Exhibit 2013-2014

The Exhibit

Dear

A Foreword Most Esteemed Reader,

How do you do? Have I come on too strong? Too pretentious? Too stilted? Too fawning? Then all is well, for I come to you sincerely! It is my utmost pleasure to present to you this year’s publication of The Exhibit. Beyond this letter – painstakingly written just for you, might I add – you will find non-fiction and fiction alike, journalistic articles standing strong by pieces of poetry and short stories. At The Exhibit, we pride ourselves on providing a voice to the diverse set of critical and creative voices hidden in the UCI student body. A veritable trove of literary wonders await, ready to sooth and scald as they see fit. This much I promise.

This endeavor could not have been possible without the hands of all members of the team: managing editor Jennifer Wu with her ability to guide us all on task; head editor Julie Chapa with her intelligent takes on the many pieces that flitted into our inbox; head editor Celine Littlejohn who filled the room with energy and enthusiasm; designer Sandy Ortiz with her lovely renderings of our authors’ visions; copy editors Lauren Adiova, Laura Blockhus, Raina Dearmin,Kymberli Skye, Miguel Olvera, Priyanka Prasad, Diane Phung, and Jennifer Trieu – no man could ask more from such a hard-working bunch. It is an honor to see my name run amongst the ranks of such individuals.

But of course, the main stars of this particular carnival could only be our authors. These men and women have taken screwdriver to rib, compass to heart, leaving only a mausoleum of their soul behind. The gravesites await – for a fee of course (the price of admission is only your attention – and each is well worth the price, might I say)! There will be song and dance, and though not always ecstatic or triumphant, it will be lively. So, will you enter and, perhaps, dance to the music of bow against femur and pick against intestine? The musicians have settled into their seats quite comfortably, and all this hapless conductor has left to do is to wave you, dear reader, on in. Go forth and expand.

Truly and Sincerely,

Rohan Raghavan, Editor-in-Chief

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TABle of COntents 5 | Chain Smoker by Thais Kelly 8 | Laundry by Angel Garcia Reza 9 | Unwritten Cliche by Julie Tran 11 | Boys Like Me by Torrin A. Greathouse 13 | Can Porn and Feminism go Hand-in-Hand? by Rachel Cauilan 16 | On the Rails by Jessica Bogdanoff 20 | The Quiet by Farah Billah 23 | In a Minute by Celine Littlejohn 25 | Not According to Plan by Kymberli Skye 28 | Change, One Pose at a Time by Kelly Kimball 30 | Calcutta Blues by Ronit Ghosh 33 | Disposable Camera by Michelle Kaur Oberoi 35 | This is the Language that I Speak by Julie Chapa & Sandy Ortiz 37 | A Day’s Beginning by Alexi Fehlman 40 | Deathly Christmas by Laura Blockhus 42 | Words of Acceptance by Diane Phung 43 | Mirrors “The Mirroring of Intertwined Pressured Interiorities in Anne Sexton’s ‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarves’” by Jennifer Wu 2|

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Chain Smoker

By Thais Kelly

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Photo by Ed Schipul

I

t was four years ago when I tried my first cigarette. A fifteen-year-old, filled with curiosity, wanting to see what smoking was all about.

I had always seen it in the movies, how glamorous it looked, and I must admit that I was drawn to it. I still remember my first puff, how the smoke felt rough in my throat, almost as if my body was rejecting it. The smell made me feel nauseous, and even the cigarette felt misplaced in my hand. The whole experience simply felt like it wasn’t

going to work out for me, like it shouldn’t be something I should get myself into anyway. Nevertheless, I went for a second puff.

“One more and I will be satisfied, one more and I will be done,” I told myself everyday. The absence of the smoke consuming my lungs drove me crazy. I had forgotten what life was like without it. I needed that buzz; I needed to feel the cigarette resting between my index and middle finger, a welcome intruder, almost like a sixth finger on my right hand. I wanted to know that it

was there, that it alone would make me feel better.

For my first few months of smoking, it still didn’t feel right. I felt more distressed than relaxed when I smoked. Sometimes I wondered if I was smoking because I actually enjoyed it, or just because it was something to do. I felt observed.

Every last person I knew had an opinion on what I was doing. I thought of quitting various times

My mind was blown when I finally had a smoke after those excruciating couple of months. I felt as if the world around me was slipping away; everything disappeared, Earth was just me and the smoke. I inhaled desperately, as if not to let a single thread of that soft, grey silk

during that period, but for some strange reason I wouldn’t. I just kept on smoking.

That’s when things started to become complicated. When I least expected it, I became addicted.

I think I first acknowledged my addiction when I had an epiphany and decided to stop for good. I had been telling myself that I could quit anytime, that it would be easy, but it wasn’t. That lasted for two months.

During this time, my lungs would ache, longing for one last cigarette.

slip away. I held the smoke in my lungs longer than I ever had before.

“Here’s where you belong, that feels better now,” I whispered as I slowly exhaled my demons away. I knew I wouldn’t be able to quit again.

I would sit on my balcony for hours, watching the people go by on the streets, listening to the birds chirp and witnessing the sun

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set slowly so that the moon could bring the night with its blanket of stars. Inhale, exhale, do it again. My fingers now had burn marks that I knew I would carry for the rest of my life. My breath had become permanently faster; inhaling pure air had become almost painful. My teeth, now yellow, had become shy; they would refrain from smiling as much as possible, keeping company to the smoke inside my mouth.

I knew it was toxic for me, but I still couldn’t stop. I guess I was scared that without cigarettes, it would feel even worse. Although I knew smoking wasn’t ideal, at least it was something that I had that was mine.

If I simply quit, what would I do?

I had been smoking for so many years that I had forgotten what life was like before that first puff.

What if I never found something that gave me that same buzz? What would I do then? I isolated myself from others; all I needed was a pack of cigarettes, a lighter and good music. I didn’t know how lonely I really was. How I was slowly destroying my body, my temple, corrupting it more with every breath I took.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised when I found out about the tumor.

A dark clot of extra tissue rested on my lungs, like an unwelcome visitor, breaking into a house and destroying it. Yet, my tumor wasn’t formed of cells that multiplied out of control – it consisted of memories. The nicotine was your

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dark eyes that initially introduced me to the addiction; they seduced me into always coming back, into always wanting more. The carbon monoxide was your words, slowly taking my breath away, suffocating me in the most gentle manner. The tar, like your touch, caused everlasting damage to my body; I knew it would stay with me until the last of my days. The cyanide was your presence, a deadly poison of which I could not get enough. You moved gracefully, like the smoke drifting into the air, disappearing in front of my eyes.

I was slowly wasting away; my love for you had become an addiction, something that I could no longer control. I needed you in my life without ever questioning myself as to why; I simply did. I knew you were intoxicating, but that’s what I loved about you. You made me feel like the glamorous actors from the movies. I guess I forgot that

they were just acting, and that they weren’t glamorous, they were just troubled. And so was I. Now it’s time for chemotherapy. I know it will be painful, I know it will be hard; but that’s what I have to do. I’m going to feel weaker than ever, my bones will hardly manage to hold up my body and my muscles will lose all their strength. It may not work; the tumor may disappear for a while and then return; who really knows? But if I have the slightest chance of curing myself, I will take it. I want to revive from the ashes of all the packs I smoked; I want to burn bright, like the fire of the lighter which always ended up burning my finger tips. My tumor will be gone. You will be gone.

I must now leave. It’s time for therapy. For redemption. For a second chance. But before that, one last cigarette.

laundry The story repeats itself: Two weeks of coming and going, changing, and showering; the clothes start to pile up in a heap in my laundry basket disappearing from the now empty closet and deserted drawers.

The laundry room is a short walk away; I gather my clothes and supplies and head out, the stillness of the eventless afternoon emanating from every corner and crack on the sidewalk.

The laundry room is empty, save for a couple of forgotten socks and a pair of blue boxers resting on a washing machine, out of order.

The quietness of the place is a room full of sounds that cancel each other out, a constant hum that no one can hear—until one stops hearing it.

I load my clothes into a washing machine, pay, and select a cycle.

Today, I don’t mind sitting here and waiting eighteen minutes for my clothes to wash, because I have time to kill on this quiet Sunday afternoon.

BY ANGEL GARCIA REZA

The colors spin around and around, water and soap, and the colors spin around and around, like distant memories or a hazy dream And the clothes spin around and around, and I think about circles and circles and circles and I make myself dizzy— thinking about circles!

So I stop.

Before I know it, seventeen minutes have passed.

When the cycle ends, I take out my clothes, limp and wet and I stick ‘em in the dryer.

I pay, and select a cycle.

But this time, I’m not waiting eighteen minutes for my clothes to dry. because time is dying on this fleeting Sunday afternoon.

So I take off.

I stare at my clothes as they spin quickly clockwise, like a hamster at its wheel, or a brakeless bicycle rolling downhill.

Fast, like the revolutions of Earth as it orbits the sun.

The fluorescent lights flicker and brighten, and I watch the machine— the violent machine— agitating my clothes.

Shaking, convulsing, hypnotizing.

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Unwritten Cliché

By Julie Tran

I

wish we were a fairy tale. Given a storyline that is already written from beginning to end; where the characters are all scripted; where friends and enemies are two separate beings; where evil is defeated and you’re ensured your happily ever after with the prince of your dreams in a beautiful castle where you will live in joy and pleasure. But we couldn’t be so lucky. We were just a story of one boy and one girl, who met through a series of coincidental events. Met when chaos was more real than stability, and when disaster was more accepted than beauty. Met through a friend that turned out to be more than what she seemed to be; a friend that we both depended on for advice and companionship.

It was unfortunate, for love at first sight was not what we had. We had love at first misfortune. Leaned on each other because we felt the need to put our troubles on another, gave each other relief from the craziness that had become our world and sought peace in a place called ecstasy. We were broken but felt put together in each other’s presence. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was enough. We found sanity in conversation, familiarity in stolen glances and smiles, comfort in small gestures, and reassurance in contact. Falling was easy, but, like any other story, we were thrown obstacles that were too large to go over. Not like the dragons that knights slay or the witches that the children defeat, but real life issues that tear you apart and hurt deep to the core.

A triangle formed within our friends. An accusation of no trust, but never a confirmation of love. Hesitation that ended in demise and heartache. A relationship that can go no further than what it was, for hurt was on the horizon for those who were caught in the crossfire. Hills that seemed like mountains, streams that seemed like waterfalls – we weren’t strong enough to make it through. But we remained in limbo, put into that unnatural place of almost being something but not actually being there, that unforgiving place of what could’ve been but wasn’t.

Time passed fleetingly in the presence of boundaries set by rules;

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lines drawn that could not be crossed; feelings that could not be acted upon. As we watched each other fall in and out of love with other people, we put each other first in an act of loyalty brought on by strong emotions and a fear of losing one another. Keeping one another stable in what was becoming a difficult love story was the challenge. Too much to handle, as we began to distance from each other to keep ourselves alive in what felt like a cutthroat competition for love. The distance maimed. Silence that lasted for what felt like forever; close enough to touch, but too far to reach out to. Games began to be played to help pass the time; tying in too many people, too many hearts, too many consequences – people who were dear, hearts that were fragile, consequences we were not ready for.

But the game became personal when the players became those who were there from the start. Best. That’s what described them.

Friends. Because that’s what we saw them to be. They took on what the other left behind, chose to try and change what was damaged, stayed when letting go could’ve been easy. They were the best. But the call of two souls cannot be kept apart even when the best were given on a silver platter with a promise of consistency. Back and forth; it was a pull, then push; the want, then the denial; the hope, then the rejection. It was a tug of war that neither could win. Too stubborn to give up, too strong to let go. The confusion of what to do became evident as the once sane conversations became laden with arguments; the once familiar glances and smiles became cold; the once comforting gestures became uncomfortable; the once reassuring contact became nothing but detachment. But still, we held on. With the thought that maybe things will change and that maybe it’ll revert back to how it once was. But it couldn’t.

The need for each other was too strong to forget; the hurt of watching happiness be formed by those who weren’t one another was getting to be unbearable. But needless to say, the distance helped us cope. Distance worsened as our lives beckoned us forward to the next stage in what was to become a monotonous

schedule filled with busy hours and friends who demanded too much time. Arguments of what should’ve been became a prevalent reminder that speaking was going to be hard, bringing up long ago buried feelings. It became more of a burden to get along than to actually let go. As our grasp loosened on a relationship so heavily fought for, it was apparent that things would never be like before.

The silence was deafening in the lonely hours of the night as conversation was given up and contact was no longer sought after.

W

eeks passed with no idea of what the other was up to. No way to end the stubbornness and reach out to one another. Just to prove the point that we can be without each other; that maybe our lives can continue without one another. But the longing for something known, something recognizable, was hard to ignore.

All it took was one call. One call. A voice achingly familiar. A feeling that began to overwhelm as it overtook what was once logical.

One call and we were back to where we started. As we began our relationship again, we focused on what we once were; neglecting loved ones who were in our lives, partners that made us their world. But the flow of words was familiar and we desired it more than what we already held in our hands. A missing piece that we were searching for that neither found until both returned to the beginning where it was once lost.

But the triangle that once prevented any furthering of whatcould’ve-been was twisted and more damaged than what it had once been. History of having the best, of loving the best, of not wanting to hurt the best was the cause for indecision. What to do when the one who you’ve always wanted is within touch, but so far away because of the present. The choice was difficult as an untimely call of feelings and emotions occurred. Two choices. Both who have been there since the start. Both had promise to bring

joy and stability. One who came with heartache and a history of hurt, but also of sweet memories. The other who was loved, but not fallen for, who seemed to put up with more than one should.

It was a battle. Heart against head; head against heart. A bloodthirsty war of not knowing what to do, of whom to choose, or of what could be. It tore at the mind and left its mark. No way to avoid the hurt. No choice to leave it alone. One had to be chosen and the other must be let go.

It was the uncomfortable wait. The unknowing of what will happen and what will be. Will it be another round of back and forth, or be something once desired for so long?

Feelings couldn’t be denied as one sentence brought the world down to its knees.

“I want you”.

It couldn’t have sounded sweeter even if it was laced with sugar.

“I want you”.

Time stopped, and the decision was made to try out something that would not have been certain had it been the past people we once were. Our past won over our hearts and our emotions became consuming. We left a trail of hearts behind as we finally gave ourselves a chance to be happy; happiness that included one another once again. Only this time, you are mine as I am yours with no one to stand against that simple fact.

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Boys Like Me

By Torrin A. Greathouse

Boys like me Always seem to fall for Girls with leaky faucet eyes, And safety deposit hearts.

The kind with long intricate puzzles And cryptic clues.

Two minute fifteen second car chase, Compulsory gunfight and Mood lighting,

As misunderstood As that toothless old bus driver That drank himself to death In the parking lot.

Clichés are like gravestones, Rigid, stuck in, Buried where they are for a reason.

Because - All is fair in love and war - Death cannot stop true love - [insert cliché here]

Girls with handkerchief lakes To waterfall eyes, And heart shaped padded rooms With locks shaped like Rubik Cubes That take more than Three minutes to solve.

Cliché is a word That people 10 | spit or swallow, The ejaculate of Merriam-Webster,

Clichés are masks For hearts and minds to cower behind.

Hemingway once said

Books are like icebergs, Most meaning is hidden underneath the words.

People are a lot like that and Until you realize this Relationships have a lot in common With “unsinkable ships.”

Nothing is as simple as it seems.

Life is long division on an abacus Made of string-cheese Operated by a lactose intolerant.

Cliché is not a state of being, But a state of mind.

Be your own cliché, Not someone else’s.

Grow up, fall in love, have kids, But only if it seems more fun Than dropping out To play the ukulele in Nebraska.

Here’s another cliché, Life is a book, Write your own damn story.

Fuck their fairytales, Life has much more to do with Grim than Grimm.

In real life, Sleeping Beauty was in a coma, Prince Charming was a pedophile, And Snow White was a conceited bitch, But all stepmothers are still evil.

To hell with their fairytales, Write your own.

Stories of love, revenge, Escape and freedom.

Do things because you love them, Kiss people for the same reason.

Just like the storybooks, We burned the rulebook last winter.

No excuses, it was just Fucking cold.

The only thing boys like me Have in common with Romeo, Is falling in love with girls in masks.

If freedom is death, Then consider me the poison And this poem a dirge.

Caged birds always fall for The ones who crash into windows, And boys like me Always fall for girls like you.

See, faucet eyes, Leaky hearts, These aren’t her clichés But she wears them well.

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Can porn and Feminism Go hand-in-hand?

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by Rachel Ann Cauilan

Sleazy. Degrading. Dirty. Abusive. Inappropriate.

T

hese are all terms oftentimes associated with the adult-film industry. Though, as easy as it is to take things at face value, one of the greatest challenges is in finding anything positive about an industry that has been hush-hush for so many years.

Growing up in this post-feminist kind of society where people are challenging each other with what is considered feminist and what is not, further blurring the lines between its actual definition and what is just “rebellious behavior,” it is interesting to see how we live in a high-time where women all over the world are just fighting for their voices to be heard and respected.

As female porn stars are often seen as airheaded Barbie dolls and sex objects, I have found that there can be a great level of intelligence in both the industry and its workers—when you look in the right places.

Feminism, to me, is about advocating and supporting the equality and rights for all women—including being each other’s support systems and lifting each other up, not down. I believe acknowledging what women have done throughout history, from fighting for their right to vote to working in the same place as men, can make one feel grateful for where women stand today.

I first started to get interested in feminist issues as I became sensitive to others’ behavior towards myself as a woman.

Experiencing numerous events of men trying to make advances or take advantage of my womanly assets, I grew uncomfortable with my own body. Growing up Catholic in a small-town also led me to become very sheltered in that female sexuality was hardly talked about, let alone accepted. But, as I grew older and began to create my own definition of self-respect, I found it in my heart to know myself before I could expect anyone else to know me better.

My attitude towards porn changed when someone told me to “know your vagina so you don’t have to rely on a man.”

Seeking to debunk the stereotypical myths of the adult-film industry and, more specifically, the women who work in it, I took up an interest in that world and its people.

The moment that first inspired my interest in accepting the “most degrading” line of work women may involve themselves in was when I stumbled on a 2013 article I saw on Yahoo’s front page entitled, “Porn Stars Without Makeup: Before and After Pictures

by Melissa Murphy” from the Huffington Post.

I held my own assumptions about porn for many years, but it was at this moment that I saw a different light to the industry. Behind society’s assumptions of porn stars being dirty, washed-up or coming from broken homes, these photos showed how entirely real and beautiful these everyday women naturally looked. These

photos humanized them.

While sexual intimacy is one of the most natural and beautiful acts to express love to a partner, the porn industry seems to make this entirely private act into something doggedly intrusive and mortifying. But, after reading and watching interviews from stars who share their thoughts on the industry—from how they got involved in their line of work to expressing the politics behind it—I’ve found that there are respectable women in the industry.

Veteran performers Samantha Ryan, Stoya, and ex-performer Sasha Grey have actively participated in interviews and other social media to convey their thoughts on women and workers’ rights in the industry.

In Porn Star Vignettes, a 2012 video-series by writer and former pornographic actress Julie Meadows that aims to humanize workers involved in the industry, star Samantha Ryan, who entered the industry at the age of twenty-six, reveals that she had the chance to struggle and figure herself out before going into the industry.

Noting that she had worked as an engineer, Ryan expresses, “I had bosses that were complete idiots and never knew the value of my work because they didn’t understand the work that I was doing.”

She adds, “I just went through all these things in my life and— they weren’t failures—it was just things happened in these careers that I tried that made me realize that either I didn’t want that or it wasn’t gonna be for me or it made me realize more of what I wanted.”

She adds that entering the porn industry was moreso a positive option for her than a negative, as she states in a 2005 interview with Gene Ross, writer of AdultFYI, “I saw how [porn sets are] very technical and in a lot of ways close to mainstream in how it’s filmed.” She adds, “It’s not as sleazy as people think. ... There are good people. I had fun and everybody loved their job.”

Being active in the industry for nine consecutive years, starring in more than 400 movies and having won numerous AVN (Adult Video Network) Awards over the years, Ryan has become a notable and well-respected performer. But, in her interview with Meadows, she states that “[this] is still an industry that you have to navigate. It’s tough and you will deal with not so great people and, you do run into the girls that are doing the drugs because they don’t know how to handle it.” She adds with conviction, “That shouldn’t be how it is.”

As with any other career in the film industry, it is important to recognize that the porn industry is a job and they still work professionally. In particular, it is an especially physical and emotionally-demanding job, which is why many new adult-film starlets do not remain in the industry for very long.

“The agents see them as fresh meat! They know the industry. They know that the majority of girls are in-and-out in a year. So, what’s gonna be most beneficial to my pocketbook?” Ryan expresses.

“Getting that girl to do everything that I can in that year.”

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Although there are many thoughts about the industry and the way in which they treat its performers, adult performer and model Stoya, who entered the industry at the age of twenty-one, is an active social blogger and online-user who has been very vocal in sharing her thoughts to defend the views and ethics of women in the industry.

“Nothing about the pornographic material I perform in does anything to intentionally further feminism,” she writes in her VICE column entitled “Feminism and Me.” “It is bluntly superficial entertainment that caters to one of the most basic human desires.” She continues, “I see it as neither inherently empowering nor disempowering. Showing up on set and doing my job is not an act of feminism.”

The idea of glorifying porn stars seems outrageous, though I find that their motives can oftentimes be positive for many young women. Rather than scolding these female performers, I think using their work as a tool to know and grow more comfortable with our bodies, as well as creating conversation about them, can help debunk myths of pornography being a negative industry.

Ex-adult-film star Sasha Grey, who has made close to 300 adult films and won numerous AVN Awards since entering the industry at the age of eighteen, speaks about the erotic novel phenomena that is The Fifty Shades of Grey and her own novel The Juliette Society, in a 2013 interview with The Daily Beast entitled “Hollywood’s Favorite Ex–Porn Star: A Chat With Sasha Grey.”

“I always go back to this idea that women aren’t allowed to be proud of their sexuality or their sexual fantasies.” A strong advocate for sexual positivity, she asserts, “We’re allowed to prance around in tops that almost show our nipples and miniskirts that show our butt cheeks, but God forbid we talk about anal sex or blow jobs.”

Academy Awards Is As Hugely Discouraging As You’d Expect”).

The visibility and demand for female voice and representation is gravely low.

But, as pornography and sex-centric works are never going to go away, so are the women who perform in them.

As women have continually been told that sexuality is bad, it is our job—in the effort to promote equality, if we want it—to change our attitude towards how we view women who work and perform in these industries that tend to promote women as sex objects. If women cannot even embrace their sexuality, what makes us think men can?

In film, music, writing and other medium, the mere act of performing any sort of creative work does not send any sort of message; the message stems from what feelings are produced from that work.

To create change, the first step is in getting one’s attention. The next step is in holding it. In holding one’s attention and creating a louder demand for that change, only then can one take action to move someone.

As Stoya writes, “The messages I get every week saying that seeing my body or vagina portrayed as some kind of sex symbol made someone feel more comfortable about their own body,” she expresses that that is what keeps her doing her job.

“But,” she continues, “let’s not pretend that performing in mainstream porn is any sort of liberating act for all womankind.”

REFERENCES Hanson, Hilary. “Porn Stars Without Makeup: Before and After Pictures

by Melissa Murphy.” Huffington Post. <http://www.huffingtonpost. com/2013/03/11/porn-stars-without-makeup_n_2853817.html>.

As an act of feminism, women should feel empowered to speak about their bodies and openly embrace their feelings of pleasure or displeasure.

Meadows, Julie. “Porn Star Vignettes: Samantha Ryan.” Julie Meadows Entertainment. <http://www.juliemeadows.com/blog/porn-starvignettes/samantha-ryan>.

But, the porn industry seems to cross a heavy line between representing women as sexual objects and offering a space for women to feel comfortable about their fantasies.

Mosbergen, Dominique. “The Diversity Gap At The Academy Awards Is As Hugely Discouraging As You’d Expect (Infographic).” Huffington Post. <http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2014/02/24/diversity-gap-academyawards_n_4838536.html>.

Grey continues, “It’s a great thing to allow women to feel liberated with their fantasies and not feel inhibited by them.” And that should be the focus people take on pornographic work.

Women, both in porn and in the workforce, are often seen as less in character and less in number in many male-dominated industries. As society has hyper-sexualized the identity of women, enforcing the use of women as objects of visual pleasure, it has also concealed the presence and credibility of many women in these industries. So, it is no wonder that in the Academy Awards—a major outlet for distinguishing the “best” in media—77 percent of voters and 99 percent of “Best Director” winners are both male (“The Diversity Gap At The

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Ross, Gene. “Conversations with Samantha Ryan.” Adult FYI. <http:// www.adultfyi.com/read.php?ID=10122>.

Stern, Marlow. “Hollywood’s Favorite Ex-Porn Star: A Chat With Sasha Grey.” The Daily Beast. <http://www.thedailybeast.com/ articles/2013/02/15/hollywood-s-favorite-ex-porn-star-a-chat-withsasha-grey.html>.

Stoya. “Feminism and Me.” VICE United States. <http://www.vice.com/ read/stoya-feminism-and-me>.

On the Rails

By Jessica Bogdanoff My brother kicked his legs over the railing that was guarding the tracks. The bikes laid flat on the other side of him.

They creaked as their metal frames cooled. My back wheel hung over the edge of the low bridge, observing the sewage ditch. Both of Brian’s wheels were on the railroad tracks, but he did not seem to care, though I thought he noticed.

He noticed everything.

He just sat with his eyes out east.

I remembered him when he was a boy, and I was even younger, and how his skinny legs used to beat the air like a trapped bird whenever we would come here. Even then I think I understood that he would not stay in our hometown forever. Brian had friends here, sure, teammates and admirers, and more girls in love with him than I could keep track of, but those long, furious legs of his would not be staying for any of them. Not after the track scholarship that took him to college.

But that was past now; he had his plans, and it was my turn to enter the realm of higher education. A community college would suffice until I could put down roots here, open a life, maybe find someone to share it with. That guy would have to be well-liked by Brian. He knew about these sorts of things – he knew people real well, almost too well for our dry valley, a town that was dominated by a Super K-mart with a flickering “m” on its sign, and most of all the train lot where they stored the trains from the different lines. These tracks brought them here. More of them arrived

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than left.

It was funny that it was a place of staying.

Brian swung his pendulum legs slower, and looked towards the mountain wall east as if something was carved into it. With the sun behind him, his face was a red clay mask. Feathered lines ran across the pinched points that I had not noticed before. He looked old.

“Whatcha thinking?” I asked him, hanging my arms over the guard rail. The vibration in the metal reminded me of the spring night hum of cicadas in the grassy patches near our porch. Like an evening in May when we told stories in the low place between the porch and the shed, the smell of tires and paint.

“I’m starting classes in the fall,” I said. I brushed a little clod of dried mud from the safety railing at my chest.

There were still more clumps on there, so I scratched them off with the jaggedness of my thumbnail, jagged from running through summer grasses at the park and cutting carrots.

“I’m not talking about school,” he said. “That’s fine, that’s something to do. After school, though, who are you going to be?”

“Myself.” I laughed a little. It was not enough to jolt the railing any. The rocking of my brother moved it, though, so that it nudged at my chest repeatedly.

“That’s great, Moll, but who is that going to be, exactly?”

I could not think of an answer when I looked up at his face again. When did he become so like a man? I wondered. He was a bit leaner, and much younger, and had brown hair, but as mom liked to say, he was dad’s spitting image.

Brian had waited.

“You’ve got to go into something,” he said. His eyes were more open and dark now that the sun had left them.

“What about business? Or management?”

He turned his face towards me, bathing half of his face in an orange glow. I could not see his eyeballs. He probably could not see me too well, either, through the half-squint.

His nostrils breathed in the parched scent of sunsaturated dust. The abbreviated curve of his lip opened, and he said, “Tell me you won’t wait for me.”

“Okay. I won’t wait for you.” I had no idea what he meant.

His legs swung at a constant pace, both of them, together, the camo pants rippling over firm muscle. Basic Training had toned what he already had.

His eyes opened and steadied on mine. They were a beautiful hazel color normally, but the sun was leeching the color from them. They were still clear, though, and sharp, much like our dad’s in their expression.

“You can’t just say it,” my brother said. “Molly, you’ve gotta keep moving. It’s for your own good.”

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“What about sociology, like you?” I replied.

“Sure, do it.”

“They don’t have good majors” I mumbled, shrugging.

“Majors got nothing to do with it. I’m talking about your choices, about action.”

“Well.”

“Well. Even in this town you can find your niche.”

“You’re leaving,” I stated.

“I ship out tomorrow, yeah.” He brushed his hands down the front of the camos, and then repositioned on the rail.

“It’s what I’ve been called to do.”

When after a while we had watched a light pass in the

distance, and knowing it was not a train, he spoke. “Don't wait for me to start looking for what you’re supposed to do. Whatever it is might surprise you, if you don’t miss the opportunity,” he said.

He had contacted the army, not the other way around.

Sure, like any high school we had the recruiters, and the career fairs, but Brian had wanted a college close-by, where he could still come home on a monthly basis – when he was not racing, that is. I would be so happy to see him that I would drop all of my homework just to meet him halfway down the street whenever I heard his motor rumbling. On those weekends we would toss a football in the park, walk around K-mart as if we were looking to buy a new riding mower or a trampoline, have a family game night, watch movies and talk loudly at the boring parts. He and dad tinkered with the Ford out in the shed, while I brought them snacks I made with mom.

And then, when the last evening of each weekend came around, we rode bikes past the train yard, followed the tracks out to the dirt mounds, and drove over them to the largest mound and the bridge. The underbelly was a gaping sewage pipe tagged with shadowy spray paint figures. Sometimes we would point out the scribbles as other people trace shapes in clouds or toast. He crouched by the narrow channel and told me all about ancient peoples. I leaned against the dirty ribbed metal and listened to the thread he wove through time, winding all the way up to the therapy art they got kids to do out at the community center at his college. Brian theorized that the graffiti was some sort of release for these older kids, the local hooligans or whoever they were, who probably never got a chance to express themselves that way.

stretch out and catch me and set me straight. I would slip to the ground and stay there, holding the rail and reverberations of sound.

Then we talked. Sometimes he would talk and I would just listen. Sometimes I talked about school and he would nod and say little. The best times were when we had an equal say, or said nothing at all. Those were when our thoughts blended into being more or less the same, though Brian seemed to be more in tune with my thoughts than I was with his.

Brian twisted his back with a pop that would have made mom cringe. He must have thought the same thing, judging by the crinkling of his eyes at their outward corners. He turned to face me again. “Just promise me you’ll move forward,” he said.

“Stop running so fast, Brian,” I said.

It was kind of quiet. The hum on the bar told me that a train was coming in along the tracks.

He learned a lot during those years. We were always proud of him, but this was a good life for him.

We jumped back and forth over the sewage channel, trembling at the thought of falling into the brown slosh – though we never did – and pretending to be an everevolving assortment of our favorite heroes. Like when we were little, Brian often chose dad. The other times he was Iron Man. And then, when we were good and tired, we scrambled up the side of the largest dirt mound to the bridge and its one railed side.

He would sit on the railing and swing his legs. I tried to do the same, but I succeeded only a few times. Mostly I would fall backwards or forwards. His arm would

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photo courtesty of wallpaperson.net

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The

QUIET

By Farah Billah READER DISCRETION ADVISED: CONTENT RELATED TO CHILD ABUSE Today, I am scraping myself off the floor. I am kneeling, touching my forehead to the mat, pointing my fingers towards the sacred. I’m submitting myself to my future—to a place I can keep.

Finding my niche shouldn’t have been so difficult. I found everything in this city to be beautiful. There were apartments with shingles laced with porcelain baby angels that rose out of small, two-to-four kid family businesses. I’ve seen them in every color: peach, purple, magenta, baby blue. The people here wear colors. They bounce on shoes with buckles, floral print, and thick heels made of rubber. It ‘s a perfect Southern Europe travel guide poster, complete with traditional pastries, cobblestone paths, and perfectly curled, black iron chairs and tables on the side of the street. I have tried to understand what it is exactly that I planned to do here, but the years passed like clouds in a storm and I’m still here, hiding in the basement. It’s quieter than I had expected.

But it is beautiful.

The call came in the middle of study group. Mel had just finished talking about the man who killed John Lennon with the so—called blessing of The Catcher in the Rye. There was a call from my dad, which, of course, I didn’t answer. He always called to ask about off transactions on my credit card or to know if I have checked in for my flight twenty-four hours beforehand, but on this particular afternoon, nothing relevant came to mind. So, I didn’t answer. I didn’t answer the second time either, or the third. When the fourth call came, I excused myself and went into the hallway.

My knees weren’t weak enough for me to fall to the ground. I suppose my body was not feeling too dramatic. I was never one to be dramatic. Turning to lean against the doorframe, I looked at the book on the table in front me as it turned into an orange and yellow swirl. The white porcelain table, a crescent with intricate sailboats and anchors, blurred into a cloud, floating in the center of my vision as I stared blankly into the room. The cloud held the orange, caressing it like a majestic sign from God that this was going to happen. Someone was going to die. My eyes were burning, hot and flooding. I could feel my face flush with blood as if my skin were to tear and spill every nice word I could have said to my mother before she left me.

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I disappeared overnight. It didn’t matter who would miss me or what people would say.

Nothing had been the matter. The only illness my mother had was narcissism and no one seemed to be able to give her medication for that. She hated her life. She hated that she didn’t work, yet she never went out to find work—we were her job after all. The family. I suppose one day she snapped, and she began hating every one of us. She wanted to study linguistics and art and delve into the cultures of the world.

And she said she could’ve been anything she wanted, if she was given the chance, because she was just that talented, intelligent, and people savvy. I guess those qualities segued into wrapping her car around a street sign in the middle of a Sunday morning. Songs seem to leave that part out, don’t they?

“Something happened, Av,” Papa said. He only sounded this grim when talking about money, or the economy, or how we should be careful, so I braced myself for the news of a further falling business, or another thieving employee.

“Don’t tell me someone died.” I said the words, laced with sarcasm and lacking empathy, not realizing their full impact.

Silence.

“Papa?”

“Mum, Av. Your Mum was in another accident. Come home now,” he said with such quiet sadness, my heart sunk into my stomach.

I disappeared overnight. It didn’t matter who would miss me or what people would say; I booked a flight east, to my cousin’s house, and four weeks later to Europe. That’s how I ended up here. I ran. I ran from everything that frightened me, that made my hands shake, that made my face flush with anger. I left my Papa, my friends, my school, my childhood memories, photo albums— I left them all and ran thousands of miles to a place without a hint of Mum. Not a trace. They don’t even sell her type of tea here, or the kind of shoes she wore. There is no community that knew her, mourned her, here. No one can stop me in the street and give me their stupid condolences and kind words about a woman they saw twice a year.

20 |

I left a bloody painful life. The states killed me. Mum and Papa killed me. They set me up like a doll in a city with people with eyes like lions, watching me in silence waiting for their turn to kill me too. There was a simple, strategic plan for my life and then I was supposed to die. But they couldn’t let me. Papa couldn’t watch; he’d take off his glasses every time a lighter licked across my arm. When Mum’s screaming began, he would leave the house and remove the “Welcome” mat from the front door on his way out. Mum would sit there with a lighter, a pack of matches, and a first aid kit.

Clenching my teeth, I shut my eyes so tight my eyelashes pricked my eyeballs inside.

I never said a word.

“Arms,” she would say, as if she was asking for groceries. I would sit on the chair and if I moved an inch as she burnt out each match on my skin, she would— “No, no, Av. Thirty seconds more every time. It’s the only way to get under that thick skin of yours,” she chuckled to herself, thinking that sweet smile made everything she did all right. I was supposed to be her little girl. Every day was a struggle to contain the anger and sadness, but every day came the glass bottles, the strange mix of burnt language through the drywall, and the cigarette smoke from the front yard, and I couldn’t hold the quiet. There was no quiet to hold. But only the quiet, and a few paint supplies and colors, could calm me and reset my face to its original color. None of which I had.

The call came in the middle of study group. My face flushed, I ran outside, put my phone in a tree, and lit it on fire until the yard of golden, fall leaves lit up in flames.

Life had been a constant wave of desperation falling over me, and my mother’s death was the only escape I had. No sadness had befallen me, only the silent prayers that If you exist, God, put her somewhere where she doesn’t hate her life—But make her realize what she has done to me, please.

I left a bloody painful life that broke me slowly from the inside and now I am determined to live. And by the God that

I pray exists, who wills me to believe that my mother wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t simply decompose into the ground when she dies, I will.

Someday, I hope, she feels what I felt.

This city is quite empty; it is pretty and quaint and no one talks to me. No one follows me in the shadows. No one expects anything of me. I do my work, deposit my paychecks, buy groceries and vinyl and paint supplies. No monster exists here and neither does Mum. I watch birds sit on lines and wonder why they come here too, when there are no people to feed them, no rustle to intrigue them. I find that it is because they are like me. They donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t find empty to be so bad; it means no predators, no obstacles, no expectation to be or not be anywhere. Just a place they can stay. A quiet they can keep.

They set me up like a doll in a city with people with eyes like lions,

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In a Minute

By Celine Littlejohn

But you were just there Not too long ago My lungs feel no air-Why’d you have to go?

I can’t explain how I feel You were close, and yet so far You almost didn’t seem real With my thoughts, you’re up to par

But how can this be real?

Has not quite sunk in yet I don’t know how to feel This is a dream, I’ll bet

Like a voice of the voiceless You actually vowed for change Spectacular, I confess Touching all to a wide range

The news is starting to break Facebook posts and Twitter trends Is it real or is it fake?

Where’s the word from all your friends?

Activist and talented Handsome personality Messages people chanted Showed the true reality

Your face splashed in front of me With two dates there, not just one And my heart then sank, you see To above you had to run

But then you’re only human You can relate to us all Act like any other man Relate like friends I can call

A monster of a disease A horrific accident To continue on would cease I’m wondering where you went

You may be known, world famous Or you may be my classmate Far from an ignoramus Please tell me it’s not too late

Thoughts were racing through my mind Of all the things never done Your style is a hard find Your departure left us stunned

It’s a sensitive topic One we can all relate to Too quick time begins to tick The inevitable blue

How could one so far away Brighten feelings everyday?

The soothing sounds of your voice Fall in love, the only choice

My lungs exploded with air Is this from tears or panic?

Look around, I did not dare So I slammed my eyes shut quick

22 |

Sealed from the reality Yet embraced with outside love We are not alone, I see Fit together like a glove

Life can change in a minute Say I love you and often Going beyond that limit Accomplished, hearts shall soften

Why does it take this event?

To draw each other closer The love we had always meant Should show more to him or her My eyes were soon wide awake Inside a familiar room But my thoughts were far from fake Then that fear began to loom This had been real far too much From the famous to the close Universal tragic touch Can affect more than the most Still mourning for the past loss They’re forever loved and missed All boundaries they would cross Their care you could not resist Things we may not understand To a better place they’ll go Together we take a stand Share more love from our cargo With only one life to live Go out and meet that person Whether close or far just give And the mood will not worsen Tragedy struck, you missed them Don’t let it happen again Moments like a precious gem Meeting such amazing men See that concert, meet artists Courage to speak to your crush You’re shocked at those shared interests Get an adrenaline rush

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Not According to Plan

by KYmberli Skye READER DISCRETION ADVISED: CONTENT CONTAINS GRAPHIC SEXUAL VIOLENCE The red sun streams fierce, golden light across the white bathroom; it’s ironic that the sun is so pretty and rosy because of pollution. Do things get more beautiful when they are polluted and corrupted? Or is its beauty diminished by the impurity? I feel impure. Tainted. Polluted. Why does the sun get to be so beautiful through the pollution, but I feel so filthy? So soiled. So unworthy of anything.

I stare and wait for the results. I’ve never been so scared and nervous in my life. I’m trying to pass a test I didn’t study for. I didn’t even get the lesson. My heart throbs in my temples and my stomach churns. I wasn’t this nervous taking my driver’s exam. Even taking AP tests wasn’t this stressful. This is worse than anything I’ve ever experienced. Yes, even worse than that. How did I get here? When did everything go wrong?

I remember the first day of second grade. I had my hair in pigtails. I wore bright, blue shorts; they were my favorite. I met Jessie that day. She skipped up to me on the swings. We talked and giggled, and then we took turns pushing each other on the swings. The bell rang and we skipped to class. We walked in and looked at our teacher.

It was Mr. Watts.

My heart beats faster and I try to open my eyes, but my brain keeps going. Memories begin to flash in my mind, gaining momentum with each memory. And my nightmare continues: In sixth grade, I met Carson behind the gym to compare math homework like we always did. This time he brought me a pretty, pink flower. I smiled, he blushed. He told me I was as pretty as the pink flower, and I was the smartest kid in class. Then he leaned forward and softly kissed my lips. I opened my eyes, and Mr. Watts was smiling back at me. Then in eighth grade, as my name was called at graduation, I walked across the stage and shook Mr. Watts’ hand, and he winked at me as he handed me the certificate. Freshmen year, as Dad and I

24 |

sat desperately waiting for the doctor’s word on my mother’s cancer, Mr. Watts turned the corner, wearing a white coat and scrubs. He looked at us and explained the severity of my mother’s cancer and said she would most likely die. He was the funeral organizer. He was one of the gravediggers. He was one of my therapists.

He was the judge that handed me my first place trophy for cross-country. He was the photographer at prom.

That guy at the shoe store. The pimply blonde at the smoothie shop.

He was my senior biology teacher.

He asks me to go look at his library in the back room.

Stupid girl, why did you go to the back closet? I casually browse the books; my finger runs along the multicolored spines. Books about space and the universe, biology, chemistry. I hear his footsteps approach. Can’t you feel that something is wrong? Isaac Newton, Einstein, black holes. “Madilyn, it’s such a pretty name,” his gentle voice says, but there is a certain twinge in it that I don’t recognize. Get out! Cells, organisms, energy chains, chemical decomposition, genetics. Click. I turn

me. Pain and terror surge inside me and then begin to pulse with his motions. His body moves faster; he licks the tear off my cheek as he pounds relentlessly into me.

With every deepening push, I feel him splitting my soul. He shrieks with ugly pleasure as he comes inside me, and his eyes flicker with excitement.

“No!” I scream in my lonely bathroom. I open my eyes and jump to my feet. The instrument beeps in my hand. I have my answer. I take a breath, and tears form in my eyes before I even know the answer. Tears for relief or fear, I’ll find out in a second. I look down and see my answer in two blue lines.

Pregnant.

My heart drops, and a sob wells up inside me. I cover my mouth with my hand and clutch my stomach. A little Mr. Watts is growing inside me. Instantly, my stomach turns upside down and spills my lunch into the toilet. Vomit burns my throat, but I don’t really feel it. I fall to the linoleum and tears stream down my face.

The cold tiles cool my hot skin but I don’t really notice

Every ounce of fear, hatred, confusion, and pain is gone. around and see his gentle face morph into something ugly and distorted. He slowly circles around me like a predator, getting closer and closer to me with every measured step. Fear paralyzes me. He whispers a threat in my ear, “scream and you die,” the sleight-of-hand.

He grabs my throat; large fingers squeeze my airways and I struggle to breath. He outlines the zipper on my sweater. Why aren’t you moving? He slowly drags the zipper down, enjoying the build-up. He squeezes my throat tighter; I feel his body grow as he touches mine.

Confused and terrified, tears begin to well up in my burning eyes. This can’t be happening. In an instant, he throws me to the ground. He growls and climbs on top of me. I feel his other hand slither down my body and unbutton my pants. I try to scream, but his grip tightens. I try to move, but he pins my legs down under his. He sneers as he surveys my body. He laughs.

He laughs as he slithers off my jeans. He laughs as he rips off my underwear. He laughs as he unbuckles his belt and unzips his pants. He laughs as he slips inside

it. My body is shaking uncontrollably.

I don’t understand. How could this have happened?

This isn’t real. This is just a terrible dream that I’m going to wake up from. Every girl has “the pregnant dream” at least once in her life. And this is mine. It has to be. This cannot possibly be real. But suddenly, I feel that it is real. That every event in my life has lead me to this very moment. That somehow he orchestrated everything in my life so that I would be the perfect girl for him.

Fear grips my throat and I stutter out pleas for help.

“Oh, Mom,” I whisper, “Mom, please help me! I’m so scared!” Now I’m sitting in the bathroom talking to no one. Begging my dead mother for help. But I don’t care.

“Mom, I’m so scared. I’m too young to have a baby! I’m not ready for this. It’s not fair!” I scream. My head is pounding. Fear and anger blur into one thin stream of sanity. “Why did he do this to me? What have I done

| 25

wrong in this life? Why is this happening?” Huge wails of frustration and horror dribble out of my mouth, “Please help me, Mom. I don’t know what to do. And I’m so scared.”

I clutch my knees and cry harder. All of my emotions pour out of my body until there is nothing left to cry out. Every ounce of fear, hatred, confusion, and pain is gone. I feel nothing anymore. Empty. But my brain keeps going. Funny how that works; it defies logic or reason. Just when you think that everything is gone, you feel that instinct that keeps you from giving in.

That instinct that forces you to adapt and live, instead of allowing the linoleum floor to swallow you whole.

A baby. I’m having a baby. Mr. Watt’s baby. My senior biology teacher’s baby. He is growing inside me. What do I do now? I mean, what should I do? Should I keep the baby? Get an abortion? Give it up for adoption? I don’t want to get an abortion, but how can I keep the baby. So many questions, make it stop. But it doesn’t.

Can I be a mother? Am I ready to be a mother? Should I tell Mr. Watts? What will he say? What would he do?

My head throbs in my temple and my throat tightens.

Someone is bound to notice eventually; you can’t hide a baby when you’re eight months pregnant. And someone will inquire about the father. Then what? What is this going to do to my future? I can’t go to college if I keep the baby. Is that what I want?

How can this be happening?

This isn’t what I wanted.

I never asked for this – never wanted this.

After what seems like an eternity, I stand up and look in the mirror. Suddenly, I realize how dark it is; the red sun is long past the pretty horizon. I turn on the harsh, synthetic light, which is not flattering to begin with, but it makes me look even worse. But then again, maybe I do look like complete shit. My eyes are bloodshot and puffy. My nose and cheeks are blotchy and flushed.

I’m not a pretty crier. I look different somehow, but it’s not that vibrant skin glow that everyone says a pregnant woman has. This is something uglier. More corrupted. I don’t glow or look vibrant. My hair is knotted and greasy. My skin looks plastered against my wiry

26 |

frame. Is my body even capable of having a baby?

I look down at my stomach. How long is it before a woman starts to show? It’s February now, and this happened in December. So I’m two months pregnant.

I can’t graduate before it’s obvious I’m pregnant. And what do I do after graduation? I can’t go to Redlands with a baby. I can’t even go to a UC if I have a baby.

Tears well up in my eyes again. My perfectly planned future is destroyed because of what he did to me. My life is ruined because of what he did to me.

I begin to stroke my stomach. A baby. An innocent, perfect baby. Suddenly, my heart swells – or perhaps it splits in two: one for me and one for my unborn child. Then, that second heart swells into something indescribable. Something much stronger than I have known or felt. It swells into something bigger than me, something more important. Tears stream down my cheeks, but I smile. I laugh. I feel that second heart sprout wings. An angel in my belly.

I cannot say how I know, but there are some indescribable things in this world that we just know. Those instincts we have, those impulses. Mine are being pulsed through my veins by this heart in my stomach, and I know.

Every story needs a little light. And this baby could light my dark world.

Slowly, white-golden sunlight pours into the bathroom, igniting the day. Maybe beauty really can come from corruption.

Change, One Pose at a Time Experiencing Trauma-sensitive Yoga and its power to Heal and Inspire

By Kelly Kimball

Photography by Lululemon Atletica

With an old gym bag in one hand and a rolled-up yoga mat in another, I was about to embark on an adventure of self-discovery through trauma-sensitive yoga. The small studio in Irvine, California is warm and inviting, adorned with teal, maroon and gold paintings inspired by eastern culture, and electric with the aroma of scented oils and wax candles. I am greeted with bright and tender smiles before stepping with bare feet into one of three studio rooms to begin my ninety minute yoga session. My first class has officially begun.

Be the Change Yoga studio opened on December 14th, 2013 at Portola Parkway, a precious hub nestled between small neighboring businesses, like a tiny rustic gem in a mountain of sandstone. Founded by Allison Prince and Katie Allen, this studio is currently the first and only donation-based studio and wellness center in all of Orange County, triumphing in the unique practice of trauma-sensitive yoga, among many other things.

Regular yoga and trauma-sensitive yoga have some differences. The former focuses on the aerobic benefits of each pose, often allowing instructors to adjust the

bodies of their students while exercising so that they receive the best fitness results. Trauma-sensitive yoga, however, allows the student to move at their own pace without the touch of an instructor. This is particularly beneficial for yoga programs geared toward students who may have experienced trauma such as sexual violence. Co-authors of the book “Overcoming Trauma through Yoga” David Emerson and Jenn Turner published their thoughts and research on the benefits of yoga therapy and practice: “Placing your hands on a survivor [of trauma] can be incredibly triggering and takes away from the practice being their own.” This allows students to create and re-affirm their own sense of space – to be a beneficiary of their own giving.

“Learn to do everything lightly. Feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them…throw away your baggage and go forward,” recited a calm voice.

Yoga instructor Zabie Khorakiwala trailed on with a soothing narrative from a passage in her yoga journal as students engaged in stretches from “Child’s Pose” to “Warrior.” Each movement dictated an aspect of vin-

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yasa (meaning “to place thoughtfully”) that connected breath to movement. Deep and relaxed breaths filled the dimly lit room like a liberated choir to the sound of gentle acoustic music and exotic instrumentals. Khorakiwala then invited students to think about an intention – something they feel was lacking in their present life, such as love, gratitude or confidence. Students were then invited to breathe into each pose as if fulfilling that intention, one movement at a time.

Intention is the crux of trauma-sensitive yoga practice. Indeed, it has helped students transcend even the darkest of times.

“It’s not so much about the yoga,” states Heather, a sexual assault survivor and participant in an eight week trauma-sensitive yoga program at the University of California, Irvine. For Heather, it was about the companionship with other yoga students and the affirmation that she was not alone on this journey to overcome her obstacles. Achieving self-wellness and validation once again was a long yet beneficial process, one that she continues to this day. She recalls something that Khorakiwala said to her class that changed her life. “[Khorakiwala] said, ‘at this moment, you are enough.

Right now, you need no more and no less from yourself. You are enough right now.’”

The poetic phrase resonated with Heather for reasons even she cannot explain. From that evening and onward, she noticed profound growth in her healing process. She was able to approach daily stressors with less anxiety and more grace. Using it as a constant mantra, Heather was able to approach school work with utter confidence after initially dropping out of classes during her Fall quarter due to her personal obstacles with trauma.

“I’m not sure if this is too personal to say,” she proceeded, “but [before this program] I would be overly intimate with too many people. Since yoga has started, I haven’t been [that way] at all. It’s a huge change for me, because I am okay with who I am now.”

At that moment, Heather started to cry.

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“I’m not crying because I feel bad,” she explained apologetically. “I’m crying because it’s crazy how different I am now.” As a survivor of sexual assault, she learned from yoga to not simply survive, but to thrive.

Yet another participant in this eight week trauma-sensitive yoga program was UC Irvine student Brigit.

Brigit recommends a program of this nature for anyone going through obstacles in their life, asserting, “without this program, I don’t know what would have happened to me.”

Before hearing about the benefits of trauma-sensitive yoga, Brigit found that her past trauma prevented her from focusing in school. However, through her specialized yoga program, she found that she could understand and interpret her feelings better and, as a result, learn to be gentle with herself in the midst of life’s obstacles.

“I was falling to pieces. I was confused and didn’t know who to talk to. But now it’s easier to express what I am feeling. I can take the skills I learned from yoga and take a moment to see a better result instead of suppressing [negative] feelings. The fact that I’m okay now is extremely beneficial.”

In the midst of California’s intense health culture, Be the Change Yoga studio is much more than a fitness center. There is something deeply spiritual about yoga that goes beyond stretching and breathing. Yoga is a passage into the present and an invitation to honor one’s own pace. This specialized program suggests that there is no set amount of time for one to heal or create positive change. Be The Change Yoga, and other studios like it, attempts to create a safe space deep in the present moment and to foster an understanding of the body as an indicator of one’s needs to better fulfill the connection between body and soul.

Although this is easier said than done, the compassion and wisdom shared by instructors like Zabie Khorakiwala make the steps toward wellness and healing a narrative journey. To them, each day is like a gem among sandstones picked up with good intention: genuine, profound, enough.

Calcutta Blues

By Ronit Ghosh READER DISCRETION ADVISED: CONTENT CONTAINS GRAPHIC SEXUAL VIOLENCE

When people ask me how I feel about my city, I tell them to go fuck themselves.

It’s a tough kind of love, a kind where you are never cognizant of where you are and ever unsure whether the clustered buildings will collapse all around you. My earliest memory of being aware of my place in the world was when my father took me on a walk around city middle, and there was a globe that caught my attention. I inspected it thoroughly, and, as children often do, I tried to touch all the different parts. My father explained to me that we were in India. I-N-D-I-A. It was spelled so rosily, I thought at the

time. And he pointed to one dot, a speck. That’s where we are. Kolkata.

I remember thinking wow, the world is so big. How can I explore it all?

And how much of what I do will ever matter?

I am walking down Park Street now, to come home from the tennis courts.

People are complaining about the humidity. I am a sponge. This is the best part of my day. It is drizzling, but still sunny and warm. I open the umbrella my mother reminded me to pack. “With monsoon season, you never know.” Mothers are always right.

I see a friend on the street. We exchange our hellos and goodbyes and we are busy studying for our exams and we should play cricket sometime and get our old gang back together.

These exchanges become cyclical after sometime. I have a firm disbelief that I am conscious of what I am saying. Just as I am about to leave, this friend turns around and tells me one more thing.

“You know that girl who lives next to the Ramakrishna Mission, Aparna? I hear she got raped.” Blood rushes to my head as I nod and walk away.

At home, my parents are talking about it in hushed voices.

“Raped? She is only 19.”

“It’s a shame. Now no one will want to marry her.”

“I feel bad for the family.”

“Remind me to get sweets for Mrs. Sen. We have to stick together at times like these.”

“What is the world coming to? She was a wonderful girl. She must have worked so hard to preserve her virginity. That kind of faith is so uncommon these days.”

She was not a virgin. I had slept with Aparna. She was very tight.

As I listened, I began to feel sorry for myself for having had sex with a girl who had gotten raped. The idea made me feel very dirty. She had such lovely eyes. I imagined them being filled with blood as I went to sleep.

The next day, my parents woke me up early. They told me Aparna had committed suicide. “Perhaps for the better,” my mother whispered. Her mother was crying on the porch of her house. She hugs my mother and

| 29

Photo by: Rita Willaert

me and my father watch. My father doesn’t like watching women cry; it makes him uncomfortable. He walks

used to take to dance class. There is makeup and no eyeliner because she did not need any. There is a picture

plays caram. I like my uncle. He is a free man. We go to the bazaar together to get groceries every

They told me Aparna had committed suicide.

“Perhaps for the better,” my mother whispered. aside and lights a cigarette. Aparna’s mother invites me in. “Come in, come in, Aparna used to tell me what a good boy you are. You used to help her carry her books. They get heavy for girls. I never got a chance to say hi. You can come over whenever you want...” She sporadically cries as she takes us to Aparna’s room.

There’s a new bike that’s barely been ridden. There are bangles that she

30 |

of her taken when she was 15. She is smiling. I want to die. I excuse myself to go downstairs and ask my father if I can go to the bazaar with my uncle. My father says he understands and gives me some money to buy fruit.

My uncle likes to remove himself from the city life. He has a few friends. He smokes and drinks and

Saturday and we talk about things like cricket.

“Ah, but you’re a tennis player. It’s fine! Cricket may be God’s sport, but tennis is the next best thing. Who is that man? Roger Federer. He is great. He looks like a prince. Play like him.” I tell him I will. I ask him if people deserve second chances.

“Depends on the crime,” he says

thoughtfully.

There is a beggar on Park Street He is asking me for money. I look at my uncle. “Here, here. Promise me you’ll work for your next rupee.”

“Yes boru babu” he says, staring into the coin.

I pick out some bananas and oranges. It’s hard to find good ones during this season, but I try. My mother scolds me if I bring home bad fruit. “What will your wife think?

That your parents were bums who were not even fit to tell you what a good banana looks like.” Her words circle around my head as I go to pick a ripe one. After bargaining, I have money left over.

“Spend it well kid. I won’t tell.” My uncle winks at me and leaves the bazaar. I try to find a flower shop nearby and it starts to rain again.

Today I forgot my umbrella.

--As I walk back home, I see Tej Majumdar. I never liked Tej; he reminded me of an animal. But he was much bigger than me, so I respected him.

He looks smaller than I last remembered him. He has a bottle in his hand -it is half finished. He comes up to me.

“You’ve got to help me. Please,” he says. He is terrified. I ask him what’s wrong and he says that he’s being hunted down for murder. “I didn’t

mean to. She was so beautiful, I didn’t know that she would do this to herself.” My eyes widen, and the night dims. I ask him to take me to his room so I can help him take care of his guilt. He lives alone with his cat, Mr. Hansel. Mr. Hansel was notorious for having an affinity for the color red. The boys around called him “Raging Bull” Hansel when Tej was not around. His bottle shatters.

A cat shrieks. Night falls.

I come home 10 minutes late and I apologize to my mother. She asks me why my shirt has a tinge of red and I answer that it was always red.

She sees flowers and asks me if they are for a girlfriend and I answer yes without blinking and she frowns. “Is something wrong? Aakash?”

They say the monsoon rain cleanses those who need it, but I kept dreaming in red.

Aparna’s ashes are burned two weeks later. Her mother says some stranger left the most beautiful roses next to her ashes. I finish packing. I tell my father that I am going to Dehli for a college trip. The Rajhasthani Express. Our eyes meet.

My uncle drops me off in the station.

He smiles.

“Remember moksh. Aakash.”

The train sirens go off and I, with my suitcase in hand, think of a new city. I think of where I grew up, and went around my neighborhood on the shoulders of my relatives.

And how I walked around for days during the wintertime when cherry blossoms were in their final bloom.

The smoke. The ashes. All blanketed under the starless skies of Kolkata and its yogic nature. It all must come back to you in the end. What you’ve done. No Ganges can make you a blank slate. No new city can erase from where you’ve come. And yet as I left that train, I could only wonder one thing.

What were they going to do with Aparna’s bike? itra to P ho

Arind by:

am M

“The world is changing. But in this change, every point of your life is some measure of infinity. What you do in some way or another will invariably affect someone else’s destiny. Someone, somewhere, will always care. You are my only son, and I want you to know that this old man’s pride lies with you. Please don’t take that for granted.”

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Disposable Camera,

By Michelle Oberoi

Once the swarm of tourists invaded Piazza San Marco, I set off to explore the residential islands. It was refreshing to see how Venetians live.

32 |

Eternal Memories There I was in Piazza del Duomo, Florence before Lorenzo Ghiberti’s Gates of Paradise. As I tried taking a picture of the majestic plaza, my beloved Nikon D5000 had reached its shutter-life. My heart sank, but instead of mourning for my loss I bought a disposable camera and continued through my journey across Italy; I had landed in Naples, taken a train to Pompeii, followed by another to Rome, another to Florence, and anticipated an overnight train to Venice later that evening. I proceeded to capture every fascinating corner with the impending anticipation of developing the film to reveal a physical image of places I had seen and experienced. Above is a pseudopanoramic shot of Florence, Italy taken atop Piazzale Michelangelo where Michelangelo’s masterpiece “David” resides. After jostling amongst strangers in a tiny train cabin for eight hours, I was greeted to a 5 A.M. Venice sunrise accompanied with empty corridors and bridges, and the iconic gondolas awaiting their forthcoming voyage with travelers from all over the world.

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This is the language that I speak

By Julie Chapa and Sandy Ortiz

34 |

This is the language that I speak Toma muchos modos I talk about my past, present, my future Mis esperanzas y mis sueĂąos Sometimes I tell the truth A veces digo mentiras But what you have to understand Es que mi lenguaje es mio I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t need to please you Este es el lenguaje que yo hablo It takes many forms Hablo de mi pasado, presente, y mi futuro My hopes and my dreams A veces digo la verdad Sometimes I tell lies Pero lo que tienes que entender Is that my language is mine No te tengo que agradar This is the language that I speak | 35

A Dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Beginning

By Alexi Fehlman 36 |

The hollow night hung over the city like a blanket over a bird cage, making vague reflections of light scatter onto shadows and stretching the window frames across the dark wooden floor. Danny woke up in a fever and sat wrapped in a blanket on the edge of his bed. His body shivered as if in a seizure. His long, black hair fell over the front and covered the whole of his face. All sleep had left his broken body as he sat in ailing misery, staring down at his bare toes and moaning under his breath.

“Why do I suffer for Adam’s sin?” he mumbled to himself in the grating voice of a sick man.

Danny forced his body to his feet, taking short steps toward the kitchen with the blanket over the top of his head. His eyes turned all colors into gray, making the patterns on the walls shift to different shapes.

He poured himself a cup of cold water from the faucet, and felt its burn rip through his dry throat and into his medicated stomach. He lifted his eyes and noticed a thin line trickling down from the corner of the mouth to his neck, soaking his already drenched shirt. His eyes involuntarily fixed on the shelf above the sink. It was horizontal to the counter. Suddenly, the shelf shifted, and Danny watched his mind crash the glass of sugar to the floor. The white crystals scattered like ash stirred in a fire.

He patiently made his way back to his bed, still holding the empty glass cup in his right hand. Danny dragged his bare feet across the floor as a wooden splinter dug

itself right under his big toe, like a blind mole in a potato field. He felt the pain, razor sharp, rush to his head. But he stood indifferently. An abrupt thought of a banana came to his mind. Split into two pieces, then four, then nine, then seventeen, and once again became one.

Danny parted his deathly, dry lips and whispered in a raspy voice of an old man, “Free will, why have you left me?”

He gently laid his body down on the wrinkled sheets of his bed and curled his legs all the way to his chest, looking like a useless, crumpled up sheet of paper. The pupils of his eyes twitched, resembling the nerves of a dead animal. He felt as if he was being drowned from the inside out. The slits of his eyes forced themselves open, catching the rusty, closed knob of the window. He had never attempted to open the glass to let in the fresh air; it had remained abandoned ever since he moved into this apartment.

The mind became curious, and waterfalls of bright chemicals rushed into the proper parts of his brain.

Danny imagined opening the latch and releasing the stale, imprisoned air outside. He saw himself looking over the edge, four stories down, onto a completely empty street, and with a slight push of his feet, he would be on his way down. The silky breeze that drifted over the skin of his face made him smile, while his soul looked down at his lifeless and bloodied body, laying alone and unnoticed in the night.

He felt the muscles of his face

stretch out into a vague, rubber band smile, quickly contracting itself closed, resembling a metal trap holding the bloodied paw of a wolf.

An image of his ex-wife standing beside her new husband involuntarily threaded itself into his head.

He thought of how his life might be if he had done even one thing differently. Surely it all couldn’t have been for nothing, the whole of his life’s existence all boiling down to his death. Here, in a forgotten apartment, amongst dirty sheets of linen and lead infested walls, a place where the weight of gravity left one crawling on all fours like an animal.

Danny once again lifted himself out of bed and onto his feet. He walked straight ahead, stopping in front of a wall covered in pasty green wallpaper. Sparks flew, and he remembered reading about a woman who, in her delusion, saw magnificent bugs crawling out of her walls. He was completely unconscious, still and quiet, and, all at once, lost the entire function of his senses. The heart spit away a burst of blood and pumped loudly; his muscles started to twitch, and, in a sudden fit, he became frantic. Not knowing what to do, he licked the surface with his tongue.

Danny caught his own reflection in the mirror that hung across the room and watched the twin image eat away at his flesh, imagining the pain, feeling each cell splitting beneath his skin. The tips of his fingers threw the mirror to the ground; the shattering sound was a symphony to Danny’s ears. The bits of glass lay scattered across the

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floor. He shoved the broken pieces into the sink, sticking his hand deep into the mouth of the garbage disposal. It was out of his control; he prayed that it would not turn itself on as he dug the glass deeper.

His nerves stood on edge as he felt the sharp teeth of the metal that were made to spin and tear. He wanted to get his hand out, but he could not. Sweat dripped down his face, his eyes turned yellow, and, suddenly, he forgot about his hand as he was distracted by a tiny speck of dust that was floating next to his eye. He watched it settle on the surface of his black pupil; it was quickly washed away by the salt of his tears.

of escaping from his skin filled his mind; taking the gun and filling it with bullets made him squeal with joy. A child on Christmas morning! He pinched his eyes shut. His fingers twitched with excitement like wild bursts of confetti on New Year’s Eve. Danny woke up to the bright rays of light shining vigorously into his eyes. He got himself to his feet and stretched his body while looking at the lively morning scene that stood in front of his window. He felt great, and quickly rushed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of fresh coffee. With his lips, Danny hummed a familiar tune, making his way into the office. He placed himself in front of his brand new typewriter, which he just bought a few days ago. A piece of paper hung from its top. It was completely blank except for the title, which read “A Man and His Fever.” From the office, his eyes caught the sight of the gun lying on his bedroom floor, surrounded by wasted bullets. Gravity pulled the cup of coffee to the ground, making the glass scatter into a sea of marbles. Danny’s legs gave out and the sight of his own blood left him choking on the floor.

His hollowed legs once again carried him to bed, and his empty hands forcefully wrapped his soul in thick layers of cotton so tight that his cigarette-scratched lungs lost all sight of air and panicked to find a single breath. Danny’s thoughts remembered that one time, when he was in a pathetic art gallery, a woman told him of her unborn children. She said they knew nothing, but could count every single freckle on her face. They added them up to equal sixty-seven. He began to cry like a child, until sweat poured from his brow, Danny opened his eyes, awakened and beautiful, purple veins protrud- by the violent sound of a ringing ed from the temples right above his telephone. ears.

“The gun…give me my gun,” he quaintly said to himself; the thought of finding it made his lips spasm into a smile. Danny’s ivory teeth appeared from beneath his lips; his heartbeat began to resemble that of a dead man. Thoughts

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By Laura Blockhus

Deathly Christmas

I

don’t want to be here.

Isn’t Christmas supposed to be a happy time? Aren’t you supposed to feel relaxed? Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying the free food and family bonds?

So, when did it become like this?

I’m at her bedside, forced to be sociable. I’m supposed to be enjoying her company. I’m supposed to be happily chitchatting about my past year. But, the silence is so deafening I can barely hear myself think.

You’d need a butcher knife to cut the tension in the air. For something so imaginary it seems so thick. So heavy. Eyes interested in everything but the subject. Air suffocating me. I feel immobile, I feel awkward. I don’t know what to say.

“Hello, Grandma,” I mumble in forced formality, playing with the corner of the bed sheet in an effort to explain my lack of eye contact. My fingers feel guilty, as the bed sheet twists and writhes under their control.

my obligation to be civil. Frozen by the feel of her cold, dark, dead eyes on me. Frozen by the weight of her expectation of a response.

I know she’s scowling. She’s always scowling.

I’m breaking under the pressure of her glowering aura. I’m running out of places to stare uninterestedly at. I’m running out of ways to stall.

I stop.

My eyes flicker to her face.

The sheet flees my palms to lie wrinkled on the bed. I stare down at my open hands. I’m not quite yet aware that I’m frowning.

I look away.

There isn’t anything to say.

“Hello,” she croaks back a terse reply. Her voice is like nails on a chalkboard, raking ruthlessly deep lines into my cerebellum. I want to close my eyes. I want to cover my ears. I want to run away.

But I can’t. I know I can’t. I’m frozen. Frozen by

I can’t bear to look at her for longer than a few seconds. So overbearingly cold, so bitter, so lifeless.

Yet I can’t escape it.

I’m not looking but I can still see. It’s still floating behind my eyelids. It’s still permanently etched into my subconscious.

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I can recall it with perfect clarity. The face that seems to be made up of only harsh angles and angry contrasts. Eyes that are made of pitch-black coals seem permanently narrowed into a thin, dark, suspicious glare. Her nose protrudes oddly from her face, rather like that of the typical Halloween mask. There is no exception in her mouth, a taut thin line, crooked and wrinkled. I have no memory of her ever smiling, but I expect her teeth would only follow the same, sharply warped pattern of the rest of her face.

Her mouth parts no more than a millimeter to let out a long, rattling breath. I need not look to know her expression hasn’t changed. I need not see to know she is getting angry. It’s been far too long since I’ve said anything.

My muscles tense. My fingers close together.

My brain follows suit. I can’t think. Well, that is, I can’t think of anything meaningful.

I can suppose she has bedsores from lying down all day. I can infer that the reason she doesn’t walk is merely because she doesn’t want to. I can wonder how she manages to relieve herself if she refuses to move. I can question whether or not she has always been like this.

I can reflect on how uncomfortable visits between us have become. But most of all, I can know without a doubt my parents will scold me for my antisocial tendencies.

I open my mouth, but I might as well have just kept it closed. We both know there is nothing left to be said. But she seems to want to keep me here. She seems too cruel to ever let me escape.

The seconds tick by like hours, each moment adding more invisible weight to my shoulders.

Until at last, when all hope seems lost, I am spared: “Get yourself something to eat. I’m tired,” she demands in the same scratchy voice, the only voice she ever seems to have. The veil is lifted, if only momentarily. I see my chance at freedom and I take it, rushing out of the room as fast as my small legs can carry me.

I don’t want to be here.

Sitting on the carpeted stairs, I’m a whole room away from my grandma.

But, it’s still too close.

My fancy dress itches my legs as I sit with my favorite aunt on the carpeted steps. Not even her warmth can break the icy tension in this place.

“Laura,” She says in her warm, joking way, but the frigid air warps my name and gives me

40 |

goose bumps. I can sense a deeper meaning to this secret stair meeting. “I want you to promise me something.”

I nod my head once quickly. The suspense holds me. What could she want? My brain searches frantically for an optimistic answer in the cold silence, but comes up chillingly empty-handed.

Fear seeps into the bottom of my gut. Her warm, brown eyes are serious as they lock on to mine. She has my full attention.

Or about as full as it can be here. There is always a part of me nervously aware of the oppressiveness of this house. There is always a part of me nervously aware of my grandma, grumpily lying in her bed.

“Never let me get old,” Mary pleads suddenly, her stressed voice failing to reach the light tone she had clearly meant it to have. “I need you to promise me. When I’m bedridden, when I’m…”

She pauses, glancing once in the direction we can both feel my grandma’s relentless presence.

She closes her eyes and lets out a shaky breath.

Even she can feel the weight. Even she can feel the tension.

“I don’t want you to let me continue… living.

It wouldn’t really be living. You know?” She finishes with a small twitch upward to the corner of her mouth. It’s clearly meant to be a smile. It’s clearly not working.

She looks me in the eye, unwilling to continue.

She’s hoping I’m old enough to understand but just young enough that I don’t comprehend.

I’m confused. I know she’s serious, but her motivation seems impossible. I have so much of my own life to live, I can’t imagine willingly cutting it short. I can’t grasp the reasoning behind this plea when it’s just in the next room.

Her smile can’t hide the fear of her own future.

It lingers there in the furthest reaches of her dark brown eyes. It taunts me, the way she runs a nervous hand through her short, dark brown hair.

I want to say something comforting, but there are no words. I’m faintly aware of the possibility that my aunt’s loud-by-nature voice has carried into the next room, into unwanted ears. I’m faintly aware of a new, knowing silence emanating from that side of the hall.

I ignore it.

I try to say something, but the air catches in my throat, the weight of the situation is not lost on me. In fact, it paralyzes me almost as much as my grandma’s glare. I feel like it has wrapped itself around my neck and slowly started to squeeze. I feel like I’m being strangled.

Mary can see this.

“You watch all those murder shows right? You’ll know just how to hide the evidence! You’ll know just how to stump ’em! ” She’s joking, but she’s clearly serious.

I look away, eyes tracing the uninteresting patterns in the fuzzy stair carpeting. She knows she’s gone too far. I know she’s gone too far. But we’ll never admit it.

I gather my senses. It’s time to put back on the mask of civility. It’s time to begin once again the charade of happiness that is my Christmas. It’s time to attempt to hide what I’m really feeling from the world.

Raising my head, I try to reassure her. I try to erase the fear and confusion in my eyes. I try to mimic her happy-go-lucky smile.

But really all I can think about were those last two sentences.

It wouldn’t really be living. You know?

Because I do know.

Words of Acceptance

By Diane Phung I have a confession to make: I do not remember ever...

Being called cute or anything similarAfter the birth of a younger sibling And that was when I was two.

I was never called good-lookingNot in my memory Never fair, lovely, or attractive, Neither beautiful, stunning nor gorgeous.

And if you were to inquire my brothers, Heh, they’ll tell you, I’m the unsightliest one of all.

So I stopped caring about my dress.

Stopped window-shopping, Thirty-dollar garments I couldn’t afford.

I didn’t care if I sweat Or about my matted, messy tresses.

But today is an emerging day.

I am a girl turning into an adult.

It is a revelation and I do careAt least, more than when I didn’t.

My hair is brushed, My garments are selected with care And Presentable is my coat.

There comes a time when one realizes, That they know themselves best, That no one knows them better, Or can fully understand their state To care as much as they themselves can.

But whether it is because The time has come For the awkward age to pass, Or because I care and allotted more timeMore acts of self-consciousnessI was called “pretty.”

-Without makeup.

And my world flips.

Am I? Maybe.

For my aesthetic qualities Have never aligned With today’s definition of beauty.

Most people call me skinny, But I never saw a model-flat belly Only an average 1960’s thin body.

Some say they like my hair and its reddish tint But I am not convinced I think it is plain and an easily tangled mess.

-What is this red glow they speak of?

But pity me not, I need no lies.

I have never been called cute.

Never fair, lovely, or attractive, Beautiful, stunning, or gorgeous...

Perhaps just yet.

But it’s alright.

I may be plain in Jane Austen’s eye But I shall not complain Nor worry About this lack Instead, I shall live my days With a princess’s grace.

If, however, I ever were to be called gorgeous, With all sincerity and frankness, I think I will remember it.

But first, I might stumble and fall And st-stutter, and sincerely question it in mind.

But all kidding aside, I do not care, (Except sometimes) For I truly hope someone can Find beauty even when no one else can.

And if that quest for beauty begins with me, Then so let it be.

But today, I suppose, “Pretty” is pretty good.

And “Gorgeous” is just another word.

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Mirrors

The Mirroring of Intertwined Pressured Interiorities in Anne Sexton’s “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs”

By Jennifer Wu 42 |

“Looking glass upon the wall, Who is the fairest of us all?

And the mirror would reply, You are the fairest of us all.

Pride pumped in her like poison.”

I

n Anne Sexton’s “Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs,” the mirror reflects “truth.” Modern society defines this truth as the physical beauty of a woman, which creates a pressured interiority that drives her to an unhealthy obsession with fulfilling society’s standards. By reflecting a physical exterior—the “truth” of society’s beauty—the mirror creates pressured interiorities within women. This magical mirror is not only the source of the Killer Queen’s obsession, but also the connection to her stepdaughter, Snow White. The unseen pressured interiorities are personal and blend into both women. The Killer Queen and Snow White are both trapped in separate pressured interiorities that are inevitably intertwined at the same time.

The “Proclaimer” of Beauty The mirror holds an extreme amount of power, dictating the definition of beauty. The Killer Queen’s magic mirror is “a mirror that proclaimed/ the one beauty of the land” (ll.

26-27). The act of “proclaiming” is authoritative. Because of the mirror’s powerful, magical hold, women “refer” to the mirror in order to examine their physical beauty (ll.

162). By having the authority to proclaim “the one beauty,” the mirror itself has more power than the Killer Queen herself. The mirror’s power is sustained by proclamations and the Killer Queen’s reliance parallels to society’s “truth,” revealing the power of being beautiful. Trying to retain the title of the “one beauty” creates pressure for the Killer Queen. When the Killer Queen sees the “brown spots on her hand/and four whiskers over her lip,” the terror of aging forces down on her (ll. 40-41). Seeing her decaying exterior from “brown spots” and “the four whiskers,” she becomes submissive to her mirror’s authority, the proclaimer of beauty. The physical symptoms of her aging seem to confirm the mirror’s truth—that she is no longer beautiful like before. When the mirror shows the Killer Queen her imperfections caused by aging, she is allowing the mirror to define what beauty is, increasing her obsession with “beauty.” The mirror’s focus on the exterior reflects society’s value of youth and beauty—being “slim” and having “white” skin (ll. 50). Ironically, because the focus of the exterior

creates pressure on the interior mind, the Killer Queen’s fear of aging translates into attacking Snow White because of her youth, creating another form of pressure on Snow White to hide—the looming danger of jealousy from someone you surpass in beauty. In today’s society, the fear of aging is mostly implanted in women, exposing the desire to cling onto youth and mask signs of aging. Like the queen, many women fear aging because they might feel less empowered, allowing youthful desires to dominate their mind. Even if the Killer Queen manages to kill Snow White, the danger of jealousy will come up again whenever another young beauty threatens her, creating an endless cycle of unquenched thirst for youthful beauty. In addition, she will not even regain her youth through Snow White’s death. The failure to regain her beauty reflects how society’s desires of beauty can be empty and purposeless.

Consuming Interiorities The mirror, the creator of societal pressure of beauty, induces the Killer Queen to trap herself in her fear of losing her beauty, in competition with Snow White’s, forming the complex of her internal conflicts. This pressured interiority stems from submissiveness to the mirror’s authority. The more she refers to her mirror, the more obsessed with beauty she becomes. Her obsession reveals her dependency on the mirror. Such dependency is an increase of submission to the mirror. Because she depends on the mirror to confirm her beauty, the mirror weakens her own will power to value her own beauty. The pressure subtly increases. First, she addresses the mirror, “Looking glass upon the wall…/The mirror told/and so the queen dressed herself in rags” (ll. 84-85). Later, “the mirror told./ the queen came” (ll. 114-115). The address of “Looking glass upon the wall” and her act of dressing herself in rags comes from within the queen, expressing an active desire to secure her beauty status. “The mirror told” is not only an act of authority, but also an act of revealing the interiority of what is true beauty, as deemed by society. When the lines, “Looking glass upon the wall” and “dressed herself in rags” disappear, the power of exteriority seem to overpower the interiority of the Killer Queen. However, the removal of the phrases actually conveys a sense of urgency within the

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Killer Queen—the desire to wipe out her competition, Snow White. Here, the mirror drives the focus on the self in the Killer Queen. Dressing “herself in rags” may not be an act of direct submission to the mirror, but it is a symptom of her beauty obsession, which the mirror produces and creates within the Killer Queen. The Killer Queen is driven more to obsess over beauty. This obsession with beauty is an endless, recycled desire in society. Each time, the Killer Queen’s deadly attacks on Snow White become more urgently displayed, going from the exterior (physically choking a lace tightly around Snow White and placing a poisonous comb into Snow White’s hair) to interior (the consumption of the poison apple). The failure of the exterior attacks and the more successful interior attack on Snow White reveal the power of the increasing pressured interiorities over the exterior—what the mirror tries to emphasize.

Blinding Exteriors Snow White herself has her own pressured interiority— trapping herself in the fear of the Killer Queen. She encloses herself in the “safety” of the seven dwarfs’ cottage. Although both Killer Queen and Snow White “listen” to what they are “told,” Snow White takes on a passive role of hiding and avoiding when the Killer Queen actively schemes to attack her. The dwarfs “asked her to stay and keep house” and “[to] not open the door,” and yet Snow White still opens the door, not knowing she is actually facing the Killer Queen (ll.

77,82). Here the attraction of the exterior overpowers Snow White’s pressured interiority, leading her to drop her guard, her fear of the Killer Queen. The act of opening the door expresses an interior will of the mind and also an act of stepping out into the exterior. Stepping out into the exterior world may seem to be proactive, so that she is not allowing pressured interiorities to trap her. However, Snow White becomes blinded by the beautiful exteriors of the gifts that the Killer Queen sells. By being blinded by the “beauty” of exteriors, Snow White ironically still remains passive, falling for the pretense of safety in the exterior beauty of laces, combs, and apples prepared by the Killer Queen. Because the mirror proclaims that there can only be “one beauty,” the standard of society, Snow White and the Killer Queen are at odds against each other. The Killer Queen’s obsession to remain as the One Beauty inevitably drives her to her hysterical end, temporarily allowing Snow White to be the One Beauty at the end. There is only room for One Beauty.

This idea of being the One Beauty, not one of the beauties, is the cause of Snow White’s pressured interiority. Even though she leaves the enclosing cottage with the dwarfs, she steps into and traps herself in another enclosing building— becoming the next Queen to “hold court” (ll. 160). In her

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new position of holding court, she is still trapped by the same pressures of her society on the concept of beauty.

Reflections Snow White’s fate, on the surface level, differs from that of the Killer Queen; however they share a similar bond in the reflection of beauty. It is because of her exterior beauty that Snow White becomes targeted, and it is because of the obsession with beauty that the Killer Queen throws away her dignity, disregarding any consequences in her urge to eliminate Snow White. She does not care for her dignity in her murderous journey, thinking that the death of Snow White will bring back her ultimate beauty status.

Beauty then becomes central to trapping both women in their pressured interiorities. Behind all of this, the mirror is the dominating, guiding force that draws the stepmother and the stepdaughter out of enclosed interior spaces.

Once more, the mirror has a dual function, trapping both women and luring them out. The role of the mirror is central to these two women’s relationship, instigating the battle between Snow White and the Killer Queen by merely “speaking” to communicate and reflect True Beauty in society. Glass can be fragile, but it can also be sharp and harmful, just like spoken words. Words can also be very delicate, but strongly moving at the same time. Just one sentence—“but Snow White is fairer than you”—tears the Killer Queen apart, provoking her to venture on an obsessive journey with beauty. Not only does the mirror drive the Killer Queen to focus on herself, but the mirror also indirectly pushes Snow White to focus on her self— worrying for her own safety and coveting material goods.

Snow White’s pressured interiority is more physically confining than the Queen’s. At her “death,” she is enclosed in a glass coffin, “so that all who passed by/could peek in upon her beauty” (ll. 132-133). The glass coffin here is another form of a mirror, allowing not only just women to see beauty, but everyone else, especially men. Both men and women in society help define the “truth” of beauty, trapping many women to succumb to the unhealthy obsession with being beautiful.

Citations Sexton, Anne. “Snow White And The Seven Dwarfs.” Transformations.

New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1971. Print.

Contacts

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Disclaimer: â&#x20AC;&#x153;This publication does not represent the views and/or opinions of the University of California, Irvine; the University of California, the Regents of University of California, and/or its affiliates.â&#x20AC;?

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