Page 1

BOSSIER


“I got really excited that you are establishing yourselves here on campus. What you’re creating is awesome and in dire need here at Georgetown, and basically at all colleges everywhere.” “Your magazine fills a void I didn’t realize was missing at Georgetown—a space to create; something primarily by women, for women, about being a woman in the 21st century. I decided to reach out to the two of you because I can’t imagine not being (or at least trying to be) a part of Bossier.” “Bossier has the potential to become the creative equivalent to a trusted older sister for the entire female population of Georgetown. Someone to whom you can express your views on about gender, feminism, art, literature, politics and more and who will appreciate and validate them and bring you into a community which will do the same.”

Bossier “As a female, Saudi, Muslim woman who is deeply committed to social justice, writing is a way in which I can raise my voice loud enough to overcome centuries of silence, and I would love to bring that passion and dedication to Bossier.” “Creativity can be a form of expressing emotion and perspective that wouldn’t be explained as well in an op-ed, it allows women’s voices to flow unadulterated.” “Girls should be encouraged to be bossier, to take charge and do what they want to do.” “2015 was my year of reading women authors – at the beginning of the year, someone asked me who my favorite writer was, and although I didn’t have one, I rattled off a list of several illustrious men. I think women’s stories and issues need to be spoken and written about a lot more than what they already are, which is why to me, Bossier is one of the most exciting platforms on campus right now. Maybe 2016 can be my year of writing about and for women, instead of simply reading them.”


Editor-in-Chief: Michele Dale Creative Director: Tiffany Tao Layout Director: Dan Rojas Art Director: Jessica Li Business Director: Alexia Fieger Editorial: Elizabeth Cregan, Ceci White-Baer, Madeline Budman, Taylor Riddick, Lana Nauphal Layout: Julia Medellin, Joosje Lupa Photo: Lana Nauphal Video: Maya Fleming Social Media: Ankushi Mitra, Caitlin Peng Web: McLean Corry Outreach: Tan Nazar Cover: K Lee Font: Georgia (body), Fat Frank (title) Contributing writers: Ida Adibi, Tala Al Rajjal, Brittany Arnett, Claire Bilden, Madeline Budman, Lelia Busch, Orunima Chakraborti, Julia Choi, Kesiah Clement, Elizabeth Cregan, Michele Dale, Sonja Erchak, Sara Fares, Katherine Farnam, Maya Fleming, Mae Grewal, Patricia Halle, Iman Hariri-Kia, Sophie Jacobson, Natasha Janfaza, Elizabeth Jaye, Olivia Jimenez, Jubilee Johnson, Ravisa Kalsi, Sofia Lalinde, Joosje Lupa, Anna Nguyen, Mairead O’Brien, Jasmin Ouseph, Caitlin Peng, Emily Quatroche, Veronica Quinonez, Kate Riestenberg, Megan Spinella, Sydney Te Wildt Contributing artists: Cindy Fan, Bella Gerard, Yu Jung Hyun, Jacqueline Kimmell, Andrea Leng, Jessica Li, D’Asia Lipsey, Joosje Lupa, Julia Medellin, Lana Nauphal, Caitlin Peng, Grace Totman, Ceci White-Baer, Christine Yan

The opinions expressed in Bossier Magazine do not necessarily represent the views of Georgetown University unless specifically stated. All content is submitted freely by individuals and may not express the views of the Editorial Board of Bossier Magazine. The university subscribes to the principle of responsible freedom of expression of its student editors.


Yearbook notes | 2 Intro | 3 Masthead | 5 Letters from the editor | 6 Playlist | 7 Behind-the-scenes | 8-9 iPhone art | 10-11 Paris travel diary | 12-13 Julia and Lana | 14-15 War Paint | 16-17 Personal essays | 18-19 Love | 20-26 Heartbreak | 27-33 Self | 34-39 *Loss | 40-41 Growing up | 42-46 Women | 47 Self-care | 48-51 The world | 52-55 Fun | 56 Info | 57-59 Politics | 60-63 Food | 64-69 Mothers | 70-71 Horoscopes | 72-73 Signing off | 74

*This content contains themes related to abuse and relationship violence.


I’ve always associated specific objects and feelings with certain time periods of my life — the end of senior year was eating ice cream on Gwen’s kitchen floor and pink pool floats, freshman fall involved “All My Friends” on repeat, spring break was a sketchy AirBnB rooftop and a red striped T-shirt. In the same way, this semester was most prominently marked by the experiences of putting together this ‘zine. I remember preback to school dread/excitement accompanying the creation of our website, finding out Liz’s interest in a fateful Arrupe runin, getting our first emails of interest. Our first general body meeting took place the day I failed my econ midterm, but I was so happy when we heard the news that someone wanted to start their own version of Bossier and Michele and I tackled each other in the Lau stairway. All of my new DPE sisters are represented somewhere in these pages and I know that many of my best (and new) friendships flourished through creating this ‘zine. The reason I am telling you these details is because I have always considered Bossier to be a publication that is also an “experience.” It’s good to read content and enjoy it, but I hope Bossier goes beyond that to serve as a community of cool gals and a space for important conversations and reflection. I hope that each issue will bookmark the important events of the semester, whether they be significant or small, political or personal — that’s why we have intentionally placed calendars, playlists and journaling spaces throughout the pages. Most importantly, I hope that if you are to revisit this first issue of Bossier some time from now, it will remind you of Fall 2016: the music you loved, the controversies you felt passionately about, the women who inspired you and the woman you are growing to be. Here’s to being bossy, now and always.

Ten months ago I never thought we’d be here – fit snugly in between the magnetic cover page and the exquisitely-designed table of contents. This magazine began as a pipe dream, a stray thought circling through my head during a lecture I was supposed to be listening to. It was born out of a desire to express myself along with a genuine curiosity about my peers. Even though Georgetown has many extraordinary publications, there was truly no place for me to share my innermost thoughts nor hear about the experiences of others. If we as Americans, especially American women, have learned anything recently, it’s that we don’t understand each other as well as we thought we did. We stopped listening to one another a long time ago and stopped empathizing a long time before that. It’s about time that changed and I think Bossier can help. Navigating what it means to be a woman especially now, especially at this age, is no easy feat. We are dealing with first loves, discrimination, schoolwork, periods, and a misogynistic president. And while I do not intend to detract from the gravity of some of these topics by mentioning first loves or periods, I do wish to highlight the complexity of the female experience. So, what do women have to say when they can say anything about everything? What you have here, reader, is unique in the history of Georgetown. It contains the works of over 60 talented writers and artists. These are your classmates, your friends, your love interests, and people you have never even met. They are sharing their experiences with you, not only for themselves but so you can connect with, feel, and understand a little more about them and what they know so far. This magazine is by no means representative of everyone’s life experience but is a beautiful display of love, hope, joy, pain and some of the fundamental truths of humanity. Reading, editing, and cultivating this content is the most important thing I’ve done to date. I could not be more impressed by those who submitted to Bossier and I am truly honored you trusted us with your work. Creating is never easy and having the courage to share your work is even harder, so thank you from the bottom of my heart. Bossier would not exist without my lovely co-founder Tiffany, the magnificent B Team, those that submitted, or you, our reader. My hope is that Bossier can help us all communicate a little better, think a little harder, and love a little more deeply. Cheers to you. Never stop being bossy.


Bossier ladies partner up with the Georgetown Program Board for an afternoon filled with pizza, laughter, and art. Good food, great culture, and new friends: honestly, what more could you ask for?

Co-Founders Michele and Tiffany look to the Rookie Yearbook - and each other! - for inspiration.


Tuckered out after an incredible Bossier field trip to the National Museum of Women in the Arts, Anisha, McLean (Webmaster), and Liz (Editor) relax and recap the day together on Healy lawn.

Our first celebrity endorsement! Georgetown’s very own Jack the Bulldog proudly sports his Bossier sunglasses in Red Square, proving that this publication truly is for everyone - no matter how Instagram famous you are.

Ceci (Editor) and Lana (Resident Photographer) participate in our photo campaign, ready to tell the world why they’re #Bossy. They are just two of the many “Georgetown Bosses” that have something to say, and now have a platform on which to say it!


photos by Ceci White-Baer


photos by Joosje Lupa


my PARIS photo diary

Chloe baby

all captured on film

a trip filled

with croissants

and cappuccinos

tour reminded me of that one honne album cover “Mine was the twilight and the morning. Mine was a world of rooftops and love songs.” ― Roman Payne

eiffel


one of my favorite shots

drive bys

paris ‌. a place for dreamers, and lovers

who said jazz is dead?

me bein silly every time i come to paris i never want to leave

je t ‘ aime a by Jessic

Li

till next time xx


By Julia Medellin


By Lana Nauphal


"If Joan of Arc had a makeup line, they still wouldn’t call it war paint." - Yena Sharma Purmasir


Bella Gerard


Parallel People

It strikes me that each is an individual. Each is like a lamp, the light spilling and beaming from them signifying their life. Their history, their friends, experiences, nuances, uniqueness. Diversity of life sure, but also substance. That people are different is only the first small shock to being shocked by humankind. Every human has SUBSTANCE. It’s a wonder that we with our substance are able to coexist. Life is a poorly coordinated dance – not a particularly visually aesthetic one at least, if you’ve ever seen me walking down the street in my walkingis-throwing-one-foot-out-before-the-other style. But a dance nonetheless. There are too many stories and it’s overwhelming. Our personalities and our worlds are too big to coexist. To truly coexist. Coexistence is not what people think. Coexistence is not the ideal, it is not harmony. Coexistence is bubbles in a tank if the bubbles never touched. A ball pit where space existed. Coexistence is existing at the same time but separated from others, operating in motions simultaneously but parallel, never intersecting for infinity. I always had a problem with parallel lines. It comes from my problem with infinity. To watch, to imagine those two perfect, straight lines stretching and stretching. They will never touch. The slightest imperfection, the slightest hint of leaning in would mess up their infinite trajectory and the lines would touch. In math class I liked to secretly imagine such a mistake, such a flaw in the system. The lines are parallel now, for us students and for our curly haired instructor, but somewhere far off the page, there is a change. One of the lines leans slightly at a different way, an angle of just .000001 instead of 0, and it all changes. The lines are doomed to intersect, to touch, to confront. .000001 is all it takes, it would even take much less. The confrontation would be delayed of course but it happens. My lines were never parallel. And so maybe it comes from my problem with parallel lines that I am overwhelmed by the lines around me, by the story of the girl with who picks and the man who taps and the boy who looks. They will never be parallel to me because my mind cannot fathom parallel. Their existence is a .000001 angle that flaws the non bumping of bubbles in a tank and affects me. My level sensitivity is the goal of an earthquake detector. Hyper-awareness, you might call it. Stupid, he might call it. A way of life, I call it. Necessary, I call it. Unavoidable, I call it. Wouldn’t it be nice to run? I would bump into those around me, eventually. Wouldn’t it be nice to shut it off? I could I suppose. But then who would I be? Wouldn’t it? By Joosje Lupa


“If life does, in fact, exist elsewhere in the universe and you could send one thing to represent the human race, what would it be and why would you choose it” The aliens lift the folds of the box to discover a broken mirror — its frame, cracks, and their eyes locked with misshaped reflections. As a metaphor representing the human race, the broken mirror contains three aspects that define people—our inherent characteristics, learned qualities, and brokenness. This template can be applied to everyone and gives insight behind our behaviors and attitudes. To understand the human race, these life-forms would need to know the fuel underneath our behaviors and thinking. Thus, the symbolic mirror helps illustrate humans. Each mirror is built diversely; however, the frame and body of a singular mirror stays stagnant. Just as these framed-reflectors, we possess our own characteristics that differentiate us, but are consistent throughout our lifetime. The reflection of a mirror depicts how we reflect the environment consuming our lives. This setting incorporates people, culture, and occurrences that develop our attitudes. These two components — frame/body and reflection — illustrate our persistent and maturing qualities. Despite this contrasting combination, we are more complex. The mirror symbolizing the human race is shattered representing our brokenness. As humans, we contain flaws and insecurities. We make mistakes and fail. We face heartbreak and rejection. Humans are broken with cracks branching in all directions, and what we fill the cracks with will help or hurt us. In an attempt to satisfy the emptiness, we use insincere pleasures that only shatter us more. Truly, there is only one "glue" that mends the brokenness, and that glue is love. It preserves all the good qualities, and compensates for the bad. Love sustains us. Embodied together as a shattered mirror, we humans are persistent, yet changing. We are broken, but loved. By Patricia Halle


Legacy Bluish ghost women shrouded in a twilight wash of woe. Suspended, a silhouette forms quietly – but the pain is mine before Mother is complete. Here, they sit – the price of life elusive as a touch from bluish ghost fingers but heavy as the weight of forever. by Orunima Chakraborti Art by Andrea Leng


The Year of Long Hair “You want the blended vanilla swirly drink, right?” I said it loud. He wouldn’t be embarrassed in front of me. Yeah, and you’ll have the black coffee that you don’t like!” he shouted. Everyone looked at us in that way that single people do: like we’re the most annoying people in the world. “I like it,” I said, tugging on his hair at the crown of his head. It was quite the reach to run my fingers through it. “Yeah, I know you like me ugly,” he chuckled. Odd and serious. I pulled my hands behind me ‘cause all I wanted was to hold that hair. This must be the year of the long hair ‘cause both of us had hit record lengths. Mine was the kind that sat in my lap when we waited for coffee. My hair just sat there grazing. His was gentle on his shoulders. I tried to meet his eyes. We weren’t eye contact kind of people, I suppose. We’re not bashful, we just like to look around. The morning had been what you want out of a morning. Foggy windows. His long hair was on the pillow and I was waking from a dream that I already knew he didn’t want to hear about. This was the third time I woke up that night. I looked at his hair halo before thrashing around, signaling my nightmares and a need to be held. “Tell me,” he said, rolling to face me. “I’m in bed and I’m getting kicked, kicked hard, and she’s yelling.” “Who’s kicking?” His fingers struggled through his crumpled hair. “I keep saying, like soft and mean, ‘Kick the devil out of me, mom. Yeah, kick the devil out of me.’” “Shit.” I actually don’t think it was my mom in the dream. I don’t think I’m the one getting kicked. I’m the reporter watching the scene, watching the bed splinter but on the wrong side and the board game pieces spill out onto the floor from under the bed. “You still there?” He had rolled back over and I held him from behind. His jet pack. We nestled in our sheets which smell too much like us to wash now. His mouth opened and I wasn’t mad at the escaping snores. He started snoring the year we sold our washing machine. I think he knew I was staying. He was asleep again. I touched his neck. He always asked me to but I never did except in secret. My bitten nails wound around the crux of his nervous system. It was the second time I woke up that I found the wings. They were just aching knolls on my shoulder blades, festering sores of breaking flesh and straining growth. I couldn’t reach them with my fingers but they burned against our sheets. I couldn’t remember which dream woke me up this time. I didn’t look behind to see the blood on the sheets; I fell asleep to the rhythm of snores. It wasn’t raining anymore.


The fourth time I woke up I noticed that the wings didn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. I got up to make tea and I unhinged myself. My wings, which I didn’t know had gotten so big, unfurled and knocked the pot of the table. I made that in pottery school. I stumbled under the weight of my wings. The clash woke him and his flat-footed patter came to me in the kitchen. He sat down for energy and I faced the flitting sun for mine as he crossed his legs the way men are sometimes told not to. The wings folded on their own, in time. I was puzzling on what he’d address first, my wings or the shattered pot. “So, the dreams,” he began, he always started this way. The dreams he was concerned about were the ones where I dug my knees into his back and made the bed drip with sweat. “Yea.” Nobody can dream every night except for me. “We don’t have to talk about them, love, I’ve basically forgotten them all anyway.” “Oh well I remember, you talk in your sleep enough to piece it together. Restless, love?” I nodded at the fluttering of my wings and the tapping of my nail-less fingers on the counter. The walls around him hung like drapes. And he was there with straight eyelashes and long hair. The kind of long that blew into his face — he complained about this in the wind. He wouldn’t cut it, he likes seeing my eyes move across the strands and flit up and down the plumage around his neck. He moved back to bed with the kiss, bumping his hip on a table on the way. He gave me slanted eyes, telling me to stop rearranging the furniture. I felt my wings. Long silken feathers to a point. I extended them manually. Care was taken not to pluck. The purr of the feathers rubbing against each other. Warming up to the sun, hanging reflected in the walls of the room. I refolded them, crossed in the back. The first time I woke up we’re in arms. The kind of wake up without falling asleep. The comfort and bickering. The fear of submersion. On the first wake up with his arm resting on my neck it was time to go. The ocean would be nice. The air was the kind for the morning. The first wake up was dark and we didn’t move, just eyes in our dark, not even wings yet. I doubt he could hold them, they’re so heavy I can’t stand straight any more. “I don’t want you to take care of me,” I mouthed. When I woke up for good this morning he tugged the shirt from my back, stuck. “Sweaty, love?” He asked, observing the wounds and the wings. He beheld them, witnessing. His hands hovered over them. Then he held them. Tracing his fingers like he always asked me to over my back. Wordlessly we decided that it was time to just go ahead and get out of there. We always had the ocean as a backup plan. I’m still shocked he didn’t grow wings before me, I mean, it’s weird, but if one of us was gonna get heavy with flight it might as well have been him. As we made our way to get coffee, we talked about the dreams. His were straightforward: anxiety dreams and sex dreams. He’d been coping with my dreams since we met, adjusting his grasp on my torso depending on the intensity.


As we made it to the counter to order our eyes rested, comfortable in the absurdity of the morning. “I think it’d be funnier if they were chicken wings. With the sauce.” He laughed a hair shaking laugh as we waited and I stared at my own hair touching my lap. Hunched over, my eyes moved up, catching his for the first time. My forehead wrinkled across my face. Our drinks came and he slurped. “I don’t want you to take care of me. I can’t take care of you.” I said, over my untouched cup. “We live together. We don’t live together to take care of ourselves.” His drink was almost gone now; he always did have that peculiar habit of sucking down drinks in one long gulp, I thought. If I replied, I don’t remember. I’ve been avoiding passive aggression these days. I didn’t want to tell him he was bored. “So, Rehoboth or Bethany?” He asked, tapping that empty cup on the table. I itched my wing, a nail snagging on a rigid feather. “Bethany.” A February Sunday at Bethany Beach. We had had one of those a couple years ago, eating Grotto Pizza on the sand; empty fluorescent signs. I left my black coffee on the counter as we made our drive to the coast. The trip wasn’t a long one, but several hours filled quickly between us, switching between his music and mine. I’d call for radio, the variety. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a 60’s folk station to satisfy the both of us. Till I met him, I couldn’t remember the last time someone let me choose the music. My dreams hung in the air, draping the mist in heavy comfort. “I––” I began. I had nothing to say. And he didn’t feel the need to interrupt the music. I drew my knees to my chest in the front seat. Looking at me, he said smiling, “Would you take your feet down, please?” So polite and formal; it was his mother’s old car. We drove well together, elbows only touching gently at the center console, rarely fighting over the windows or driving. Probably cause I didn’t know how to drive. I stared at the horizon; he slid his shoes off at a stop light, pressing softer on the gas than I’d ever seen. And so, we made it to the ocean and its empty town. The winter left it with signs and lights turned off, with wind and the crust of salt on the boardwalk. The winter left it always dark, blanketing my footprints as I watched the still waves. His feet sunk into the sand behind me, a tacit witness, as I approached the ocean I used to beg him to take me to. At the edge, the water met my feet and I stepped further in till the salt lapped the wounds of my wings. Damp, they opened now. Each feather unbound, unfurling into the air behind me, carried against the peculiarly still ocean air. Grey. On the beach he waited, hair twisting, touching his eyes. He wasn’t watching me anymore; he was watching the feathers dance in the sky. by Sonja Erchak


Bare I can’t pull away from your eyes They captivate mine Contain me long enough to peek inside your Reclusive chambers What secrets do you store away? Reverberation of silence Fists tightly clenched, slightly tremble Resistant to liberation Reluctant to bare the tenderness enveloped within Armor conditioned for defensive strike Retreat, your mode of operation A vessel of mystery with a predisposition for self implosion Dare I remove the harness securing the beast? Your eyes guarded, cautious Yet pleading persistence for just a moment longer Another minute Another chain unbound

Easier to feign indifference Simpler to exhibit apathy You return my stare and detect no deviation in those eyes No fear in discovering the rage beneath your tough exterior, the creature contained within Eyes divert, breath arrested Vulnerable against your will Underneath that facade I long to unlayer You learn to welcome your insistent intruder Surrendering to a warm yet foreign touch A soothing voice that quells your demons A spirit embodying a sacred sanctuary I can’t pull away from your eyes Hold me captive Lost in an enigma we endeavor to unravel together By Anna Nguyen

Blackbird Love is like a blackbird. Sometimes, it blends into everyday life, and sometimes it takes you by surprise. In the coldest winter snow, a blackbird stands apart, just as on the darkest days, love warms the heart. Blackbirds are seemingly always present, but, like love, they often go unnoticed by those whom they surround the most. By Sara Fares


Turns As the night caresses the dirt road you turn, glance, and ask me about home I sigh and laugh and inside I ache to replay everything just once I would change nothing You, stranger, are crawling into me The trees bend to listen to us breathe The stars squint The wind bellows The sun dashes toward us

I think… With your caprice and my flat feet and your sharp wit and my savage laugh and your forest eyes and my shitty French… We’ll race at stars and land where we began By Kate Riestenberg

The Lady is Waiting the lady is waiting she only has until the man finishes shaving but she hasn’t lived with men much of her life she doesn’t know how long he will take she doesn’t know how long to wait she knows sometimes he has little nicks around his jaw afterward but she doesn’t know if these mishaps take more time or if he finishes faster than most men she realizes she doesn’t know a lot of things she doesn’t know if he’ll want her to iron his shirts she knows she ought to make dinner for him every night and when he gets home late from work, she ought to stand up from the couch and reheat his food, but she doesn’t know if he will eat at the office on those nights or if he’ll be sad when he pictures his silly wife eating alone she knows she doesn’t have much time left she’s been waiting and she’s heard him turn the sink on a few times to rinse his razor clean and she doesn’t know what she’s going to say when he’s finished and he stands in front of her in the bedroom does she touch his shaven face? By Sophie Jacobson


On the Quest for a Boyfriend “Ever since I can remember, I’ve been on the quest for a boyfriend. I wouldn’t say it’s always been a personal journey. It probably should be, considering he (hypothetically) would be my boyfriend, after all. My mom, my dad, my brother, my friends, my TV, my internet, my reading have all been along for the ride. Actually, I would say they are all sitting in the driver’s seat and I’m — at best — a back-seat driver. Basically, my entire world is telling me to get a boyfriend, whether I want to or not. Once I hit the age where my sexuality became a “thing,” I was told “no.” No bouncing from guy to guy, no hooking up, no friends with benefits, no casual fling. Because I am a girl, I came to learn that there is NO appropriate time for me to experiment with my sexuality — that is, to figure out what “kind” of guy I would even want to be MY boyfriend. If I do dare to indulge in my sexuality without a boyfriend, I’m labeled: SLUT. WHORE. PROMISCUOUS. Especially by those who are on the SAME quest to find a boyfriend as I am. I’ve been told: Avoid the assholes, the ones who sleep around and catch STDs more often than they catch feelings. I’ve asked: What guy isn’t sleeping around? In the same way that I, as a girl, have been told I can’t experiment with my sexuality, guys have been told they should never stop. As a college freshman, I’ve heard the question, “What’s your body count?” more than once. Body count. As in the amount of girls a guy has “conquered.” Maybe I don’t want to just casually hook up after all. It seems I will never feel in control. So, what if I want to experiment and he doesn’t? I want to see what I like in guys so that one day I can CHOOSE a guy to be my boyfriend, but most guys already know what they want and hope to settle down with the right girl. This doesn’t fly in society. We have to avoid stepping out of line in order to live “the good life.” Essentially, we are socialized to do the impossible: as a girl, to find a boyfriend when there aren’t any out there, and, as a boy, to sleep around and not get emotionally attached to anyone. Who said it was okay for our sexualities to become just a privilege, not a right? The same people that said I should always be on the quest for a boyfriend. By Emily Quatroche Art by Grace Totman


...@!!\

" ~•.....

~, .-

i di Pavia


you’ve never given me roses but sometimes your words prick my heart like thorns tears stain my eyes red like petals and i wonder if it was a good idea, letting you plant roots inside my body by Jasmin Ouseph

Our Wonderland At Bishop’s house there is an artist Creating yard murals as colorful as Joseph’s coat So we dug a place for his art to stay A quiet, dark space for things meant to be forgotten It sang lullabies that put us to sleep And made promises to soothe our fears away But some things never made it to the pit So we played God and threw them in ourselves We weren’t singing lullabies, but shrieking instead Thrashing our nightmares around our heads, with fingernails scratching behind our eyes Then we got too close to the gallery And fell like Alice down below Following our rabbit To the place for things meant to be forgotten by Maya Fleming


the worst was not the bluntness of your words nor the regret on your tongue. the worst was not your still naked body next to mine nor the sudden numbness that seized my soul.

Breaking was never something I thought I wanted to do. Or that I feel lucky to have experienced.

the worst was not the memory of your hands on my back nor your lips on my cheek.

But I broke anyway. I fell through his hands and I split into pieces.

the worst was feeling where you had been hours later.

Letting him hold me originally was a different kind of breaking. It was a cracking, a warming, a softening, and then a free fall.

knowing you had been there and what you had said to me. knowing you felt one thing but did another. stifling my tears as I tossed and turned I tried to momentarily forget, forget I had been used and thrown away. but I couldn’t forget because I still felt you, searing. and that was truly the worst.

Once I was cracked I let every good feeling in. I bathed in elation, in love. I found my voice in his. I discovered myself as he discovered me and I discovered him. That was a more enjoyable crack. But then I extracted myself from his hands and I jumped. This time I did not crack, I shattered. I thought it would be paralyzing, but it was worse. It was omnipresent. It is omnipresent. There is a tightness in my chest that has sent me spiraling more than once. But also a numbness, an okay-ness that is perhaps worse. Now, sitting here among my fragments, I am curious. I examine each part carefully and critically. There are big and small questions I used to know answers to that now stare blankly at me. The completeness of myself is lost and yet, I could not be happier. It all feels exciting again: I am still being formed. I make the same mistakes and I make new ones. I’m learning and feeling but most importantly I’m moving. Moving along a blank slate I am happy to try and fill. I get to put myself back together in a new order, an order I get to determine. It will be different but it will be made of the pieces of me.

by: Michele Dale

Now I pull my fragments closer and enjoy the silent sadness. It’s a soft reminder of emotions I worked hard to let myself feel, and a beautiful love that broke me not once, but twice.


i. at night in the blue-gray darkness i am not ashamed to say that i mistake my hands for yours damp air of my breath left unanswered shadows thrown like empty punches in my clumsiness i am kinder to myself than you ever were (i can never seem to get this right) ii. i sit in silence a would-be recitation of the words you said to me (had there been any) bleeding into the empty spaces they would have dug with their sharp edges and rounded sounds had you ever bothered to open your mouth and give them life the way you opened my mouth and claimed to give me life

my body rejects these things: forgiveness and joy and lightness of heart and someone says to me at least you recognize how he made you feel (as if watching the snake sink its teeth makes the swelling go down but it never does) and now i am emptied and toxic and not my own (finally) iv. my body breaks itself into a bow as i perfect this wretched performance as i watch from a place outside myself the clash of two bodies play out in one my own this hollowed-out theater and somewhere you walk so lightly finally freed of the character you made me keep

(i feel like i am getting closer) iii. i try to give back to myself what i lent to you before you mistook love for opportunity but

by: Elizabeth Cregan


Art submitted by: D’Asia Lipsey


Roadblocks

Sound the alarm imposter at large she cloaks her value under scanty garb sending mixed signals and boasting in red how could anyone blame the perp they said no doesn’t mean no anymore he claims yes and shock takes over and if no is tattered then what of silence? i suppose since the ears are deaf it never mattered we teach young girls neglect the boys to protect themselves and display some poise but through these methods the badged blue protectors perpetuate questions in this heteronormative perspective roadblocks barricades meant to keep the perp safe all the while his/her smile fades dismantled and sentenced to carry the weight of the shame alone Submitted by: Veronica Quinonez

Untitled

you took my belief in love untainted, unadulterated, and unafraid you took it, chewed it up, spit it out spilled ink all over its pages crumpled it up and tossed it in the trash cornered it into a cage let it starve to death and i can never forgive you for that Submitted by: Jasmin Ouseph


/// I wake up that morning expecting the soft blues of my blankets, the dulled pulse of old photographs: I expect to see my dad standing in the gray of New York City, surrounded by siblings my baby face pressed against my mother. we are lying in a garden I expect to be home but instead, i am with you. I get scared and go back to sleep (when I wake up next, I will not take myself by surprise) what happened / what happened / what happens now that I am not lying in a garden anymore last night was a story told by hands pulling door handles to clubs to cars to this house that is not my own hands tired from their path: cup / lips / cup / phone / you I can’t remember, but when I do, I remember that it was my fault for forgetting I feel ashamed / I get dressed / I get up I shuffle out the way I always do giving you time and opportunity and myself, hope it’s a dull light that burns slowly and mercilessly and my wick is crumbling (fingertips stained black) I mistake my burns for warmth

I am hollowed out but I offer what I can, throw a “bye” your way like a little kid throwing a ball over a fence (how foolish of me to ever expect to get it back) dirty hands / sunburnt skin / maybe next summer I leave your house haunted carrying the phantom of this evening heavy in my chest & it holds me the way I assume you held me (but don’t actually know) gaps in memory / in body / between us, stretched spaces “can you tell me what happened?” I never actually ask, choosing instead to tell this ghost story again and again in my head too scared to speak the ending I feel my face heat up: humiliation is a campfire gather round I don’t want to tell you that I get lost on the way home, don’t want to tell you about they way I get scared when I notice that the pavement has turned as dark as I imagine your eyes do when you’re not looking at me. or maybe when you are, too. maybe you hate me maybe we hate each other (I never actually ask) what happened / what happened / what happened

by: Elizabeth Cregan


you say that I’m hard to read but I hate how you think you need to read between the lines of my body to know that i don’t want your hands, that i never wanted your hands, when I am here telling you no.

by: Caitlin Peng


Self Portrait My skin is a mudslide the chaotic disorder of the natural world, plummeting down my ribcage, the slope slithers past my fingernails scraping up, carrying cartilage silencing screams, it buries the past, preserves its own present My mind is a metronome pulsing profusely to the beat of my apathy, anxiety, arias ticking like a time bomb in the foreground of my thoughts pacing my days, haunting my night falls, i stare at the skylight counting my faults, each beat per measure My body is a balance beam a graceful art, delicate, refined death trap, too thin, too thick one toenail in front of the next falling a fine line between artifice and facility, gold medals or mortuary, no, the beam is too low but the win warrants the biggest high My hair is a holding cell, its cage easily rattled, strand by strand, cutting inches or maybe a deal, two years, two years to life, two feet and you won’t have to sit on that goddamn mess anymore black, like your future if you don’t rinse and repeat, to avoid lice, and the law


My bones are a briefcase hard shelled, hiding secrets collecting counsel, protecting pathogens, but ultimately evading age, its leather is worn out, weak the zipper is loose, lose, reuse replacing handles, handbags, hands, hips, chasing the time, we once wasted My eyes are an Island deserted, dock your ship, stay the night, and we’ll drink gin on the rocks of my bay, singing Johnny, don’t leave me now, till the sun wakes, winking, lids locking, lashes, look out, for sirens guard the tide, and the current is strong My blood is a baby girl its been down in the trenches working like a lady of the night contorting it’s carnage, rugged, red when it hits the sun light, but truly a dark blue, trapped, treading the surface, knowing her one way out is to run the risk, of getting cut My heart is a hospital gown its seen many come and go cried with your mother, rejoiced in rejuvenation, one size fits all, yet always too big or too small, itchy yet worn out from the wash yearning for an owner, but knowing its purpose is to give, never get, relief By Iman Hariri-Kia


Between You and Me Dear Omar, I was thirteen years old when you first started working for us. I didn’t know anything about you, but I knew that it wasn’t unusual for my mother to fire the men who worked as our drivers – the men before you. Mohammad drove recklessly, Ismael was always late, Kareem cursed around us, Anwar kept getting speeding tickets, and Tamer, the most recent one, tried to look at us when we weren’t covered. These men were all strangers to me. I knew them by name, just as I know you, but that was always it. They were often low-income immigrants from Sudan, or Pakistan, or Bangladesh, or Indonesia, having come to work here to find the kind of worth that I as a woman never would. I assume that you are from one of these countries, too, although I’ll probably never get know your story. You will be the man to drive me to school every morning, to drop me at my friends’ houses on the weekends, to take me to swim practice, and volleyball, and violin, and art class, and despite all the time we will spend together, with you sitting in the front of the car and me in the back, I will know so little of your story, while you will know so much of mine. You will come to see my pain and plight, and recognize that the only reason you need to be here, to be a driver, is because we live in a place that deems my body worthless – a sinful distraction to men and their piety. I cannot drive, and as long as my body is seen as immoral and me as chronically damaging, I will always need you, Omar, and all of those that have come before you, and all of those that will come after you. I don’t know for how long you’ll be with us, but what I do know about you is what I’ve always known about Mohammad and Ismael and Kareem and Anwar and Tamer – that you will always be in the front, dressed in the airy white fabric that will forever fall against the surface of your superior skin. When I think of you, and of the history and structure of our country, I know that the barrier that exists between us is both undeniable and suffocating. There is a reason why we don’t know each other equally, and maybe that is because we have never been equal. You never needed the permission of a male guardian for marriage and divorce, travel, education, employment, or elective surgery. You were never herded in the backs of mosques and stripped of your ability to freely practice your religion. You were never forced to veil, or hide, or marry. You could vote. You could drive. I don’t blame you for these cosmic injustices, but you must understand the chasm that exists between us – the one that perpetuates my struggle on the deeply ingrained poison that is your supremacy. It is the reason why you can know so much of me, while I can know so little of you. Everything I’ve grown up with has reaffirmed the painful reality that you will always be more powerful and significant and worthy than me. You belong to a system that allows you to both be a driver and a king; underprivileged yet inherently superior. I understood this when I was scolded by religious police for having bits of my curly hair peeking out of my veil, and when I was told that I couldn’t be a lawyer because the profession didn’t exist for women, and when I studied at an all-girls school because boys were too smart to go to school with girls.


Omar, I am sharing this with you because while there is so much of my physical world that you see – perhaps more than anyone else – there is much more of my emotional and spiritual one that you don’t, and maybe never will. It is deeply flawed that the only circumstance in which we will ever cross paths is this, with the burden of being a woman weighing on me, and the blessing of being a man lifting you. We will probably never fully understand each other’s stories, but maybe we can begin to dismantle the system that has prevented us from doing so in the first place. I’ve grown up with a set of codes that have been the only thing I’ve ever known, and I’m sorry that this is the reason why I understand so shamefully little; why the breadth of my knowledge is that your name is Omar and that you are my driver. I was taught to not start conversation. I was told not to ask questions. I was instructed to veil in itchy black and conceal every part of my body, to close my legs and sit directly in the seat behind you because you are a man and men are dangerous. When I catch sight of you in the rearview mirror and look away, it’s not because I am scared of you, but because I was told I should be. When the only conversation we have is about driving me to, from, and between places, it’s not because I’m not interested in your story, but because I was told that it wasn’t any of business. While I know that your presence isn’t always going to be definite, the very rules that govern our relationship will be, and I should have known better than to blindly abide by them. I should have understood that the very same system that traps me is making me trap you. In writing this letter I want you to begin to question the barrier between you and me; to begin to understand my perspective as I am trying to understand yours. You have been my driver for five years now, and while the physical location of where I was – where I am – is never a mystery to you, everything else always is. It is wrong that you don’t know about what happened to me that one day you dropped me at my favorite mall and waited for me in the parking lot. You don’t know about the men that whistled at me, that followed me around the mall and joked about “what was under that veil,” that yelled at me to go back to my house, where I belonged. You don’t know and you will never know because just like my body, my stories are often hidden and expendable. There is so much more, Omar, and to begin to explain to you all the flaws in the places you thought were havens is to revive all the times I have felt violated and trapped. I don’t blame you, but I do resent the culture that confines us physically while leaving us so emotionally detached. This is only my side of the story; I cannot begin to imagine yours. What I have described to you is not exclusive to you and me. I have felt this silent but painful divergence of my world with yours and Mohammad’s and Ismael’s and Kareem’s and Anwar’s and Tamer’s. I do not want to be silent anymore. I want you to understand me just as I want to understand you, because the only thing I have ever known about barriers is that they conceal the truth. I know that for a long time you will be in the front, dressed in the airy white, and I will be in the back, veiled in itchy black, but we must begin to break that distance, to heal the chasm. Sincerely, Anonymous The Editorial Board has decided to publish the following piece anonymously due to the sensitive nature of its content. We believe that this work is important and deserves to be shared but in order to protect the safety of the author, their name has been withheld.


Rooms There are exactly 40,000 ways to arrange roses on your windowsill Ever since we agreed not to save the world after all things in this house have spun slowly to a halt Like that old jazz record you keep playing I draw the blinds and alliances of dust rise up in fury You sneeze. I say nothing.

by: Kate Riestenberg

art by Cindy Fan


The Feminist and the Victim On the worst night of my life, just before my 19th birthday, my boyfriend of over a year brandished a pair of scissors while I crouched by the door of his bedroom, sobbing. When I tried to leave, he pressed them against his neck. The threat was implicit: step one foot outside the room and the fault would be mine. When I tried to take the scissors from him, afraid for the safety of the boy I loved, he shoved me away, slashing the blunt metal frighteningly close to my chest. I was trapped in that dorm room all night, frozen with panic hours after his drunkenness finally dragged him into a heavy sleep. He liked to drink his whiskey straight, the ultimate testament to the imposed manliness that defined his self-image. In the morning, he dismissed the terror and anxiety that still made my hands shake. He blamed the alcohol and coaxed me into thinking I was overreacting to a regrettable one-time mistake. “I’m so sorry. It won’t happen again,” he promised. Less than two weeks later, I realized how little those words meant. In the early morning, I called my dad from the floor of my boyfriend’s bedroom while he showered, crying and begging to come home. My dad bought me plane tickets for the end of the week. I never told my family why I came home that weekend. In exchange for agreeing to my ultimatum of seeing a psychologist, I made my boyfriend a promise that I would not tell anyone. Not my best friends, not my parents, not my brother. To hold him to his side of the agreement, I confided in my therapist, glazing over the more troublesome details of what transpired. When I confessed to my boyfriend what I’d said to my therapist, he was furious. Did I know what this could do to him? Did I want to get him in trouble? Did he deserve the possible repercussions? I told myself that it wasn’t my fault; the consequences he faced were a result of his own actions. But the guilt still managed to seep into my mind. He was not depressed or suicidal, he swore, as if that were meant to reassure me. If he had been threatening his life out of some sort of suicidal urge, I could forgive him. After all, depression I could understand. However, the more he insisted that he had no real desire to hurt himself, the clearer it became to me that his actions had in fact been calculated manipulations of my emotions to assert control over me. What he did was abuse, and that made me a victim. As an ardent feminist, I could not accept being a victim. I was educated on issues of gender equality and sexism, including relationship violence. I knew the warning signs, and I knew what qualified as abuse, whether physical, emotional, sexual, or verbal. I imagined myself to be an empowered woman, independent and in control of her own rights and wellbeing. I knew my worth. And yet, I remained in that relationship for another year before finally having the strength to end it, simply because I could not reconcile that I was a victim. I believed that in my case, being a victim meant I was weak. Surely I, who knew so well the myriad abuses and injustices women face in today’s world, could not have succumbed to a violent man. Yet I had. That realization almost shattered my idea of who I was as both a person and as a woman. I still struggle with it almost daily. However, more recently, I have reached another understanding: what happened with my ex-boyfriend was not my fault. Even as a student of justice and peace studies, I sometimes forget that I live in a world that has long been set against me. In a telling analogy, feminist writer Carol Ascher describes the disparity between men and women: “I suspect that when you ask a man to picture a gun, he most often images himself holding it; while, to a woman, the gun in the picture is pointed at her or at someone she loves.” Though I hesitate to draw such strict gender binaries, Ascher’s comparison speaks accurately to the constant fear and perpetual state of violence in which women often live. I could be a passionate, informed feminist and that gun would still be pointed at me. I know I am not the only young woman to feel trapped in the strange nexus of feminism and patriarchy where knowledge and enlightenment do not preclude powerlessness in the face of structural sexism. Third-wave feminists can be strong, independent, and informed and still, it will not be enough to protect them from the violence our systems and our culture inflict. I don’t mean this to sound pessimistic. In fact, for me, this revelation was liberating. I knew many months before I broke up with my ex-boyfriend that the relationship was not healthy and, as a result, I harbored a strong sense of self-hatred. Could I even call myself a feminist after staying in a violent relationship for so long? If I were really such a strong, empowered woman, I would know what to do; I would stop loving this flawed boy and get the hell away from him. Reconciling that I could be both a powerful feminist and a victim of abuse helped lighten the burden that I had placed on myself. Fully understanding the misogynistic structures that contribute to a culture of violence towards women does not make the abuse any more my fault. That I now know. Refusing to blame myself or feel weak and pathetic is my act of noncooperation with a violent patriarchal system. I will no longer respond to the violence against me with violence against myself. I may not be able to confront my ex-boyfriend in any meaningful way or make a dent in the broader issue of relationship violence, but I can resist in a smaller, simpler way. Nonviolence does not just apply to how I treat others, but also to how I treat myself. I will not hate myself; I will not blame myself; I will not cooperate.

The Editorial Board has decided to publish the following piece anonymously due to the sensitive nature of its content. We believe that this work is important and deserves to be shared but in order to protect the safety of the author, their name has been withheld.


For those with dreams of Nutcrackers and Ballerina Princesses I’ve always had this acute sense that I wanted to change the world. 5: I wanted to be a ballerina. Tiny me, covered in baby fat, tiptoed around cabins with my arms outstretched, jumping over alligator ponds, as graceful as any baby-fat-riddled five-year-old could be. “I’ll be the ballerina princess and you.. you can be the nutcwacko” And I waltzed onto the top of the couch in order to get more attention than my sister, who was walking around the cabin as a nutcracker going “Ahm.. ahm.. ahm…” and yet, for some reason, my dad decided to follow her with his camera I quit because my friends did. I quit because it must have been boring. 7: I wanted to be a writer. My second grade teacher had written a book and introduced me to words. I wrote stories about dragons and sarcastic princesses. I wanted to be recognized, to be different, to be talented, to be original. But Monica was the best writer, and she always won the award for the smartest kid in the class, just like my sister. I’ve always had this acute sense that I wanted to change the world. 10: I wanted to be a baker, because that’s what my sister said she wanted to be. 11: I wanted to be a scientist. I know, right? Me? But it was really more about wanting to be an explorer. I wanted to trek farther than roads would take me, lower than the oceans even go. I’ve always had this acute sense that I wanted tochange the world. 13: I wanted to be an actress on Broadway. 14: I wanted to be a mathematician, but only if that acting thing didn’t work out. 15: I wanted to make some friends. 16: I wanted to do anything to make my sister stay home. I also wanted to be a psychologist. I’ve always had this acute sense that I wanted to change the world. 17: I wanted to shrink when I realized that I couldn’t, when I realized that I would be far too stuck analyzing ghostly apple trees on green hills and the Earth’s asthmatic, lonely breath

because all I wanted to do was drive my eyes down concrete phrases, previously unexplored and hold my breath and dive deeper into Kate’s “seductive” seas teeming with hermit crabs with Tennessee’s claws(es) and sharks with Sylvia’s “full set of teeth,” teeming with Allen’s jellyfish of poetry and Eliot’s O-mouthed sucker fish gobbling their Shakespearean rags and where words and writers and scraps of age old thoughts are sparkling under the heat of the sun. I wanted to stop believing the implications when my cousins and uncles and aunts asked me, Is there even anything you can do with an English degree?” or Why don’t you study computer science like your sister?” or Do you think you’ll go anywhere with that?” Today, I crack my knuckles to remember my Nutcracker dream. I cling onto poetry to remind myself that I can find cradles in the loops of the alphabet. I question everything I see. I travel and explore, I trek the Himalayas and dive into the Atlantic. I read plays to remind myself of that time I welcomed the stage. I count and count and count, I make sequences and series to find patterns in my life. I integrate and derive memories to remember my sister’s dreams and my mother’s dreams and my father’s dreams. And I love every dream I come across that is not my own, I love that my sister can change the world and that my classmates can change the world and that my parents have changed the world. But I had stopped allowing myself to waltz on couches and write stories about dragons and sarcastic princesses because I figure that someone will win that award while I’msitting there with the award for “Nice Try! But not quite good enough.” Yet somehow, I still find myself having the acute sense that I want to change the world. So, ... I am a ballerina princess. Writer. Dragon slayer. Explorer. Capable of changing the world.

by: Olivia Jimenez


Corner of Childhood and Adolescence Reeds and marsh grasses sway in the golden hour of the late afternoon, just before the inflated sun begins to sink towards the wide and purple river and it drowns, swallowed by the gentle waves. A blue heron perches in the mud, beady eyes piercing the honey colored afternoon, taking flight when a neighborhood dog barks and interrupts the peace that comes with not being still. This is the time of day that stretches to last just a little bit longer than every other moment. The sun slows its arc, the reeds’ movement is imperceptible until you pause and stare. This is the time of year when everything is about to change but it hasn’t quite yet; there’s a twinge of chill in the air but the sun still bakes the marsh mud until the streets in the neighborhood smell of ocean salt. Kids on the cusp of adulthood grasp at childhood a little bit longer, just as they grip the handles on their bikes that they ride until the sun is too low, knowing that in the coming days it will be cold and they won’t be able to ride any longer. Sounds move outside in this golden hour: open windows become open mouths for babies crying, neighbors calling hello across the street, fathers playing ball and mothers calling them all in for dinner. This is the golden hour that transcends time, drawing the people out of their homes and back towards the river, the swaying reeds, the tang of sea salt and the rays of a dying sun. by: Madeline Budman


The Self Beneath Yourself The first picture is me, the me that I usually present to people — my face covered as much as possible by my hair because I can’t stand the idea that people are looking at my crudely drawn eyebrows with an eyebrow pencil that I can never find the time to sharpen; or my self-described volcanic lumps of acne thickly painted with overpriced, cakey foundation. I ‘love’ this picture, or I say I do, because it’s the only picture of myself that I would consider Instagram worthy — a picture that hides all my imperfections.

The next picture is me, screwing all the preconceived notions I have in my head about my level of beauty and just posing for the heck of it. The picture is saved on my desktop as “This is not you omg lol” but I’m hoping one day I can change that to “You can be whoever you want to be” and realize that the only person judging me is me. I still refuse to show this picture to anyone, but I’m feeling spontaneous and risky right now, so why not — I’m still working towards the day I’ll be able to confidently show this side of myself to the world around me, but for now, this will do. By Julia Choi


My Feminism Is My Judaism My earliest mentors were all Jewish women. When I was a child, I didn’t realize that rabbis or cantors could be anything but female. At my bat mitzvah, my congregation had a trifecta: the rabbi, cantor, and president were all women. I grew up believing that to be a Jewish woman was to be strong, driven, and wise. I grew up with tough women who were simultaneously feminine and fiercely feminist, and I had no idea that there could be any other way to be a woman. Women taught me Judaism. My grandmother’s hands showed me how to grate potatoes for latkes, and my mother’s lessons explained to me what it meant to keep a Jewish home. My sister reminded me of Rebecca with her determination, and my friends channeled Miriam and her joyful celebration. The performance of womanhood was synonymous with ritual practice. The women in my life lifted me up as if I were a Torah during hagbah, held above their heads to see beyond the scope of my community. The rabbis wrote about “shechina,” the feminine attributes of God. Shechina is the sense of divine presence and spirituality, and it is said that whenever two people exchange holy ideas, there is shechina. My holiest moments were full of shechina and the woman-like aspects of the divine. From sharing a spiritual experience at camp with my closest friend to leading a third-wave feminist Passover seder, my identity is comprised of both shechina itself and the women who embody this spirit. We pass around wisdom like wine during Purim, free flowing and pouring into each others’ cups without having to be asked. I live my Jewish identity and my feminist identity by living like our ancestors. I strive to be resilient like Tzipporah and I seek out love like the one Ruth and Naomi shared. I’m wandering in a perpetual desert, doing everything in my power to help move my sisters toward the promised land. I will carry shechina wherever I may go, and pass on these precepts like my foremothers before me. By Madeline Budman


Height of the Flood “Thank you Lamboo Didi,” (Hindi slang for tall girl) her eyes glittering with gratitude as my gloved fingers handed out the last packet of Parle-G biscuits. My heart leapt into my throat and swelled with pride as I grinned through my frigid discomfort down at Radhika. The glacial Himalayan air pricked my eyes and the tip of my nose was a bright, painful scarlet, yet somehow I was warmed by wave after wave of respect and affection for the children I had only just met. My admiration was replaced with irritation when a volunteer seized my wrist and tore the plastic bag from my hands and assured, “I’ll take it from here.” In just one grab, he had snatched the relationship I was beginning to cultivate with the children, a relationship I had desired from the start of our fundraiser. Anger darted up my gangly legs and gripped my elongated throat, allowing nothing more than a whimper to escape. Yet, as we started teaching, I noticed that I hadn’t lost my audience; the eyes of the students were fixated on me with the intensity of crashing waves at dusk. As I glided among the student groups and gazed into the wonder-filled eyes of the schoolchildren, the students murmured amongst themselves. I settled on the frayed carpet that replaced their chairs, folding my long legs awkwardly beneath me whilst the students began to giggle and point. I was startled to find that despite the ravaging flood that had disconnected these children from society it was me, and my lanky legs, that aroused their glee. When I asked why they laughed, fear washed away the giggles. “Lamboo,” Radhika shrieked, causing the rest of them to gasp in delighted horror. Only one word. One word that has haunted my size eleven foot, step after step, since middle school. One word whose poignant attachment to my childhood resurged back into my life at a time when I least expected it. This cognizance drowned me in claustrophobic memories, as I shut my rolling eyes tight to evade them. In middle school, as much as I tried to slouch to forget the trauma, I couldn’t hide. This time, though, I didn’t shrink in embarrassment as I realized that with my height, I had ascended to be noticed for the better. I rose in stature and grew in impact. Joining the giggling children in laughter, I stood up and used my height to bring smiles by offering piggyback rides. My insecurities were squelched and replaced with a sense of pride as I was able to turn my back on the years of insecurity my height had fomented. I now emerged to the surface as the assertive crusader who had finally crashed through the inundating stigma of my height. Months later, the moist monsoon air wafted in just as the last students walked into the AES Theater. As a hush descended over the audience, I grew hesitant about the reaction I would receive from the students. However, as I made my way over to the podium, my fear was alleviated. There was a one-step ladder behind the podium that was a little rickety; it rocked back and forth making the speaker just a little uneasy. I eased the stair out of my way. I didn’t need the ladder to reach the microphone. As I recalled our trip to the Brightland School, the beaming smiles of the children gushed back to me, and I straightened up and thrust my shoulders back with resolve. Realizing my towering ability, I sensed a feeling of gratification as I removed the microphone from the podium and gave my speech while pacing around the stage, empowered by my height instead of marginalized for it. Scanning the audience, I knew Radhika would be proud.

By Ravisa Kalsi


Regular Girls Regular girls never receive the same attention that others do. I’m talking about the regular social media girls who stay in the house eating all day. Maybe not as a byproduct of depression or anxiety, but because they’re bored. There isn’t anything to do over the summer and they spend their days doing their makeup not to go anywhere. Those are the regular girls who buy drugstore cosmetics and practice eyeliner in the mirror and later take pictures of themselves under the shitty lighting of their mother’s bathroom. Usually it’s too hot for much else than their underwear and a beige camisole that lifts up above the dip of their navel. They turn to the side, strike a regular pose, and have the phone angled to emphasize the curvature of their medium sized asses. Most of these girls are regular, flaunting sew ins done by their best friend who’s been doing hair since they’re twelve. They might go to cosmetology school, but doing work on the side, hustling to pay for school, is easier than going to classes. The regular girls are average weight — in between chubby with little, typical brown eyes and brown skin. They eat ice cream from the carton, posted up in bed watching Love Jones for the nth time. They dress like the models on Tumblr who dilute their pictures with filters that reflect a faded aesthetic that seems comparable to the fuzzy quality of midcentury film. These girls own sneakers and jewelry from the beauty supply store. They have medium titties that jiggle when they walk back and forth from the kitchen to their bedroom. They’re usually single, lowkey, out of the way because there is no other way to behave. They think about having boyfriends, but initiate nothing. They post sub-tweets about true love, but never experience anything that doesn’t require the effort to be loyal. These girls might have cheated or been cheated on, and they’re still hopeless romantics that require attention but give up too easily on anything that seems real. Regular girls have damaged cuticles and smell like baby lotion and the hair gel that they use to smooth down their edges. Regular girls are addicted to their phones, but aren’t doing anything. The world at their fingertips, and they’re at home over the summer, posing half naked for attention from niggas that they love to hate. By Jubilee Johnson


List of Resolutions Every year I make New Year’s Resolutions, promising myself that I will floss more (which I won’t), get more sleep (which I can’t), and write in my agenda (which seems impossible, no matter how cute it is). As quickly as the ball drops, I give up on my resolutions and hope that next year will be different. This yearly failure has taught me two things. One, unless I make a change, nothing will change. I need to actually put an effort into these activities, or else this list will be another reminder of my shortcomings. Two, my resolutions are dumb. Yes, 99% of dentists would agree that flossing is going to improve my oral health, but how much is flossing going to change my life when I can just whiten my teeth through strips (and, let’s be real, apps)? So I’m going to try something new this year. I’m done with the purposeless resolutions. I’m over setting myself up for failure in things that I don’t really care about. This list is not exhaustive, but I think it is a good start. 1. Stop saying “sorry” so much. I am not Justin Bieber (no matter how much I try to be), so there is no reason for me to utter this word every time I breathe, speak, or move. 2. Actually practice self-care. Contrary to popular belief at Georgetown, it is not healthy to sit in Lau for 8 hours every night without a break. Take a breath, do some yoga, light a candle (I won’t tell your RA) — we need to give ourselves time to decompress.


3. On a similar vein, come up with a new answer to “How are you?” other than “stressed,” “busy,” or “tired.” People really don’t care that I have been in Lau all day, and this answer only makes other people stress that they aren’t stressed enough and then it’s just stress about stress about stress (ugh). 4. Call my mom less. I’m not going to stop having real conversations with her, but I know it’s rude for me to call her when I’m in line at Sweetgreen or walking from VCW to ICC and then abruptly hang up. 5. Stop saying “we need to catch up” and actually catch up. Whether it’s the girl in your Micro class with cute frames or your friend from across the hall, it’s important to stay connected and actually get coffee with these people. 6. Take fewer pictures. No one wants to watch a 5 minute Snapchat story of drunken shenanigans, and the last thing anyone needs is another açaí bowl insta. Be in the moment instead of trying to capture it. 7. Stop thinking you have to have it all figured out. I have no idea what I’m doing this summer, and that’s okay. We are so, so young, and it is okay to not rush into wearing suits and drinking triple shot cappuccinos. 8. Focus your energy on people/things that make you happy. Quit the club that bores you, stop hanging out with the girl who makes you feel alone; life is far too short and you deserve so much better. By Sydney Te Wildt


By Andrea Leng


The Happiest Places by Christine Yan


Layal al Madina In Dubai, Arabic art deco architecture reigns supreme amidst beaches, deserts and skyscrapers. I miss home everyday, and this shot has me feeling especially nostalgic. I’m proud to have captured this picture of Madinat Jumeirah, a vibrant souk by the water in the heart of the city. I’m not artistic whatsoever but with the right camera and a bit of patience it seems anyone can be. by Tala al Rajjal


Parentheses I’ve been told more than a few times by teachers that I overuse parentheses. I distinctly remember the following words, written in pink pen on a hand-written, in-class, timed essay about the causes and consequences of the Great Depression: “be careful of using parenthesis - if it is important, don’t relegate it to the interior of a parenthesis” (or something like that). Ironically, I suppose it was not important enough for me to remember the exact wording of that general sentiment. If only the words weren’t encapsulated by a pair of brackets... (oh wait). The parenthesis. Unassuming, but not unimportant. Able to convey important meaning all while being perceived as only providing extraneous detail. Misunderstood, perhaps, or not paid as much attention as they deserve. The previous clause not complete enough to fully answer the question at hand, warranting the parenthesis, only to be all but completely ignored. A bracket, a pause, a precursor to an interjection, an afterthought. It was taught to me when I was young that the sentence holding the parenthesis had to be able to function with or without the parenthetical ideas, and appropriately communicate its meaning with or without the words safely held by the little brackets. In other words, not necessary (but helpful). As I moved upwards from primary to middle to high school, I didn’t (and still don’t) know how much I rely on that lesson about parentheses. If they were unnecessary, I wouldn’t use them. I’m confident enough in my comprehension of the English language and its syntactic formatting to know that there is indeed value to the parenthesis, and that they are not in fact always simply optional. They are necessary. They clarify. Claireify. (Get it? Ha ha.) Still, I can’t help but feel bad for the little brackets, just trying to do what they can to help the rest of the sentence be complete, in both meaning and appearance. By Claire Bilden Art by Yu Jung Hyun


A Beginner’s Guide to Graduate School The most fascinating thing I’ve discovered in graduate school is that the work never ends with what’s on the syllabus. Now, before I get ahead of myself, let’s be clear: I’m not complaining. I’m instead making this clear to all future graduate students: what’s on your course syllabi is never all there is. No matter what discipline you’re in. First, there are the social items. Networking is key, whether you’re looking for jobs, internships, or future academic connections. Practicing your elevator pitch of who-you-are and what-you’re-interested-in is just as important as studying for your next test. Guaranteed. Spending time with your cohorts is important – you’re going to want their support and camaraderie in the time to come – and knowing your professors outside of lecture is better. Of course, when you meet your professors outside of the classroom, be prepared for the recommendations. This is one of the best parts of graduate school, and it is even more important and more fulfilling than the classes. When you have an advisor who’s excited about your ideas and your research, and who then tells you to look up this academic and this author, you’ll find your list of reading extends far beyond your weekly allotted items. Be prepared to read and digest this material before you see your advisor next. Otherwise, your pile never ends and looks like my floor: several foot-high piles of books to conquer. Another item that time will need: your resume. Except, not just your resume. See, the papers you write in class – you’re supposed to be keying them up for submission to conferences or journals. The digital projects you produce? You want to add that to your digital profile on that sparkly website you should now already own (firstnamelastname.com, please). The blog post you had as a discussion post? I do hope you can turn that into something for your writing portfolio. Be prepared to tie everything you do into your overarching “narrative” – even if it doesn’t connect to your final career goals, you should be skilled at bullshitting that into reality and making it something you can do. You might wonder here about other items. Your friends, your significant other, your family – the ones who aren’t enrolled in your program. Remember them. Don’t neglect them. For the love of God, keep up communication with people who live in a world outside of your bubble. You want them to still be around when you emerge in a few years with that shiny degree. You’ll need them when times are tough, and also, when times are good. The last thing that is important – that I cannot stress strongly enough – is taking time for your mental health. Maybe you meditate. Maybe you make time for weekly runs. What I’d suggest aside from these items is to look into your university’s mental health services. Generally, in larger universities, they exist to help facilitate your program and help you stay there. Get external confirmation that yes, you are working as hard as you can. The same way you would prioritize or attempt to prioritize sneaking in healthy vegetables or walking to class instead of taking that Uber. Should this discourage you from graduate school? No. Not at all. It’s a grain of salt. Do more than look at syllabi when considering a program or even a semester’s course-load. Plan it all and how you’re going to make your schedule work together. By Elizabeth Jaye


Eating Disorder: Debunking Myths Eating disorders have been gaining attention in recent years, which is a crucial first step in helping people who are struggling. However, there are still so many misconceptions and stigmas surrounding eating disorders. As someone who struggled for years with an eating disorder, I suffered from problems that no one knew I would have, and felt the shame of social stigmas. If more people understand the truths of having an eating disorders, more victims can get the help and support they need. Here are some of the most common myths surrounding eating disorders, and the facts debunking them: 1) Myth: Only super-skinny girls suffer from eating disorders. Fact: Girls (and boys, and grown men, and grown women) do not have to fit a certain “mold” to be diagnosed with a serious eating disorder. The most common type of eating disorder is anorexia nervosa, which is often characterized by extreme thinness. Yet, this is only one type of eating disorder. Others include: bulimia (binging and purging), BED (binge eating disorder: uncontrollable binging on occasion, without purging afterwards), orthorexia (an obsession with healthy foods/exercise that becomes compulsive), and EDNOS (eating disorders otherwise not specified; includes different types of weight/food/body fixations that are abnormal). YOU DO NOT HAVE TO REACH AN UNHEALTHY WEIGHT TO HAVE AN EATING DISORDER. I suffered from anorexia nervosa for years without losing extreme weight, but eventually, my body broke and I became severely underweight. Do not let anyone get to this point—if you have concerns about a loved one, seek help immediately. 2) Myth: Eating disorders are about vanity. Fact: Eating disorders are about control. An eating disorder is a form of control for the victim. Eating disorders may be catalyzed by traumatic events (an abrupt move, a hard breakup, a death in the family, etc.). They may also be an outward manifestation of mental health issues, including depression, anxiety, and obsessive-compulsive disorder. They may also be caused by extreme body-shaming, such as bullying someone for being fat, or making excessive remarks about someone’s weight. 3) Myth: Sufferers of eating disorders think everyone is fat. Fact: People suffering from eating disorders may have personal body dysmorphia, but generally see everyone else normally. I once had an angry friend come to me claiming that my eating disorder hurt her because I thought she was fat. While this is a misguided and self-absorbed thing to say, it is a fairly common reaction. The friends and family of someone with an eating disorder often feel uncomfortable, because they believe that in the eyes of the victim, they need to lose weight. Eating disorders cause the victim to have personal body issues, including anxiety over their weight and fixation on certain body parts; counter-intuitively, however, victims see the world around them fairly normally. This is because an eating disorder is a manifestation of self-doubt or self-hatred, not because they have an issue with the weight of those around them (we will leave that one to Donald Trump).


4) Myth: Sufferers of the disease just need to “snap out of it”. Fact: Recovering from an eating disorder takes incredible self-discipline, motivation, and encouragement. Oh, yes. The “snap out of it” argument. To someone who has never had an eating disorder, recovery seems great. Getting to eat whatever you want? Isn’t that everyone’s dream?! In reality, this is a victim’s worst nightmare. The longer an eating disorder goes on for, the more frightened someone is of food, especially the high-calorie foods encouraged during recovery. It takes an intense, long period of nutritional “reeducation” and encouragement for those in recovery to begin to trust, and even enjoy, eating again. Nobody with an eating disorder can flip a switch and make it go away. As frustrating as watching a loved one go through recovery can be, patience is absolutely necessary. Recovery can take years. 5) Myth: Weight restoration can be achieved in a short period of time. Fact: For severely underweight sufferers, weight restoration can be a frustratingly long process. Malnourishment, especially for an extended period of time, causes major metabolic changes. This is a survival mechanism, but it can make recovery take an extraordinary amount of time and calories. The body breaks down during periods of starvation, hurting the victim’s organs, skeletal structure, skin, hair, eyes, memory, vision, etc. Basically anything that can go wrong, does go wrong. Reparation of vital organs, particularly the heart and the brain—let alone achieving a healthy amount of stored fat, especially in girls and women—takes a long time. Victims also frequently experience “hyper-metabolic syndrome”, meaning that they need an incredible caloric intake to gain, or even just maintain, their weight during recovery. In my recovery period, I needed a minimum of 4000 calories to gain any weight, and weight gain was slow. I retained a super-high metabolism for almost a year after weight-restoration. Although metabolisms do slow down eventually, it can take a long time, and it makes recovery take longer than anticipated. I once knew a small, teenage girl who required 9 THOUSAND calories a day—and she only put on about a pound a week. 6) Myth: Once you’re weight-restored, recovery is over. Fact: Not all sufferers of eating disorders experience extreme weight loss, and those that do require more than just putting on weight to fully recover. Those who lose extreme amounts of weight during an eating disorder need to put on enough weight to be physically healthy again. That weight is your “weight restored” weight. Although achieving this weight is a huge milestone in recovery, many people and doctors make the broad assumption that weight restoration = full recovery. In truth, mental recovery—getting over the fear of food and calories, and one’s rituals surrounding them—takes a lot longer. Two years after I achieved a normal weight again, I still struggle with anorexic tendencies and food guilt. Although it gets easier over time, mental health is a constant uphill battle. Be patient with loved ones going through recovery, as they may struggle with these internal ‘demons’ for a long time. If you or a loved one are struggling with an eating disorder, please seek immediate help. Recovery is worth it. By Lelia Busch


It’s His World, We’re Just Living in It The idea of women “having a say” in our government is obviously preposterous. Poor women – if we place the burden of voting on them, how will they possibly run the household in an appropriate fashion? As a young woman myself, I realized that voting should not be a priority. I definitely do not have enough life experience and should focus my time on more important things, like cultivating the minds of the future fruits of my womb and reminding my daughters that they are not intelligent enough to decide which male should lead our government. Even though the 19th Amendment extended the right to vote for females, it doesn’t mean that we should follow it. Laws are meant to avoided. First, we give women the opportunity to vote, and next thing you know, they will be owning businesses, buying property, and running for government positions themselves. The males of this country truly have the right mindset for what is right for the United States. These men have more on their mind than what are the latest trends on the runway or whether or not they should make a Match.com account to find their perfect soul mate. These men, who are strong, sophisticated individuals, can protect the poor, meek women of this nation in times of turmoil. Women are clearly too weak to defend themselves. Women in the U.S. were the clear reason for the economic de-pression, the house market crash, and the Ebola outbreak – men were distracted by female beauties and couldn’t think straight to make the right resolutions. I, personally, believe women should think twice before casting a ballot. Let’s focus on the real problems of the female mind: finding a partner through our Tinder accounts and wearing this season’s Gucci shoes – a company which is, thankfully, owned by a man. by: Sofia Lalinde


She says: There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t support other women,” And so you’re not just going to the White House, but you are going to heaven. The media explodes and young girls turn up their nose. I find myself prefacing every declaration of support with No it’s not because she’s a woman.” But that’s bullshit. Why can’t I want the glass ceilings broken? What’s wrong with saying I’m tired of white men? Why do I have to act as if I am gender-blind? Ignore the difference in the climb. When has blindness ever solved oppression? Why does this even have to be a confession? And why is it terrible to think a woman can best fight for women? Because I will scream If another old guy tries to argue about legislating my body, And she will scream with me. He says: “She had to do everything I had to do, except backwards in high heels” Because let’s not forget that the inequality is real. And the unbelievable effort needed – just to be taken seriously. They talk about his policy; they talk about her hair, and they’ll scoff if you suggest that it’s all unfair. They gasp when she raises her voice, they call her laugh creepy. Everything is in excess. If she is passionate, she is too emotional. If she is methodical, she is too mechanical. They call it playing the gender card. Because God forbid we acknowledge the hurdles jumped over And to still be one step behind. They ask: When will there be enough women on the court” And she says, without missing a beat, When there a nine.” Because for centuries nine men was just fine. But nine women? That’s outrageous. Because men in power is the norm. And they see it coming towards them like a storm. Because they are the establishment, And just the idea of women putting a dent Is reason to panic. It is all fine in theory, but forget application. Application is not pretty. It is not graceful. And so I refuse to pretend to be gender blind. I refuse to assume that it will be fine. Because the progress made was a result of active choices, not inevitability. And when they ask about my position, I will say that she has the experience and the qualifications and the vision. But I will also say that she is a woman, and that matters. by:Ida Adibi


by Jacqueline Kimmel

BEH

Located in the Tidal statuesque Martin Luther Memorials, is the Franklin Honoring one of the U presidents, the memorial s labyrinth-like with its ten the memorial lacks in hei for in its expansive 7.5 ac attempts to remember an most important deeds by granite walls and erectin the challenging events he composed of four open ro visually guides visitors th presidential terms that Ro Before entering the fir with a bronze sculpture crouched over in his w contrast to the granite wa barrier behind him is a q Eleanor Roosevelt, which him strength and courag had to think out the fun the greatest of all lessons — ending persistence.� The in contrast to the small, h the President, which ma obstacles he would have fa The first room is modest and simple waterfall that space is scarce in deco statues and holds only a fe the granite walls. The qu Roosevelt’s inexperience in launching the New De Depression-- the simple b long and complicated tenu Unlike the room before bronze sculptures depict hope that the Great Depre States. On the right, ther the water cascading dow granite that jut out. Acros rusted line of starving, ski for bread. In another scen people trustingly listen i a Fireside Chat. Listeni encouraging message, th clinging onto the hope suffering would eventually Before even entering t President Roosevelt faced

NA

by Kesiah Clement


HIND EVERY GREAT MAN

Basin, hidden between the King Jr. and Thomas Jefferson n Delano Roosevelt Memorial. United States’ most influential stretches along the basin and is n-foot granite blockades. What ight and grandeur it makes up cres. As a whole, the memorial nd honor President Roosevelt’s carving them into the ten-foot ng sculptures that symbolize e had to face. Chronologically ooms with waterfalls, the maze hrough the corresponding four oosevelt endured. rst room, visitors are greeted of President Roosevelt who, wheelchair, appears small in alls that surround him. On the quote from his wife, First Lady reads: “Franklin’s illness...gave ge he had not had before. He ndamentals of living and learn — infinite patience and neverquote is grand and powerful hunched over, bronze statue of kes the impending maze and aced in office seem impossible. t and barren. With only a single t cascades down, the outdoor or, lacks magnificent bronze ew simple quotes that decorate uotes listed outline President e yet hope and exuberance eal as a response to the Great beginning of what would be a ure in office. e it, the second room has many ting the despair and sliver of ession brought upon the United re is a tiered waterfall where wnward is broken by blocks of ss from the waterfall, a slightly inny bronze figures wait in line ne to the right of the breadline, in a dark and bare room to ing to President Roosevelt’s he civilians look eager, as if that somehow, their current y come to an end. the next room and into what d in his third term, you can

already hear chaotic-sounding water crashing into granite slabs. Turn the corner and there you see dozens of broken blocks lying on the ground as if they had been snapped in half or shattered. Water from the many different waterfalls crashes from every direction into the broken granite. Amidst the seeming mess of the boulders and water splashing everywhere, there are quotes. Barely visible due to the water, they are carved into the shattered granite slabs. Tangential, and facing all of the chaos and noise is a twenty-foot bronze cast of President Roosevelt sitting with his dog. The statue is at least three-times the size of the original statue at the beginning of the memorial. He has grown and is no longer overshadowed by the looming granite walls surrounding him. He sits down due to his illness and his hands are crossed. With a look of calmness and concentration, almost as if he was in control of the chaos happening right before his eyes, he directly faces the disaster and destruction in front of him. Behind him, a statement he once made condemns war and bigotry and calls for them to end. The final room is different; you can hear the difference before even turning the corner. It’s quiet. It’s the type of quiet that is almost deafening after leaving the previously loud and chaotic outdoor room. Instead of seeing the rattling and turbulent waterfalls spurting out from every direction onto a mess of broken granite, there is a long motionless pool. It’s peaceful. The once broken granite slabs stand tall once again. Some walls have some of President Roosevelt’s final words that advocate for peace. A wall to the right displays his engraved bronze funeral cortege. For the first time, President Roosevelt is ingrained into the framework of the memorial, mending the once shattered granite walls. And if it wasn’t for the large cluster of people surrounding it, you would walk right out of the memorial, and not look twice at a small, but significantlooking bronze statue. But indeed, within the final room, to the left, there is a hooded, yet important nook that is seemingly detached from the rest of the room. Inside the inverted granite nook, and accompanied with a quote about peace from President Roosevelt himself, is a bronze statue of a woman who stands in front of a modest United Nations seal. Once named “one of the most esteemed women in the world” and “the object of almost universal respect” by the New York Times, as well as being one of the top ten of “Gallup’s List of Most Widely Admired People of the 20th Century,” here she stands, honored and showered with fans, but tucked away: First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt. Almost as if it was an afterthought by the architect, the cove is disjointed. Instead of mourning her late husband like the rest of the room seems to be, the First Lady Eleanor

Roosevelt is calm with a dauntless gleam in her eye. Her face, peppered with wrinkles, looks forward. Her hands are crossed and she confidently stands tall, prepared for anything. Unlike around the rest of the statues that are littered around the memorial, here people eagerly form a long line to take a picture with the bronze statue of the former First Lady. A mere afterthought by the architect, she steals the limelight from her late husband. And it’s no wonder why. She stood by and supported her husband through everything: his challenging fourterm presidency of nearly sixteen years, his polio illness, and even his affair with another woman. She was his rock. When President Roosevelt became too ill in his last term to appear at conferences and give speeches, she spoke for him. Redefining the role of a First Lady, she held press conferences, wrote a newspaper column, held National Conventions, and even critiqued her husband’s’ policies. She advocated for women’s rights and expanded the role that women played in the workplace. She stood up for the rights of Asian and African-Americans, as well as the rights of World War II refugees. Heavily criticized for being too outspoken and unapologetic, she never took the back seat. She never was, nor could she ever, be silenced. After her husband’s death, she carried on and expanded his legacy. It was because of her that many of President Roosevelt’s later policies were successful. While her husband was unsuccessful in pressuring the United States to join the United Nations, she was adamant and succeeded. She then served as one of the United Nation’s first delegates and even was named the first chair of the United Nation Commission on Human Rights. She even oversaw and helped draft the United Nation’s famous Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Later on, she continued to stay in politics and even became the first chair of President John F. Kennedy’s Presidential Commission on the Status of Women. And to this day, she is known as one of the world’s most influential women. And behold, here she is! One of the most important and outspoken women of all time is placed right here, inside this small 10’ by 7’ by 5’ granite cavity with only a simple United Nation’s logo to represent all she has accomplished in her lifetime. Beside her, her husband’s words of peace are engraved into the granite; they manage to silence Eleanor’s once influential and unstoppable voice. But it is, after all, a 7.5-acre memorial dedicated to her husband, the President Franklin Delano Roosevelt.

She’s lucky to have the square footage in the first place.

TAERG YREVE DNIHEB


The Ladies who (make) Lunch Exploring a new catering service and how two business women made it happen.

Georgetown food options are boring. There, I said it. Fresh out of freshman year, this kid’s had quite enough Ledo’s Pizza and Wingo’s at meetings and club events (not that I won’t eat it if it’s not free of course). Options are limited, expensive, and, if the amount of grease left on my hands is at all indicative of the fat content in an Elevation Burger, unhealthy. Don’t worry. Amanda Leader and Sarah Van Dell, Plum Relish co-founders, feel your pain. After over a decade working in corporate America, Amanda and Sarah found common ground in their mutual hatred of the sad lunches offered at meetings and events. These two driven ladies left their senior positions at The Advisory Board Company to make a no-fuss small order catering company to serve the DC area, and became their own bosses. When I sat down with Amanda and Sarah, Amanda said, “Leaving my ‘real job’ was one of the biggest decisions I have made. It was daunting, but also really exciting and empowering. Especially as a woman it can be easy to doubt your own abilities, but it feels pretty awesome to go for it!” Some perks of Plum Relish include online ordering, customized meals, menus that change weekly, free on-time delivery, and no wasted food due to their personalized meal design. They are available for dietary restrictions of all kinds (gluten free, nut allergy, vegan, paleo), affordable on any budget (yes, that means you student organizations), and each meal comes in an adorable little bento box with the name of each person printed on the side. “Think: UrbanStems, CustomInk, Framebridge for food with all of the efficiencies, quality, and feature sets that make a streamlined experience...at a below-market price,” Amanda says to describe what makes Plum Relish so different from other catering options. I was lucky to host an RA program with Plum Relish food, and it was incredible. They delivered right to the door of Copley (early!), and all I had to do was shoot them an email with my order. While eating my local smoked blue fish with roasted potatoes and dill cucumber salad, I reminisced over my first meeting at Epi with Amanda. Maybe it’s a Pavlovian response, but every time I walk into that place I crave a big old quesadilla with extra guac. After eating this Plum Relish meal, though, I can assure you that quesadillas will seem bland and childish. Good job, Amanda and Sarah. You’re making ordering food for work and social events fun again. The importance of a healthy, tasty meal cannot be stressed enough, because as we all know, if you want people to show up, you better give them good food. “Work is Hard, Lunch Should be easy” is Plum Relish’s mealtime motto. Keep killing the lunch game, ladies. To order, view menus, or learn more visit plumrelish.com or email author Megan Spinella: mds282@georgetown.edu


Cofounders Amanda Leader (left, COO) and Sarah Van Dell (right, CEO)

No waste, no fuss, personalized bento boxes that don’t require heating (and their delicious fudgy brownies of course)


I’ve always loved to put stuff on bread – my favorite food when I was growing up was pita bread with ketchup on top (yes, I know, I’m pretty weird). I was never the biggest fan of sandwiches, and maybe that’s because for three years straight all I had for lunch was PB&J. Don’t get me wrong, I love it, but that stuff can get old, quick. But toast? It’s like a sandwich without the confinements of another piece of bread. It’s magic. With a slice of toast, the possibilities are endless. Make it sweet? Sure. Savory? Uh-huh. Sweet and savory? You bet. To me, the best things in life are on a piece of bread. My toast obsession came along with everyone else’s – I can’t say that I was unique in that respect. But I really started to make it my own the summer going into Georgetown. As I spent so much time in Manhattan (because I live on Long Island, NY, only forty minutes away), I had made it my mission to find the best avocado toast in the city. After a lot of research, a lot of money (why is it so expensive??), and a lot of smashed avocado on bread, I concluded that Jack’s Wife Freda has the absolute best avocado toast, handsdown. Coming to Georgetown, going days without avocado toast was shock to my system. So, like the bad-ass I am, I defied New South rules and bought a toaster. I constantly took pictures of my creations, posted them on Instagram and snapchat, and pretty soon I became known as the toast queen among my friends. In March of my freshman year, I decided to capitalize on my infatuation with toast: @toastedtable. My first Instagram, was, well, a picture of avocado toast that I had made in my dorm. 300+ pictures and 4,000+ followers later, Toasted Table has become a part of who I am. Okay, not actually, but I do really like toast, and I do really like to take pictures of it. Call me basic, but hey, it’s what makes me happy. Here are a few recipes for all of you to try out – they’re super easy to make and also customizable, so if you don’t like a particular ingredient, you can always swap it for something you like better. The only equipment you need is a toaster. And some bread. And avocados. And then, the magic can happen (FYI – I’m still talking about avocado toast here) Like what you made? Share your pictures with me by tagging @toastedtable on Instagram!


by C aitli n Pe

ng

Elegant Notes Yesterday I came down to my mother’s to-do list in between the grocery items and christmas gifts to buy, she wrote “mend Bob’s jacket” and that hurt me. Momma is so bold and beautiful, so while I understand why she left her demanding and successful white-collar job to raise me, I can’t stand to see her diminished by the constraints of a “housewife” label. She made the choice to be a mother and instill in me the truths about life that only a mom can teach But somewhere in the back of my head is the feeling that in doing so she gave up on herself and her own future I wish she could have both a life as a mother and a life as a business woman But the reality is, in her profession she couldn’t I see myself in her, the unfailing determination and go-getter attitude Mom finished college to take over businesses To paint the large black walls pink with her womanhood She succeeded in a man’s world, but she left it for me. When I dream I see blood pumping I hear my own heart beat against the silence as a scalpel sits coolly in my fingers I feel the warmth of my own breath bounce back from against the mask From my head I spew medical terms, easily and flawlessly Perhaps in the corner stands a newly minted intern nervous in my presence by Katharine Farnam

But I don’t want her to be I want to be respected as a warm soul, In a surgery room dominated by cold men. So I will pull her close and tell her that as long as she is a woman, she will be an asset. Yes, women are assets in the surgery room. For who else can truly understand the human body, than those who create it? Sometimes though, I dream of different things, and in these moments I see my life colored by the raw hues of global realities I dream of stealing children out of the toxic hands of shrapnel so they can rest easily in my arms Those least expecting the warm embrace of a woman will melt away at my affection I will crank the rusted doors open and release their minds to dream big I will teach the boys that father isn’t always right, and that no masculine stereotype can hold you grounded in the mud of tradition I will ease the pressure on their shoulders to make money and instead I will teach them to make happiness I will tell the girls that they are gifted, They are strong and noble, that brows bent over books is the most beautiful look, and that nothing can match the splendor of raw femininity and a proud smile to match when it comes time to grow up,

do so with grace, but do so wielding determination in one hand and pride in the other, for next time they feel the icy grips of shrapnel, it will be shards of the glass ceiling they broke down with their own clenched hands. When I grow old and my own daughter comes down into the kitchen she will see a note written just for her I will write it in my own elegant and feminine handwriting, and I will tell her to live big and bold I will tell her to learn from the other girls and boys because everyone has something to teach I will tell her to listen with her heart because that is the gift of girls But I will also tell her to talk to tell the open and unrestrained truth about her dreams I want her to wear her pearl necklace with pride because pearls and the business world can go together My daughter is no sexual object She will embrace her beauty and let it shine openly, and if her employees can’t stand the brilliance of her look then they don’t deserve to stand in her glorious presence. Yes, she will be beautiful, but she will be respected for her warmth. She will be noble and accepting of others, most of all herself, and when she learns that her soft and bright personality can coexist with her relentless brains, then she will truly be a woman.


“Whether you are raising boys or girls, teaching your children deeply about gender equality is more crucial than ever.”

“Try everything that interests you regardless of whether it’s a good career move! Travel! Learn new languages! Love your life!”

“Know yourself and define yourself for people so no one else will be able to define who you are to others.”

“不经历风雨,怎么见彩虹 -Without rain or thunder, there can be no rainbow.”

“When confronted by adversity, relationships, boundaries, or differences: don’t judge. Instead just observe and surrender to the moment. Put your heart over mind.”

1.Do the things that make you happy. 2.Be kind. 3.Believe in yourself and trust your instincts. 4.Be a good friend. 5.Try to do your best always.


2017 will be a time of great change for you, Aquarius; change that will bring about incomparable personal growth. As this new year begins to unfold, it will do you worlds of good to take some time and consider what you want to achieve, and what specifically you want to work on within yourself and your life — be it your health, career, education or relationships. Stay focused, centered and mindful; do not be afraid of the changes coming your way. Embrace them all: priceless lessons lie at their heart.

Pisces, 2017 is looking out to be a year of great adventure and travel for you; you will be exploring and learning, expanding your horizons (both physically and mentally) like never before. This is not the time to walk with worry. Instead, jump into everything life throws your way with impulsive abandon. Go deep with every new experience and feel it all fully. Trust your gut and your year will shape up to be immeasurably exciting.

This month, your adventurous side will come out to play. This new year is a perfect time for you to go on that hike your friend told you about, try that recipe you’ve always wanted to make, or maybe learn a new skill that could (or not!) benefit you in the future. While you’re out having fun this month, remember to evaluate some personal relationships of yours. In 2017, you’re leaving the petty behind.

Let’s face it: last year was a lot. This year probably will be too. Take some time to work on personal responsibility: this may include time management and organizational skills at school or at work as you enter the new year. Setting aside a few minutes a day to work on this will be extremely beneficial. However, 2017 won’t be just all work and no play. There will be a lot of interesting opportunities coming your way this month...if possible, say YES to them.

This month, Gemini, keep an eye out for any seemingly random opportunities that may pop into your path. That invitation to that concert for the band you’ve never heard of at a bar you’ve never been to? Yep. Same goes for more low-key things — maybe even a Valentine’s Day date with that person you met at the record store last weekend. In a nutshell: don’t overthink it. You’re way more likely to regret not going.

It’s 2017, which means that it is a great time to make the changes to your life that you’ve always wanted to. Stop being sorry and start being honest; feel everything; no more pessimism. Maybe you’ll find a deep, deep love this year, or maybe you’ll spend it in love with many people. The best part is that you’ll end this year even more in love with yourself and where you are going.


If you’ve been feeling off your game, Leo, it’s probably because you’ve been feeling stuck in a rut with your relationships. It’s cuffing season, after all, so it may seem like all of your friends are off ice skating on the waterfront while you’re in bed watching Parks and Rec (good choice, tbh). Take some “me time” to catch a movie by yourself, journal, or maybe splurge and buy those rollerblades. Just one thing: wear kneepads!

2017 for you Libra, is going to be a year of peace, harmony, and clarity. Your sense of tolerance and balance will reach soaring new heights, and allow you to realize productive, helpful and enlightening new truths. The resolution of long-standing difficult issues in an important relationship will bring you great solace. Career and educational opportunities will seem to flow right into your hands. Your whole world will seem to be turning rightly on its axis, and you will realize you are exactly where you always needed to be.

You are a dreamer and this semester you may be given the opportunity to pursue one of your ambitious ideas. Take this chance! With your positive attitude and ability to always tell the truth, you can do anything you put your mind to. Although at times it may seem like people won’t take your ideas seriously, the stars are showing that now is the time to act.

This month will be one of fresh starts! Let the loose threads of 2016 fade from your mind; this is a new year, and thus a new opportunity to take control of your life and throw yourself wholly into whatever drives your passion, whether it be school, new love, or a new creative venture. Also, be sure to navigate your relationships with heightened patience, and peace will replace potential frustration.

While Scorpios aren’t always know for their creativity, use your passionate and thoughtful side this month to create a handmade gift for someone who’s been on your mind. I’m not talking macaroni necklaces or papier-mâché dinosaurs — hasn’t your mom been talking for years about how much she loves that scarf her friend Sally got at Anthro? Consider taking up a new craft: how does knitting sound? Valentine’s Day is about love, but not just romantic. Send your mom a loving care package to remind her how thankful you are for her constant ~luv~.

Last year was the year of Netflix binging. This year is a good time to work on self-improvement. As you get more and more comfortable with the daily pattern of things, take more time for yourself and self-care than you did in 2016. However, 2017 isn’t just the year of you, it’s also the year of us. This year, you will find yourself beginning new relationships with people that you would have never expected. That being said, take more chances or deal with the consequences.


“ For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” -Virginia Woolf


Bossi ere:!} '/0'-'1 E.NfOvoER -

aV'C/

.,..N SPIR£

me e.~oI&tj .

'1htl .....r:. '10\..1

Fe,.- e..VB>jf(..,t"j 'Tc,V"\

1)0>5; tr .

1..' M M'f

)0

J\v-0 1. 'y1 t-u ~ "Ow 'foul

(nO(~ltovJl\

G~~'ya~or-t~ \) ttRr bt o~ ~ 0'0 <! }J\"dtt~ CL\V)l

11e~ \"\e'f~'I \no-.(\

soss \t: R )

~QX\)

ts ~ (' cs eo-.-n n<j

0- b~<ACe w 1'1eVe \

be- m~se\-f- ) Of\ d

c.o...n

0-

SpO-ce Jiov e-JeV\{ \?E?C\.uf>fv.( $OV\.I to Sl1llle:'

Y-,"I-

e.xpv'lAlI. W~)

BOSSl~ ~AqAt.1Nt

FALL 20t~ IS50[ t


Bossier Issue 1: Fall 2016  
Bossier Issue 1: Fall 2016  
Advertisement