that, I would be a counselor and tell my campers this story, saying, “MDSC is technically the reason I’m here on Earth,” and they would coo and gush over this fairytale. Going to camp was my rejuvenation every year, a time to be my best self and gather the energy I needed to get through the next year ahead.

I held his words close as I pulled into the parking lot at camp the following morning. I was the fifth to arrive, but the assistant director was the only one at camp when I got there. Avra, one of the program directors, and Olivia and Haben, the waterfront directors, had already moved in and were in town getting lunch. Great, I thought, people are already bonding without me. I lugged my summer’s worth of necessities to Cabin 2, just to the left of the parking lot. Reserved exclusively for the female directors, it was a small cabin with two doors: The one on the right was for the infirmary, and the one on the left was the entrance to my new home. Five twin beds and three dressers were crammed into the dim L-shaped space, and I wondered if the girls and I would suffocate each other in the closeness. Avra and Olivia had already claimed the beds across from each other on the back wall, so I threw my sleeping bag on the bed next to Avra, leaving the health director, Elaine, to choose from the remaining two.

I attended camp nine years in a row but broke my streak to attend a summer camp in Greece after high school, a graduation present

“It’ll be okay,” he said. “I know it’s scary for you to meet new people and put yourself out there, but this is going to be a fun summer. Being a director was one of my favorite years at camp. You’ll all be friends before you know it.”

As soon as I was unpacked, I shooed my mom out, wanting

to rip the Band-Aid off as soon as possible. Joe, the media director; John, the other program director; and Elaine arrived by 5 PM. That night we went into town for dinner and to go bowling, and although I remember feeling the expected awkwardness of being surrounded by unknown faces, I didn’t feel the same paralyzing self-doubt and anxiety I had throughout my freshman year. Perhaps this was due to the lack of time I had to myself, therefore minimizing how long I could live inside my head. On that first night, I sat in the lodge in the single-person couch closest to the door with my arms hugging my knees to my chest. We had just finished playing a card game, and without the distraction I began to do what I do best: overthink. But before I could convince myself I didn’t belong in this group, Haben plopped down on the couch next to me, kicked off his purple Crocs, and asked what I’d been up to since I’d last seen him. I couldn’t have been more grateful for his toothy grin and kind eyes, and this moment was an indicator of our soon-to-be-developed group dynamic — we looked out for each other, which meant no one was ever left behind. By the time campers arrived three days later for the first session of the summer, we’d all developed a basic rapport that quickly intensified once we were immersed in the chaos of our jobs. The weekly influx of new campers and staff, who each brought their own set of problems and dramas, forced us to bond immediately. We were a team, the only constant amongst the change, and being this rock, both to the camp and to each other, made us inseparable. Looking back, I can’t recall the moment we all became friends. In life outside of MDSC, it’s easy to identify the start of a friendship: invites to get coffee, going out to dinner, watching movies, etc. But in the confines of a small camp with no technology and forced 24/7 interaction, the process is sped up. We ate three meals a day together; over our morning coffee, I learned Avra likes to eat bananas with a spoon, John was an avid watcher of the show Trailer Park Boys, and Joe was loud even at 8:30 AM. At night, after the campers went to bed, the eight of us would be pulled toward one another like magnets, usually congregating around the kitchen counter to eat the leftover dessert from dinner. We would part ways around 1 AM, the boys heading to Cabin 10 on the other side of camp, and the girls retreating to our little room up the hill. We would tuck ourselves into bed, I would turn off the lights, and the four of us would lie in the darkness recounting our days in detail until our voices grew hoarse and our eyelids were heavy with sleep. The memory that I dwell on most often occurred 3 weeks into the summer. There were few moments in the day in which all of us were in the same place at the same time, but one of them was the 20 minutes after morning activities and before lunch. On a perfectly normal Tuesday, I walked into the cabin after I closed up the arts & crafts room, and Olivia was lying in her bed. Without giving it a second thought, I snuggled up next to her. Soon after, Elaine walked in from the infirmary, saw us and said “I want to join!” before climbing onto the

“Less than a month before we were strangers, and now we communicated in a language of our own, one without words.” other side of me. Avra was the last to arrive, but quickly and wordlessly put down her drawstring backpack so she could crawl on top of us. The four of us stayed like that until the lunch bell rang. Less than a month before we were strangers, and now we communicated in a language of our own, one without words. Our friendship as a group was characterized by humor. Besides being generally funny people individually, we knew as a group how to use humor as a way of relieving stress and making the most out of mundane tasks. When a wiley camper swore at John during the first session, the rest of us started using this originally intended insult as his new moniker. During dish duties, we would take short breaks to spray any unsuspecting passersby with water through the window screen using the hose attached to the sink. Our way of signaling our increasing closeness was by pushing the limits of our jokes. Every morning, John and Avra traded off the task of waking up the camp, but two weeks into the summer, John started to get more creative with his routine when it came to our cabin. One day we woke to an alarm that had no apparent source, and we tore the cabin apart to discover he had planted a stopwatch in my trunk. Another morning, I opened my eyes to see John standing over my face wearing a mask from The Purge, his blonde hair sticking out from the top. Three weeks into the summer, he found out one of the counselors played the drums and had brought one with him. The next morning, I was fast asleep when they crept into the cabin and John commanded the counselor to start playing. At the sound of the drum, I shot upright in my bed, reeling from the shock of transitioning from REM to awake in a matter of seconds. They bolted out the door, and I turned to Avra to say, “I think I just had cardiac arrest.” This quickly became our new catchphrase.

It wasn’t all perfect, of course — sometimes jokes went too far or we grew irritable from spending every waking hour with each other, but we functioned like a family; no matter the gravity of the fights we got into or the stress of our jobs,

nothing could break us apart. When Elaine had to deal with a camper having a seizure her fourth day on the job, I found her sobbing in our cabin afterward and held her until she stopped. When John hit Olivia with a dodgeball harder than he meant to, we yelled at him until he apologized. When Joe dropped one of his memory cards and lost all of his footage from the last week of camp, we huddled around him and tried to offer comforting words. Whatever happened, we still came together every Sunday night to do face masks and went into town every Saturday afternoon to get lunch at one of the three restaurants; a break meant time away from our jobs, not each other. For the first time since leaving my close-knit high school friend group behind for college, my walls were down. It surprised me sometimes, how easy everything was; even the ever-changing weekly staff told us that we were the most tight-knit group of six-week directors that they had seen in a long time. Although camp had always been a place for me to shed my inhibitions, the timing and ease of my circumstance was monumental in how effortlessly it undid many anxieties that the past year had created. When new counselors arrived every Saturday, I would wait for the nervous waves that meeting new people created for me, but they never came. In my isolation the previous months, I had started to become fearful of any type of physical intimacy, and yet I often found myself at night on the couches with my legs draped over John’s lap or my head resting on Olivia’s shoulder. Every day was an exercise in proving to myself that I was capable of all the things I’d told myself I wasn’t. When I was a counselor two years earlier, I had told my campers to look for “God winks” in their days — moments in which it felt like the stars had aligned in their favor, like God was winking at them. The summer of 2017, the summer I was a director, felt like a big wink that happened over and over again, even when I was sure there couldn’t possibly be any more. I knew going into the job that I would have to leave early due to prior commitments, but I didn’t expect that it would be

so hard. I was to leave in August on the last Thursday of the summer during lunch, and I dreaded it. On my last night, I sat on the wooden table in the back of the lodge with Elaine, intently watching the counselors talk and campers dance in the middle of the floor, trying to burn the moment into my memory. The phone behind us rang, and Elaine picked it up. After she hung up, she turned to me and said, “We’re needed in the office.” I shrugged and trekked behind her up the hill. She opened the door, and I followed her inside but stopped in my tracks. The directors were crammed in the limited space with the lights off, holding lit candles; they were recreating the Friday night farewell ceremony that I would be missing as a result of leaving early. Before I could run away in an act of denial, Elaine grabbed my wrist and yanked me in. I stood there as they sang the farewell song — mmm I want to linger, mmm a little longer, mmm a little longer here with you — and I waited for the tears to come, but they never did. I just stood there, in awe of their thoughtfulness and love, and tried to stay as present as possible for the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. That night, we stayed up until 2 AM in the arts & crafts room writing sentimental letters to each other with strict instructions that they were not to be opened until we left camp, and we filled a notebook with all of the inside jokes we’d cultivated over six weeks. Twelve hours later, I packed my things into my mom’s car and hugged them goodbye, comforted by the knowledge that these people would stay in my life for a long time. I didn’t cry when I looked at my empty space in the cabin, I didn’t cry when I waved to them as we pulled out of the parking lot, and I didn’t even cry when they disappeared in the rearview mirror. The sadness in me was drowned out by the overwhelming gratitude I had for the growth the summer and my newfound family had provided.

Less than six hours later, I was out to dinner with my mom and doing some much-needed catching up. The waitress brought us our food in the middle of me relaying a funny story, and looking down at my plate mid-laugh, it was like a switch flipped. The tears started to come and they didn’t stop, regardless of the fact that I was in public. As my mom asked me, “What’s wrong?” I realized this was my first meal in a month and a half that I was eating without my friends. But just like when I was a kid, I used the countdown until next summer to comfort me — only this time I didn’t need to countdown to camp itself, just the next time we would be reunited. Two months later, the seven of us gathered in Ann Arbor for the U of M versus MSU football game. Although we’d hung out a few times in the remnants of the summer, this was the first time we were together after moving back to school. In the weeks since I’d been back in class, I noticed a significant difference. Although I still maintained some anxiety around social situations and meeting new people, I was able to push past it with more ease. I’d made an effort to reach out to acquaintances whom I wanted to befriend, remembering my summer persona and how effortless it was for her to make friends. Why couldn’t that version of me exist in Ann Arbor? During the game in October, all of us attended a Greek tailgate in the parking lot of a local high school. We sat cross-legged in a circle in the grass off to the side, eating chicken lemon rice soup and catching each other up on our lives. As the sun set, I looked at my friends who were laughing and smiling all around me. My camp world was being combined with my school world, but instead of feeling stuck between the two, I felt the two halves of myself come together. Everything was going to be okay.

AN OBSERVATION:

We Love Lov Hate-Watching By Aditi Kannan

Now, those who grew up in economic turmoil and are familiar with the competitive culture it breeds were primed to perceive this new genre as normal, entertaining even. We watch old Vines, TikToks, stalk our ex-friends on Twitter and Instagram and continue our streak of watching terrible reality television looking for something to make ourselves feel better. We watch videos like You. by Claire Michelle over and over until we can actually quote them. Cody Ko even made a reaction video, and we just watched him hate watch the video for us. Hell, Bill Wurtz said it best when he capitalized on our captivation with hate-watching and made my life anthem, “I Did a Bad Thing.” I regret the thing I did! If you’re wond’ring what it is, I’ll tell you what I did, I did a baaaaaad thing. Sorry, I just couldn’t help myself. I had to sing the rest. These new platforms that we can use to hate-watch are instantaneous, and the content never seems to end. Anybody can post any video, with or without the permission of its subjects. You can bully almost anybody with absolutely no physical or legal repercussions. You can view the content as an anonymous user without incurring any repercussions, either. You would not be able to do this in reality. You can’t just stare at somebody failing without helping them. You would be an asshole. With no emotional attachment to the situation and minimal risk of being held accountable for our actions, online, we can be as brutal as we want. This anonymity encourages our society to be so competitive. We can compare our success to any person existing on social media without really knowing them. We strive to be the best for ourselves instead of prioritizing group success. This competitive nature makes it easier for us to feel better, rather than worse, when we see somebody whose home is filled with trash in Hoarders. We crave the feeling that we are superior to somebody else—we require it to legitimize our existence and daily life cycles. We want to believe that our lives are worth living, so we base our successes on competition rather than self-fulfillment. No matter what you think about this, our tendency to hate-watch is not our fault. We were born into a competitive atmosphere where job scarcity, college rejections, and bankruptcy rates were on the rise. We were told to trust no one and to make sure that we were doing the most to garner personal success. We saw the effects of the recession. We saw parents and other people lose their life-long careers. As students, we were reduced to numbers, test scores, and percentile brackets to measure our successes. If we didn’t think we were good enough, we always had somebody else who did not do as well to lean on for confidence. This is how hate-watching is reflective of our society.

Have you ever scrolled through the important videos playlist on Youtube? Here’s a link: https://youtu.be/6bnanI9jXps Now, if you actually typed in every single letter, underscore, comma, pound sign, and backslash, and watched the new Arby’s commercial for their upcoming fish sandwich that precedes it, you should soon be watching Terrible Mall Commercial. Offkey employees sing about the products they are advertising for. A tween gently yells “Backpacks! Backpacks! Come get your backpacks!” You hear a man who clearly does not want to make the video say, “Boots and pants and boots and pants.” A woman with a pixie cut and several piercings holds up a pair of metal scissors and sings in a way I can only describe as squiggly: “Haaaiiiiircut!” Most people who watch Terrible Mall Commercial do not find the video depressing. In fact, they find it so funny that they cannot stop watching it. If you watch content like Terrible Mall Commercial and react in the same manner, you probably enjoy hate-watching. Hate-watching is something that our culture has forced upon us. Generation Z and Millennials grew up in an era where reality television shows like America’s Funniest Videos, Hoarders, and Worst Cooks of America were totems of the average household. Television that should have been depressing appealed to working Americans living a life cycle of dissatisfaction. Remember, this period of reality television flourished during the Recession.

The crippling of our economy created a mentality of “Hey, at least I’m doing better than the guy next to me.” That mentality is why we hate-watch. We want to feel better than our neighbors, brothers, sisters, parents, friends, and 3rd-grade teacher Karen. Parents and children would come home to horrifying news about the state of the economy and soothe themselves by watching television programming like Hell’s Kitchen to see failing small businesses get whipped into shape by merciless celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay. Admit it. You wanted to see the lesser chefs get yelled at by Ramsay and disciplined so you could think, “At least that isn’t me.”

There is an upside to this story: hate-watching is less pervasive now. Our generation may have been impacted, but future ones will not. Shows like The Biggest Loser and My Strange Addiction have halted production. Social media corporations are beginning to be held responsible for the content distributed on their platforms. And the most uplifting: More and more people are recognizing our faults and are slowly starting to hold ourselves accountable for watching such content. We now understand that we can improve our own lives without seeing ourselves as superior to others. We know we are deserving of financial stability, career success, and basic necessities to keep our households afloat. We know we can make large, structural changes to our society and create a reality where we don’t have to hatewatch to feel relieved from our burdens.

I realized the existence of this phenomenon while reflecting on what used to be one of my favorite Vines. A woman greases the floor of her kitchen and beckons her daughter inside. When the small child sprints in at top speed, her feet hit the grease and she slides right into the fucking oven. See now, when you read this description, you probably thought it was a horrible event, and as I write about it now I too think it is absolutely horrid. But when you see the video…. When you see the video you want to laugh your ass off. I want to laugh my ass off. You barely hear the girl cry. You hear a painful “shiiiiiit” from the woman. My mom was sitting right next to me as I was watching it, and I could hear her hissssssss of sympathy. She found it to be painful. I don’t think she was primed by reality TV to hate-watch in the same way that we are. Whenever I watch Vine fails of people seriously hurting themselves, I cannot laugh anymore. I just hear that wincing hissssssss.

THE TRUTH ABOUT COMING OF AGE By Elya Kaplan

I used to be petite. My mother described me as a waif, skin and bones, a twig. I was skinny and tall, towering over everyone in my class and self-conscious of my endless limbs. I was the first in my class to have my summer growth spurt and one of the first to wear a bra. The telltale signs of puberty peeked out from behind my ruffly Justice tank tops, boasting of maturity and worldliness amongst single-strapped peers. Now, this development was a source of pride for me; I could see the jealousy on my friends’ faces when I talked about bra shopping. I’d share my sage wisdom on the best stores and how to insert or remove the pads from the training cups. Not only was it seen and recognized among my friends, but it caught the eye of the coolest guy in the grade, Matthew Wilson. He would mention the bra strap, and if I was “lucky,” he would tug at the back of my bra and release it with a vicious snap! It was an entirely new experience for me. I wasn’t sure how I felt about the whole puberty thing, but when it meant getting noticed by the cool kids, I thought I was living the life. Slowly, as I continued maturing and changing, I started getting attention from other people, and when it wasn’t coming from a source I was familiar with, I found it much less mysterious and womanly; I began feeling very uncomfortable. This discomfort opened my eyes to the problematic aspects of what people were calling “compliments,” even when they came from someone I thought I was comfortable with. In a matter of seconds, Matthew Wilson went from my prepubescent crush to my introduction to the discomfort and intrusion I still experience. *

I was walking home from my friend Zoe’s house in the middle of winter one year, bundled in my winter coat and snow pants, a hat tucking my hair away, snugly pulled under my fur-lined hood. I’d slipped my pants into my high winter boots, wrapped my neck and face in a scarf, and lined my hands with two sets of gloves and mittens, ensuring that no flake of snow would make its way past my protective gear. I’d made it less than half the way home from Zoe’s house, my head turned down against the gusts of wind, counting the steps to make it home, when I heard a voice call out to me. The

words were unintelligible, but when I looked up to find the source, I saw two faces peering past a lowered car window. Two sneering, staring faces, leaning past the window to whistle in my direction. I lowered my head, pulled my hood down, and hurried along the sidewalk, speeding up to the best of my ability. Suddenly I became aware of the weight of my layers, of the clunky boots not made for running. My heart rate picked up, and I played out a scene in my head— tripping over my boots, dragged down by the heavy layers, overcome by my chasers. I slowly lifted my face. Dreading the looks on the men’s faces. Convinced I would find them opening their car doors to come get me, I raised my head only to find them give me one last leer before speeding past, leaving me stunned, relieved, and feeling small and silly. Why had I had such an overwhelming, visceral reaction to a whistle? What about that interaction had convinced me that I would be attacked in broad daylight by two men, 10 or more years my senior? For years I told myself that I’d overreacted, that they probably hadn’t even been looking at me, a 12-year-old covered head to toe in thick winter clothes. But as I grew older, I began sharing stories with friends, hearing similar accounts, and being validated in my feelings. People shared in my experiences of humiliation, confusion, shame, and indignancy; we had each been catcalled, whistled at, followed in some form or another, and had shrunken under countless stares and leers. When I raised the subject with my peers, I felt empowered and strong, and most importantly, not alone. However, the moment I was by myself again, I had to fight to keep the shame at bay. My friends reminded me to ask myself questions, to validate myself, and remind myself of my right to my body and to privacy—had there been anyone else with me? No. Then they couldn’t have been whistling at someone else. Had I felt scared and did it feel like they invaded my privacy? Yes. Then I did not overreact. I had had every right to be uncomfortable and afraid. I had been wearing layers upon layers of clothes. My face had been turned away from the street. I was walking inconspicuously in the snow. I was 12 years old. I wasn’t asking for it. *

One day in the spring a few years later, I was on my way back home from the grocery store two blocks from my house when I realized that a car had slowed down to match my walking pace. I’d learned over the years not to look over, so I kept my gaze forward and ignored the hum of the engine beside me. All the while I shifted the bags in my hands, feeling where the weight was most centered, considering how well I’d be able to swing them around to protect myself. I kept my pace steady, attempting to maintain a calm facade, not letting on that I could feel every nerve in my body ready to fly at the slightest sign of a real threat. A “real” threat. What that qualified to me, I wasn’t sure. Though I was sure not to change my speed, I did alter my movement—I straightened my back, I paid attention to the swing of my hips, and I reduced the bounce in my step. I didn’t want to give my appraisers any more movement to assess. I took one earphone out and walked the rest of the way home painfully aware of my surroundings, finally breathing a sigh of relief when they pulled away once I’d reached my doorstep, ignoring the fact that they now knew where I lived.

we decided to head back to our neighborhood and call it a night, hoping we might stumble across something along the way. On our way back, we passed group after group of men, some walking in search of their own night on the town, others gathered on a stoop or in front of a shop. Each, without fail, had something to say to us, some rude, gross, demeaning comment that was aimed either at me or at my friend Lauren, the only other girl in our pod. We turned our gaze and the guys in the group moved to block us from their view. I hated that. I hated relying on a man to shield me from the eyes of other men.

I no longer thought I’d overreacted. I allowed myself to be disgusted, hurt, scared, and offended, feeling it a personal affront to my confidence, security, and general right to be carefree. I had been wearing shorts and a T-shirt, my bare arms and legs doing what arms and legs do, which was apparently an invitation for scrutiny. My face had been set forward, looking straight ahead. I was walking respectfully on the sidewalk. I was 15 years old. I wasn’t asking for it.

I was warming up for a workout, running from the gate of my program’s campus to the nearby neighborhood park. I was trailing behind the group, running far enough behind the last person that I didn’t know what was waiting for me past the bend. A man lay out on a bench watching the group run, and by the time I came around, he’d dropped his pants and started masturbating to the sight of us running by. I was alone and quickly ran past him, accelerating until I reached the rest of the group, all of whom were buzzing with different reactions to what they’d seen. The guys found it terribly amusing, and many of the girls seemed to go along with their jokes. I was furious. I shook my arms out and felt a visceral reaction rush through me from head to toe, an all-encompassing shudder. I felt nauseated. They told me I was exaggerating, that he was homeless and that he was probably not trying to upset anyone. I hadn’t mentioned anything about him meaning to upset anyone—I had simply expressed my disgust and discomfort, and even that had been too much for them to process. I began to doubt myself. But later that night, I spoke about it with friends from back home and realized I had been entirely in the right and that their minimization of that experience was only due to their ignorance and not my validity, or lack thereof.

It was August, and my family spent a week in Greece. My sister and I had walked more briskly than my parents back to the AirBnB in Malia, Heraklion where we’d stayed for a few nights. We were making our way back from the beach and had forgotten to grab the key, so we sat on the porch in our bathing suits, waiting for our parents to come open the door for us. As we were waiting, a group of young men walked by, several whistling, another calling out in Hebrew. I caught something about my pussy. I understood him. I turned to him and said, “Excuse me?” as indignantly and disgustedly as I could muster in Hebrew, relishing his apparent alarm when he realized I’d understood his degrading comment. He backed up, unsure how to react, and several of his friends laughed at his gaffe and joked around. One, however, walked closer to the porch and apologized on his friend’s behalf, saying that he didn’t know we’d understand and that he was sorry. I was flushed and full of adrenaline. I felt on top of the world. I’d stood up for myself, for my sister. They didn’t get away with their bullshit. And while I’d merely called him out with a simple word, that was all it took to put him in his place and call attention to his misogyny. I felt so powerful. I had been wearing nothing but a bathing suit, my hair still wet and sandy. My face hadn’t been the cause for commentary, but it turned to face them in incredulous offense. I was minding my business, talking to my younger sister, bothering no one, simply existing on what was temporarily our private property. I was 16 years old. I wasn’t asking for it. *

I was walking to my apartment with my new friends in Tel Aviv on our way back from our first night out on the town. We’d walked all around the south side of the city in search of a party we’d heard about, only to be turned away at the door. It was a hot night at the beginning of September, the summer heat permeating from the asphalt, the long night of walking exhausting our feet and drenching our clothes. Discouraged after failing to find alternative activities,

I had been wearing jeans and a T-shirt, my skin slick with sweat and my eyes lined with dark makeup. My face had been turned away, hidden by my friend’s convenient height. I was sober, walking back to my home base, ready to shower and go to sleep. I was 18 years old. I wasn’t asking for it. *

I had been wearing loose athletic wear, my hair up and my face bare of makeup. I had been running to catch up with friends, not dawdling, not overly undulating my hips. I was 18 years old. I wasn’t asking for it. *

It was June. I was strolling down the street in Prague. And in Vienna. And in Budapest. For it happened in each place. I was walking hand-in-hand with my boyfriend. It was the middle of a heatwave, yet I wore long, flowy pants to ensure that I wasn’t too exposed. We would walk past people on our walks down the sunny streets, perusing storefronts and exploring different historical monuments, and every so often I would feel my boyfriend tense and grow silent, his hand gripping mine more tightly, his back straight as a rod. I’d pause and ask him what was wrong, and he’d shake his head, unwilling to think on what he’d seen or felt. Every time, it had been some guy who’d swung his head around to look at me as I passed, or who’d said something to his friend, or who’d made some face or whistled. And every time, I hadn’t even noticed. I began to wonder if I had grown immune to it, or if I was blissfully unaware because I felt safer walking by his side. He told me he never knew how to react because he didn’t want to be the protective boyfriend who stood up for his partner because he believed she couldn’t handle it herself, but he also didn’t want to let it slide because he didn’t want to

be complacent in letting people be disrespectful and degrading. He said he was angry on my behalf, offended for me, but that he never thought it was his responsibility to protect me; he didn’t want it to be that because he was walking with me, other men felt that I was “taken” and wouldn’t say something more blatant or explicit to me. He never wanted me to have to experience it and felt guilty that he couldn’t always be there to make me feel safer, but he also never wanted me to have to have him by my side in order to feel comfortable walking around. He saw what I was going through, he’d heard my stories, and he was simultaneously able to recognize his privilege and his inability to do much other than support me, which, at the end of the day, is all I need. I had been wearing long pants and a t-shirt. My face had been turned to his in conversation. I was happy and carefree and in the company of another man. I was 19 years old. I wasn’t asking for it. *

These are the truths about coming of age, the ones no one tells you about. You’re told about the hormonal trials of puberty, the independent wonders of adolescence. You’re warned about the effects of the changes in your body, but no one sits you down and prepares you for the changes in how others treat you. No one reminds you of your strength and your validity, your legitimacy and your power. No one tells you how to react when you’re 12 and walking in the

BE NICE

snow, when you’re 15 and carrying groceries home, when you’re 16, 18, 19, or 101. There is no warning sign. No “Now approaching the danger zone” headline. You just have to navigate it yourself once you’re thrust into it. If you’re lucky, a role model or authority figure in your life will be there to listen to your experiences and support you in your reactions, but more often than not, you’ll be left to fend for yourself. But you don’t have to go it alone. Remember that you are not alone, and find your friends, reach out to those around you and start a conversation because more likely than not, they’ll have experienced something similar, and you will be able to do what friends do best: support and empower each other. Don’t fear their reaction. If they haven’t experienced it themselves, they can still listen and accept you with an open mind and heart. Look out for each other, support each other, walk together, stare people down.

By Haley Mayes

So here’s to coming of age, to the ugly, gritty, uncomfortable, disrespectful, and vile period of time that has no definitive beginning or end. The closest you can get to defining its parameters is when society decides that your body is ready for appraisal, for scrutiny, for judgement, and when it decides that you’re old news—but generally, that doesn’t happen for a long, long time, if it happens at all. So welcome! Welcome to your very own “coming of age” story. Get ready, grab your friends, and hold your head up high, because it’s going to be a bumpy ride.

“Anger can be a powerful tool,” a close friend of mine told me after I complained about an inconsiderate person. As your stereotypical “Ope, excuse me there,” Midwestern Gal, that piece of advice is one I’m wired to reject. Recently, however, I’ve begun to see its advantages. After a conversation with my wise and wonderful Aunt Jill, I realized that my inability and occasional unwillingness to wield anger as a protective tool stems from my upbringing by a Very Kind Man. My father — who my siblings and I simply witnessed interact with those outside of my family more than we did our mother — values niceness to a fault. (We were taught to always think of how our actions affect others, contrasting with a friend of mine who was raised by the mantra “it is better to ask for forgiveness than permission.”) Niceness, as it differs from kindness, is surface level — it is the politeness that shows when you smile at the Walgreens cashier or hold the door for the person behind you. This can certainly, as in the case of my dad, reflect a genuine goodness — kindness — within, but it can also represent an empty charm exercised just to get what one wants. I was raised to be kind (like most everyone), and nice as well. While I’m grateful that my parents instilled human decency within me, I’ve come to feel that this niceness may have smothered my every unhappy feeling and bad interaction, rather than embracing them as catalysts for productive growth. My aunt pointed out that this kind of upbringing, though consistent, would benefit my brother more than my sister and I, simply by virtue of the fact that women are generally expected to be kinder and more considerate of others. My brother came out of it a caring and personable guy. My sister and I have to teach ourselves how to set boundaries — you know, physical and emotional ones, the kinds that are much more often trespassed against women than men.

Having kindness taken advantage of in a way that infringes upon and depletes one’s emotional energy doesn’t happen as often to my dad or my brother. When colleagues need help or friends need to vent, expecting me to drop whatever I’m doing, I find it hard to turn them away. Even if I have a

legitimate excuse, saying “No, I can’t help you with that,” or “No, I need to tend to my own needs,” makes me seem frigid and unfeeling, but would be no surprise from the mouth of a man, particularly in the latter case. I’m glad people perceive me as reliable, but my inability to draw a line because I don’t want to come off as unkind has exhausted certain relationships. Growing up avoiding any possibility of others thinking I’m unkind made it glaringly obvious when my best friend adopted a new philosophy, one quite opposite from that of my father. Oliver, exhausted from the extra effort that pleasantries require, banished all of them from his vocabulary. He lost all patience for chit chat and began cutting off conversations the second it pleased him. He became unpleasant, his shortness often unprompted. A simple invitation to join us for lunch in the dining hall would be met with the kind of “No” that shuts down all further interaction. He started communicating with other people through me, like a pissy child, and I felt the need to apologize for him, like I had raised him. Ironically, I’d been putting up with his personality makeover because I was “too nice” to tell him off. I was upset with him, but since I was so worried about being polite, I let him continue to be rude to me and those around us. When Oliver’s callous attitude extended to his treatment of hospitality workers, I could no longer stand it. The long discussions we had after I finally told him I wasn’t going to put up with his behavior anymore made me evaluate how I dealt with it and why I was so averse to it in the first place. The prospect of going against my “nice” nature made me uncomfortable, but in the end it was worth it, and not only for Oliver’s benefit. While he has since regained his usual kindness, (albeit without the distracting niceties,) I’ve learned not to automatically cover up my true feelings with a smile and a “Yes.” To be genuinely kind requires me to be genuine, and being overly concerned with politeness prevents candid emotional exchanges. Listening to my unhappy feelings means I can’t always be nice, but I don’t have to let go of the caring intentions my father passed along.

Growing Pains: My Choices With Body Hair

By Anonymous I remember the first time I shaved. I was in fourth grade and absolutely positive that my arms were too hairy. I used the razor my mother left in the shower to shave my upper arms. Afterward, I felt marginally less insecure, but this was the beginning of my selfconscious relationship with my body hair.

Understanding the history of shaving helped me understand where the expectations for hair removal came from. I had noticed differences in how female-presenting friends and classmates dealt with body hair throughout high school, but it wasn’t until college that I began to learn about it more in depth. Hair removal for women in the United States was not encouraged until the early 1900s. As hemlines rose and sleeveless garments bore arms, expectations began to change. A push in advertisements for hair removal began in 1914, and by 1915, Gillette had launched an anti-underarmhair campaign. Advertisements characterized body hair as “unsightly” and “objectionable,” creating a stigma for women who did not shave.

continued into the 21st century but without the command to remove and more with the suggestion to groom. This made me question my own thick, dark body hair and if it represented masculinity. If I had more leg hair than boys my age, did it make me less of a woman or them less of a man? Both? Neither? How would people perceive and react to me based on how much body hair I presented?

Even with this history showing how patriarchal expectations guided the rise of women shaving, it did not clarify for me that not shaving would undo years of conditioning and expectations for how women should wear body hair. It made me wonder if shaving my legs was somehow giving in to this conditioning, thinking that growing out my hair was a stronger way to fight patriarchal expectations. My body hair was thicker and more unwieldy than the wispy blonde hairs my friends and the media showed. Even though my hair was not traditionally attractive, I still had doubts. If I don’t shave, am I only celebrated for my act of rebellion and still seen as attractive because I am white and thin? I started to feel guilty for shaving, thinking I was disobeying some almighty feminist rule, but some days I just really loved how my smooth legs felt against my blankets.

When I see feminine people in public with body hair, my immediate reaction is still shock, even if my legs are just as hairy as theirs. Body hair on female-presenting people is still not normalized, just as a lack of body hair on masculine-presenting bodies is not, either, and I doubt it ever will be. It is liberating to understand that it is my choice to shave or not, and I aim to celebrate that right to choose with everyone I meet.

Diving more into the history, I found that before 1914, shaving was met with the societal connotation of masculinity. The preference for men to remove hair

I realized associating shaved legs with femininity and a hairy body with masculinity simply entrenches everyone in gendered expectations. There is no reason femininity or masculinity is linked to either idea. Comfort and confidence should be the priority when it comes to deciding what to do with the inevitable growth of body hair.

No matter how many times I shave, my hair will always come back. These days, I go back and forth between shaving and letting nature take over. Usually I let it grow unless I know I will be around someone whom I want to impress, which is another way our bodies are bound to old-fashioned rules. I still spend far too long in the CVS aisles when it comes time to buy razors, mulling over these thoughts. I have found different ways to work with this inevitable growth, and I imagine how I choose to deal with and think about my hair will continue to change as I do. I’m at peace with that.

I grew up hating how my hair grew dark and thick on my legs, armpits, and brows. My friend Kate and I would make monthly trips to a local salon to get our brows threaded from eighth grade until we graduated high school. Though I tried to control my untamable and detested body hair, it was to no avail. The first guy who fingered me politely suggested I should shave, insinuating that the next person down there might not be as friendly if they found all that hair. As I continued into adulthood, my negative associations with my body hair did not change much from that fateful arm-shaving in the fourth grade.

Deciding whether or not to shave my body hair has taken hours off of my life. My mother assured me from a young age that whatever I chose to do with my body hair was my choice. Though she regularly shaved, she never pressured me or my sisters to do the same, and at first I was skeptical of friends who did. On one hand, I wanted to do things my friends did like shave, but at the same time, I didn’t fully understand why they were doing it and how to explain to my aggressively neutral mother that I wanted to do it.

My Nani, Urmila Shukla By Ishita Shukla If I get up in the morning on the first alarm, or if I sit down and eat breakfast before my 9 a.m., let alone go to my 9 a.m., that in itself is an accomplishment to me. Having my laundry done and neatly folded or starting to study for an exam a week in advance is how I would like to plan out my semesters, but even then I feel as though I have a million things left to do. I can’t imagine having three children while getting a bachelor’s and simultaneously being an army wife. And yet my grandma, Nani, did it all in the 1980s in India.

I imagine my Nani walking with confident steps into a naturally lit classroom full of rowdy 8th graders bustling with energy and potential. She faces her class wrapped in an elegant pastel purple sari. Her hair is pulled back neat and proper in a tight bun. The students are all silent and attentive. All eyes are on her. She begins.

Born to an Ordinance Factory worker in Kanpur and a homemaker in the 1950s, Nani reflects on how lucky she was to have a father who encouraged her to complete grade school. Nani’s own mother had studied till 4th grade and had just enough reading proficiency for The Ramayana and other Hindu religious texts. My Nani was married at seventeen years old, before her exam results came back. Nani says her next stroke of luck was marrying my grandfather, Nanaji, who had a rather different mindset compared to other men his age in that time period. Nani lovingly describes young Nanaji as having a progressive mindset. “He understood the value of an education contributing to the growth of a family. More than that, he knew that teaching was my passion, and the best way he could be there for me was by being supportive!” Nanaji didn’t buy into the idea that women belong in the kitchen, or that they should only be focused on raising their own children. He didn’t want to stop my grandmother’s career; he wanted to help her build it.

very clear how her own personal growth through education led to family growth—so her children could fly—and spread to the students she taught. In her words, growth is vital for khushi and samaaj (society). As a language teacher she had a particular gift for reading students and using words to help create an environment for them to thrive in. Nani claims that teaching is the work of a country. She believes education solidifies the values we hold closest to our identities and unlocks the best versions of ourselves.

As my grandmother worked to complete her bachelor’s in education and continued her post graduate in Hindi, she and my grandpa had three young children. Nani was twenty-six years old when she first began teaching. She tells me through the long distance phone call that to this day she remembers the first lesson she ever taught. It was from the Mahabharata and it was a story about how the war between two kings was bad for all the people. “Shanti (peace) is what is needed,” she says in a calm voice. As the phone freezes her face and notifies me of our poor connection, I hear in her voice the collected wisdom of years of living as she continues to elaborate on the moral of the story: there is strength in unity and no winner in war.

Hearing this side of my Nani, I look up to her for all the energy and passion that she had channelled into her career. She always began every class with a story or a joke, something lighthearted to captivate everyone’s attention. I hope that with whatever career path I follow or create I fuel the same flame she had for her work. I wish to be as caring, diligent, and above all as khushi as my Nani, Urmila Shukla.

My grandmother claims she was often more happy about her students’ successes than their own parents. Her students’ khushi (happiness) was everything. She explained to me how if a student wasn’t khushi, whether it be in the moment or in general, she knew she wasn’t going to be able to get through to them anyway. Her first priority was well-being, followed by education. Within Nani’s own life she makes it

Today she tells me how much it brightens her day when she runs into her past students when she spends time with her son in Bangalore. “Every time someone has a moment of recognition they immediately come up to me, sometimes with their families, and start addressing me as ‘Ma’am’ which brings me so much khushi. I love seeing how much they have accomplished and the people they have all turned into. Even Facebook friend requests make my day when I get to reconnect with an old student.”

Beginnings & History The beginnings of roads are trampled by dogs — claws forced into the ground and red dirt forced under nails. I think all loves have an inflection point where the arrows spin in circles and any route is feasible. I’m sorry I haven’t been answering your texts. It’s hard to see a future in the words passed and space garnered. I massage my temples and clean the grime from my fingers. I hate to wash because I’m lazy, lazy, so lazy. My paper bags cling to my grip on the way back from the grocery store, and I hear a historic rip: Now there’s that inflection point where my groceries can be saved or become some of the fallen — and I know I eventually want my bananas to have spots like dalmatians but if I save the bananas and they end up turning black, will it have at all been worth the scurry of salvation? Now life affirmation starts with the cows. The biggest difference between us is size, then memory. Cows seem to be more forgetful, and can live more freely. This is how we live historically or ahistorically. Monumental history dissipates horrifying details — but to be right or wrong is only a linguistic creation. I pluck out all my silver hairs because I’m not wise enough for them. If they grow back they’ll root in foresight.

By Catherine Nouhan

Body curled into a chair to sleep or spread thin on the car floor The older they get the better they bend— bending time bending rules Remember when you were too sick to fly? And too scared to not have a lap to rest your head? Now sleep comes easy everywhere but my childhood bed I fell into a routine of falling out of a routine, and falling asleep on the couch/floor/chair. I didn’t pay for the train so I slid my legs apart and around my belongings. A run for your money— the notion of safe spaces and belonging I’m tired of sleeping in the wrong places. It’s abrasive to exit dreams so quickly

By Lindsay Calka

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Words of“Wisdom” from WTF Seniors There is a myth that right before graduating, seniors have grand, eloquent, and wise advice to pass on, as if we have lived centuries longer than our successors, rather than just one to four years. Regardless of our real level of expertise, the questions still come, and what better way to say goodbye to our wonderful staff and readers than to leave you all with our advice, insights, and favorite parts of Ann Arbor? Following this letter is a series of questions that our staff wanted to ask this year’s seniors, and some questions that we, the seniors, wanted to ask each other. We have tried to create answers that would teach future generations something meaningful, but our most important message is that we will miss each and every one of our lovely WTF babies and that this incredible publication has taught us so much about feminism, identity, and ourselves. With love, Caylin, Emily, and Alexandra

What inspired you to become a feminist? C: Maybe anger? Maybe my mom? Maybe a mix of a lot of things. In middle school, I thought everything was sexist, and some of my friends told me I was exaggerating. Now after taking some Women’s Studies classes, I realize everything is sexist, so maybe middle school me was onto something. And my mom has lived a wild life, but from a very young age, she told me to never be so dependent on someone that I wouldn’t be able to support myself. In her life, she didn’t always have that. I’ve tried to live with that motto in mind. E: I’m not sure I ever really “decided” to become a feminist, I just was. I’ve always been a very nurturing person, and I thrive off of supporting others (i.e., I’m a Cancer), and so equal rights for all has always been at the core of my beliefs. A: Growing up, I was always so frustrated by the patriarchal norms of both society and my family. Like, I literally remember telling my dad when I was probably younger than 10 that I never wanted to have kids and would refuse to change my last name when I got married. What can I say? I’ve always been stubborn, and I think it’s garbage for women to be told who they are and what they should be by anyone other than themselves. After doing some intense Internet educating on feminism in high school, I claimed the identity and never looked back.

How has your definition of feminism changed from freshman to senior year? C: I’ve definitely grown a lot to understand more of the intricacies of feminism throughout college. I wouldn’t say I was exactly like those man-hating feminists of the early 60s, but to be honest, I was more like that than a nuanced educated feminist. I’ve come to understand how feminism looks different for different people and how it applies to more than “just women.” E: Honestly, when I arrived to campus my freshman year, the word “feminism” to me still carried some negative connotations—it was aggressive, stubborn, taboo. That’s a really hard thing for me to admit. I’d never known someone personally who identified as a feminist, and I’d never been told that my values and what I believed in made me a feminist. But since then, that has all been thrown out the window, and “feminist” is a badge I wear with pride. A: Being a feminist in my hometown as a high schooler was already taboo in its own right, so I wasn’t exposed to many educational tools outside of what I could learn from the Internet. However, I think college has emphasized intersectionality in feminism for me and how equality for women is not an even playing field. I’ve expanded my definition of feminism to be for everyone from every background, which, in my opinion, is the only true form of feminism, anyway.

If you could describe why you’re a feminist in three words, what would you say? C: We deserve more. E: Because it matters. A: Equality for everyone.

What’s been your most empowering moment in college? C: Wow, what a question! I think I’ve felt most empowered after nailing public speaking events. I HATE public speaking, so for a long time those types of events would fill me with dread. Now I’ve started to find my rhythm with these types of gathers and can leave knowing I accomplished something by participating. Also, just being a part of powerful groups of people, like this mag and other student organizations, remind me of the ripple effect our impact can have on others. E: There have been a bunch of mini moments over the past four years, but I think the most empowering moment was when I traveled abroad for the first time. I flew alone to Stockholm and stayed two days solo in a hostel before my male friend came to meet me for a week. During those two days, I felt the most independent and capable I’d ever felt before. A: I’m gonna second the traveling abroad sentiment. I spent three months the summer after my sophomore year living/working/studying in Athens, Greece, and I felt like a fricken BOSS learning how to navigate a new city and way of living all by myself. Also, being Greek myself, I felt so proud of myself any time I led my study abroad friends on excursions or spoke to people on their behalf just because I was the only one who could. Pre-college Alexandra would’ve been tweaking if she could see me then.

What is the most empowering thing you do every day? C: Probably just listen. There is so much power in listening to people around you. But don’t listen for opportunities to interject or to comment on your own life. Listen to listen. When you do, you’ll realize how incredible the people are in your life. (trust me I know I am SAP) E: Empowering to me? Getting out of bed in the morning and making something of the day. To others? Lending a hand in whatever way I can, but never assuming I know what’s best. A: This is gonna sound simple, but the most empowering thing I do is show up to things: classes, events, parties, etc. It’s so easy to not go to things, and as a person who suffers from anxiety, I feel so proud of myself when I summon the power to actually leave my apartment and follow through on showing up to things.

Where do you feel most like a powerful badass in Ann Arbor? C: Can I say Ricks? Haha just kidding, I feel like a badass when I am taking on the town with friends, walking the streets of Ann Arbor in a group of people I love and who love me. E: I feel so in charge sitting in my tiny cubicle at work, AND my office is made up mostly of women! I mean, seriously, there is maybe one guy and like 20 women. There’s something so inspiring about working surrounded by women from a diverse array of backgrounds (ex: single mothers, immigrants, wives who are supporting their husbands through med school) who are leaders in their field! A: To be completely honest, my therapist’s office. I feel like such a badass adult penciling in a session with my therapist and walking out of her office every week knowing that I’m taking charge of and owning my mental health.

What feminist thing turns you on most in the gender(s) you’re attracted to? C: Passionate speaking. God, when someone starts speaking about something they truly care about, not like a minor interest, but when they start speaking about something that shakes their bones and rattles their soul, sign me the f up. E: Definitely defying gender norms both in the relationship and as individuals. A: This might sound ~silly~ but when someone really, truly listens to you and internalizes what you’re telling them. So often I find that people use conversations as ways to use others solely as a holder in a script that they’ve already prepared, so it’s so refreshing and moving when someone is actually invested in what you have to say (the bar is so low smh).

Favorite place in Ann Arbor to grab a bite with friends? C: Avalon mushroom burger or Detroit Filling Station E: Margaritas and guac from Isalita plss A: Totoro, it hits every time (sorry to any Sadako loyalists!)

What’s the best way to unwind after a hectic week? C: Dinner and movie night with friends E: Either thrift shopping or having friends over for dinner, ideally both! A: Wine night with friends!

How are you going to continue rocking the feminist front after college?

E: Food security and climate justice!! A: Mental health and women’s health in general! I did an Alternative Spring Break my junior year on this topic because it’s SUCH a nuanced issue. Women’s health and its inequity goes beyond reproductive rights. C: These other answers are fantastic, and I couldn’t agree more, soooo in order to combine them, I would say all aspects of social determinants of health. Which means those ideas you don’t typically associate with health, like your environment, housing, social group, faith, etc. Feminism is not simply equal pay (though we probably should’ve earned that, like, a century

What are your favorite publications to follow (other than What The F)? C: NYT! I love the mini crossword E: Salty and Man Repeller A: The New York Times and Refinery29

Who are your favorite artists on Instagram?

Art by Maggie McConnell

Bathroom Confessional

Art by Maggie McConnell

Shit I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor: Breast Health

whatthefmagazine.com WhatTheFMagazine WhatTheFMag WhatTheFMag

Art by Ariana Shaw

Letter to a young black man Art by Kenneth Daniel

C: @areyouokcampaign (not necessarily an artist but just some good positivity) E: @gorgeoisie (U-M alumni!), @bymariandrew, @florencegiven A: @ambivalentlyyours, @gemmacorrell, @introvertdoodles, @rubyetc_

Rose City has no thorns

What did you most enjoy about being a senior citizen?

Art by Emma Goodman

C: My friend was teasing me about how I reminisce about things that haven’t even happened yet, but this past year, I loved living in a city that I finally felt I had some ownership over. This past year, I finally felt like I had a piece of Ann Arbor and a group of people to belong to. E: Finally feeling like I knew who I was. I meshed with a really close group of friends almost immediately freshman year, which was amazing, but then it also took me a while to figure out who I was as an individual at a time in my life when everything was always changing. I know I’ll always be evolving as a person, but it was nice to finally feel comfortable somewhere and be confident in who I was— like I was finally in control and nothing could make me feel unsteady… well so I thought but then ya know, COVID... A: Yes, yes, yes, to knowing who I am. The beginning of college was ROUGH for me, and I feel like I didn’t find my footing until around junior year, so senior year I finally felt at peace with my friends, extracurriculars, classes, and being on campus. I honestly felt so ~adult~ just because I knew who I was, what I wanted, and how to get it (miss you AA!).

Keep the conversation going!

Art by Maggie McConnell

An Observation: People love hate-watching The truth about coming of age Art by Isabella Kehoe

Be nice

Art by Regina Egan

My Nani, Urmila Shukla

Art by Maggie McConnell

Growing Pains: My choices with body hair Art by Lia Baldori

Beginnings & history Art by Lia Baldori

What is your advice to upcoming feminist freshmen as they enter college?

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C: Get out of your own head about things. No one cares as much as you think they do about literally anything, ever. So if you wanna join some random org, go do it. Go see a weird show, participate in class, tell that girl you think she’s pretty, go to the party, etc. You gotta make this experience your own because damn, if you do, its pretty fucking amazing. E: Push yourself to be uncomfortable because you never know what amazing things you’ll discover, the people you’ll meet, or what you might learn. There is ALWAYS more to learn. A: Learn as much as you possibly can!!! And I’m not just talking about school learning. Never in your life will you be surrounded by so many people your own age who come from every background imaginable. Ask questions, get to know people, learn about where people come from, and learn to have empathy for every single person you meet. This also extends to professors, GSIs, etc. Everyone on this campus has a story and most would be more than happy to share it with you.

Words of “wisdom” from WTF Seniors

Art by Jessica Burkle Art by Hayleigh Proskin

Sponsore by:

What’s a field you wish to see intersect with feminism more?

impact our health in different physical, mental and emotional ways.

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C: In this apocalyptic world, I am looking for ways to find the good, the good people, the good news, the good feelings. I’ll always be a feminist, but my feminism will change depending on where I am. I plan on working for an organization of some sort that empowers people to be the best version of themselves. There is nothing more radically feminist than that to me. E: My degree will be in the environment and sustainability, and I’m hoping that wherever I end up and whatever job I have, I’ll be able to continue to be an advocate for women and vulnerable communities during this climate CRISIS. A: I’m (hopefully) gonna pursue a career in theatre management/producing, so I’m trying to continue the feminist fight through the arts. My passion for theatre has always stemmed from the platform it gives to topics/ people/communities that aren’t often showcased, and I so desperately want to produce theatre that promotes equality and diversity—so we’ll see!

ago). It’s the fact that everyone deserves to have proper access to nutrition within their neighborhood, that every voice in the classroom should carry the same amount of weight, that you should feel comfortable having a friend group with whomever regardless of differences. All of these concepts