Bossier Issue 8

BOSSIER BOSSIER

ISSUE 8 | SPRING 2020

A Comment on Writing A Comment on Writing A Comment on Writing

by Aden Choate

Editor-in-Chief

Creative Director

Art Director

Layout Director

Managing Editor

Business Manager

Head of Marketing

Head of Outreach

Head of People

Aden Choate

Chloe Suzuki

Clara de Solages

Geritza Carrasco

Jaden Kielty

Fran Mbonglou

Kat Woodard

Teak Hodge

Syed Chapman

EDITORS

Akanksha Sinha

Amber Nguyen

Anna Gorman

Erin Crowder

Fatoumata Kaba

Gabriela Sheybani

Jess Highland

Kakazi Kacyira

Leina Hsu

Maddie Karny

Maya Silardi

Philan Morgan

Renae Salunga

Sam Helffrich

Sienna Brancato

Zahra Wakilzada

RESIDENT CREATORS

Christina Dropulic

Emily Hardy

Nickie Demakos

Olivia Lebo-Planas

Rose Dallimore

Shraeya Madhu

Sofia Kuusisto

MARKETING

Alexa Thompson

Alexandra Giorno

Ashley Chen

Chelsea Luo

Cynthia Desmet Villar

Jennifer Linares

Kiki Davidson

Lily Yamagata

Aden Choate

Aiganym Nurakhanova

Al Castillo

Alexa Huether

Alexandra Bowman

Alexandra Mucher

Allie Cho

Britney He

Caleigh Andrews

Casey Rae Borella

Chloe Suzuki

Clara de Solages

Cynthia Desmet Villar

Deborah Han

Leina Hsu

Lena Deb

Lily Yamagata

Lucia Pieto

Maddie Kearney

Madeleine Gibbons Shapiro

Mary Grace Yaeger

Mary Shannon Tompson

Matthew Thomas

Michelle Renslo

Neha Malik

Nick Hallett

Nickie Demakos

Nina del Cid

LAYOUT DESIGNERS

Alex Smalto

Allison Herr

Claudia Chen

Deeptha Bejugam

Elizabeth McDermott

Gabriela Gura

Heather Huang

Joyce Yang

Kathleen Neill

Kimberly Jin

Mary Grace Yaeger

May Tan

Olivia Jimenez

Michelle Renslo

Reagan Crittenden

Samantha Carrillo

OUTREACH & EVENTS

Casey Rae Borella

Kayla Zamanian

Lea Farhat

Megan Wee

Sophie Allan

Taylor Kahn-Perry

GENERAL MEMBERS

Amanda Estevez

see all pages and submissions online at bossiermag.com!

from chloe and aden masthead

table of contents

letters from the editors

issue playlist by Mary Shannon

Tompson by Joyce Yang

“I’m Straight--A Poem about Bisexuality” by RC Emily Hard

by Olivia Jimenez

by Kathleen Neill

“Womxn in Rage” by Geritza Carrasco and RC Rose Dallimore

by Gaby Gura

by Chloe Suzuki

by Sayrin Kang

by Michelle Renslo

“Phenomenal Woman” by Olivia Jimenez and RC Sofia Kuusisto

by Claudia Chen

by

Geritza Carrasco

by Mary Grace Yeager

Portraits of Lauryn Hill and Janis Joplin by Joyce Yang and RC Nicki Demakos

by Geritza Carrasco

by Gaby Gura

by Alex Smalto

by Geritza Carrasco

by Joyce Yang by Alex Smalto

by Gaby Gura

by Sayrin Kang

by Mary Grace Yeager

by Serena Lu

by Joyce Yang by Chloe Suzuki by Olivia Jimenez

by Kathleen Neill

by

Chloe Suzuki by Serena Lu

horoscopes by Mary Shannon Tompson by Mary Shannon Tompson more than just a ‘zine

CONTENT WARNING KEY

Before sharing, please be aware that pages with these symbols may be triggering for some.

Content Warning: assault

Content Warning: grief/loss

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 Bossier Magazine staff.

I strike a match.

The tongue of the flame licks softly against my palm, dismantling its mysterious lines.

When it catches on a cone of smaller twigs, the wood crackles in voices and visions.

The cone strengthens and widens with the addition of larger sticks.

Sourced by memory and dreams and perspective, taken from the people and the places we’ve known, these pieces are the bones.

The fire carves itself into the dark.

Every time you look, it changes form, burning gold and orange and sometimes blue.

Then, the colors curl in and devour themselves, conceiving the numinous smoke that feasts on the night.

In my mind, this fire is Bossier. With Issue 8, we give you its new form.

I write this letter laying on a picnic mat in my backyard. The birds are chirping, tradewinds blowing, and there’s just the right amount of clouds in the sky; the world is eerily serene. Who would’ve thought this is where I’d be in mid-April. MidApril is the time for sakura and farmers markets and final papers and ~light~ outerwear and hammocks and nights in Gelardin working on you.

This issue is a special one– pieced together from every corner of the world. And in these “strange and uncertain times” you were born. My mom peered over my shoulder one night as I was working on you and exclaimed, “woowww very nice!” And you know, I appreciate those words of affirmation when working on you, because you intimidate me. Your reputation precedes you. I spend hours on a single spread constantly tweaking, trying to pick out the perfect font, perfect color, perfect placement, because word on the street is that you’re beautiful, poignant, and one-of-a-kind. But you deserve it, and you are a dream come true. For the longest time, I needed something like you in my life and then you came along and just like that!

I fell in love.

There are so many people in love with you you could never know.

If your first encounter with Bossier is through this issue, welcome, and I hope you fall in love too.

Aden Choate, Editor-in-Chief

Chloe Suzuki, Creative Director

By Jennifer linares

photos By felix pilkington

Borders

by stephanie leow

2014, Mexico: 1042 women died, and law enforcement turned a blind eye to 689, and refused to call it femicide.

12 women assassinated everyday in Latin America and the Caribbean yet violence doesn’t stay in the depths of death; it pervades

And so what?

We sit on top of western high horses and let rhetoric of their corruption, their machismo, their poverty spew out of our mouths. Yet we forget our armed forces, our exploitative choices; we berate Global South countries in screaming voices that reveal our northern haughty demeanor, but are we better or are we just meaner?

pity anecdotes of female mules, send thoughts and prayers for their law and order, then call women criminals when they come to our border. And let’s not forget when oil drips from our hands, an indigenous woman marches against the destruction of her land.

We’ve woven a thread through this world, pulled the globe a bit too tight. With a sphere squished, partition perished, begging to be loved for our might.

So let their homes be poisoned! Let their regimes shine bright! Here’s our guns; here’s our spite!

I knew that I was straight when I kissed a boy in seventh grade. Yes, I know it was a little late but the decision had been made.

‘Cause if I liked men it was easy, “straight as an arrow,” I liked to say. Normal, classic, simple and breezy, no need for Father to pray.

So I continued down this path, liking boys and soon liking men. Yet late at night when I did the math, I had a crush and she was a ten

Man mustn’t lie with man, since then, heterosexuality has been the norm. Husband and wife, therefore, became the plan I subconsciously must conform.

But because straight is the default and there’s no room for questions here, internalize your failings, enclosed in a vault as the patriarchy devilishly sneers.

To this day the binary dumbfounds me, since for years straight meant I liked girls and guys. I thought it was a secret kept by everybody, I didn’t understand heteronormativity to be a lie.

Fast forward 5 years to college, and internal confusion to the side, ‘cause quite frankly I must acknowledge feelings within that have been denied.

Perhaps I was lying all along. What if I wasn’t really straight? Maybe that’s why I felt I couldn’t belong on the other side of heaven’s gate.

But what was this talk of rainbows? Gay I couldn’t possibly be! Stereotypes-- I don’t want to impose but Lesbians just don’t look like me. And although I’m not super sure about God there’s an assumed sense of deviancy, when we engage in activities formally outlawed and embrace sexual fluidity. So with that in mind, I sealed my lips, sit back and be composed. Don’t watch the movement of her hips, talk to guys, before everyone knows. Clearly, I’m not straight-- never was and never will be. Sorry the announcement is a little late, but be patient, I’m discovering me. Truthfully, I don’t always feel queer, as if I deny or retract sexuality. Perhaps, though, this is out of fear-- I’m still defining my identity.

Bisexuality is not a choice, although the options include both women and men. So to the people whom I love, rejoice, on your gender my affection won’t depend. Look, I promise it will be alright, the label doesn’t have to fit like a glove. There’s still plenty need for basic human rights but ultimately love is love.

by Emily Hardy

LARK LARK

by Maddy Kearney

October comes.

e teeth and the sabers glance o my ribs and only leave nicks and bruises. is is where the sidewalks crumble o e blackbirds, strung out along the wire, strung out on meth, spit at me as I pass. ey know what I am. ey know the holes in my shoes. eir beady eyes glisten with malice and want ey sicken and molt and die with it.

eir eyes fall to the streets.

June has left me like a whirlwind and I don’t know how to re-orient. April has come and I am calibrated along her axis. e notches of my spine are twisted with it. It’s not my fault.

e roof leaks a little more with every thunderstorm and with every time she smiles like that.

I nearly bite through my lip.

e rusty bucket hardly catches the drips; the walls and the carpet are mildewed. e dampness settles in my bones.

I wake with a crick in my neck, dreaming I’ve drowned.

So I’m lonely. It’s not like I’m the rst person ever, yeah?

e Raritan overspills its banks and carries o all the smoothest pebbles. e elds at Jericho are in ruin. e oodlights icker out.

Okay, so I’m lonely. I won’t wait around for the stoning.

I used to know someone riddled with cigarette burns like craters, so thin he crawled to the top of a pine tree and blew o , got tangled in the telephone wires. e remen had to cut him loose.

e transmission goes. e radio goes. We tilt into a ditch, and the Fates, laughing with their scissors at my neck, ask for a light and smoke out the window. e nicotine is sour but it soothes the ticking of the--

Aneurysm.

e kettle is screaming, and screaming, and screaming.

e house is old. e window frame is beginning to sag. Everything tilts left, and I have a perpetual crick in my neck from the shift.

I make excuses. I think my hands are arthritic. I miss a step. e windowpanes are cracking, I can’t breathe-- e note turns sour. I fall into the river.

My carcass is bloated, turned inside-out by the current. I wash up miles o . She comes to the funeral, tear tracks on her cheeks, cold lips. At least, I think, she’s been spared.

A pinky promise we made or didn’t, in a t of deaf tenderness:

No black eyes, broken bones, or crying for you, darling. Perhaps I only said it to myself. I have always been a self-contained disaster.

At least I didn’t slip.

A testament to Breasts and a Eulogy to my own

By Al Castillo

hidden under button-up, shirt, sports bra, binder and tape weights that leave me with my back bended weights that pull me further to the ground pulling down til my lungs can’t take in oxygen breathe…

that’s what they always tell you when you wear a binder for more than 5 consecutive hours but my binder is always on my chest is always tightened i keep gasping for air 24 hours a day because that’s all trans boys can do. breathe…

chest aches and broken ribs are painful, but my name on the list of our fallen every year is a weight i don’t wish to bear but soon this chest will feel the sun, sunlight hitting my bare, beautiful, brown skin i will soon be cut up and out will spill a weight of 19 years no more binder or sports bra or tape i will be able to breathe...

my body is not a map for you to explore nor a question to be asked or answered this body of mine does not determine your idea of my gender nor does the testosterone rushing through my veins alongside my dying estrogen don’t question my own changes when my body chose to change without permission at the age of 13

i’m now shedding a skin that wasn’t mine, never was mine, never will be yours look at this body, my own muse, every crook, stretch mark, and curve this body is my canvas but you are not my brush don’t try to control my body like you already do with cis and trans women don’t tell me i’m not a man or not man enough because my clit isn’t phallic enough cis people, we’re done with your cistem and y’all’s stupid binary stop asking about our changes when you get to decide our permanence and maybe you’ll see us for who we truly are: Bright. Proud. Trans. And Beautiful.

art by caleigh andrews

life lessons

by Mary Grace Yaeger

by Kathleen Neill

With you, With you

by Jabari Butler

I’d rather walk through the streets Of Paris, dressed in drizzling garbage Holding your trashy hands, passed Their greatest bunch of folk.

We’d cover their magazines And they’d laugh And they’d shame, and they’d joke

Shedding chocolate wrappers all the way home

With you, With you I’d rather walk And they’d hate And they’d curse, and they’d slice at our legs

And we’d giggle and skip, with unblemished hands Chatting to the rhythm of morning birds

goldpinkandandporcelain goldpinkandandporcelain pinkandandporcelain

photo series by Geritza Carrasco

photo series by Kakazi Kacyira

photo series by Fran Mbonglou

a poem by Aiganym Nurakhanova

What is she but a pair of eyes too disproportionate and a laugh too contagious, a smile too genuine and a head full of thoughts, a secret glance across the room and tears held back in front of people, a hesitant “hello,” a firm handshake, and a never-ending hug, a mouth full of secrets and a heart with a vacancy, a soul craving love that she can’t give herself, life of the party, yet a lonely wolf within.

Blank as

Blank Ca as

the sky looks like a watercolor painting todayeven brushstrokes of pinks, yellows and blues mixing together in cloudless harmonyas the sun sets lower and lower into the horizon

as we drive toward mother nature’s masterpiece i sit in my car seat contemplating what lies before me for i do not yet know what these next few months holdan equally exciting and terrifying uncertainty...

i am unusually quiet today not quite able to translate my thoughts into words or my feelings into thoughts for that matter i stay comfortable in this silence as my mother drives beside me

i did not sleep last night

so many questions today but not many answers just the sound of the tires on the pavement and the sun setting steadily in the west

byKellyGoonan

PhotobyCynthiaDesmetVillar

I.

I never really understood what she meant when she said that sometimes home could be another person.

But then there was a you. And there was an us. In New Haven, in DC. And slowly my room started shifting from the white walls with the carefully placed posters, to the way you sleepily trace your

And it didn’t make sense, you know? Because we would never be together in the same place for more than a week unless we decided this is it.

II.

I always thought you would have blue eyes, but yours are brown. I was sure I was independent and content, until I got used to the comfort in knowing that I will wake up to a text from you— until you were the kind of guy who after my worst week.

III.

So I decided to keep building. And every day I add a brick, despite how my shelter—my safe space—out of something so temporary. something that could crumble so easily, leaving me homeless.

But, I guess, these are the risks we decide to take.

Calculated Risks Calculated Risks

And, honestly, it might be. Because you of all people know that I am not the type of girl who builds her foundation on something so unsteady as another human’s heart –and yet –and yet.

byKathleenNeill

Rot in the hot sun

I’ve escaped in a sundress and I’m full of life

I step carefully on the hot pavement

Trying to feel everything around me

What’s beneath and above

All vibrations

is thing that’s always on my mind

A gorgeous monstrosity within myself

A pretty iguana girl

e sky is so blue over the swamp!

e sun is shining bright!

Brighter than I’ve ever seen before

I feel the rays on my skin and imagine they’re piercing my esh

I’ve waited so long for the summer

And now I’m higher than ever

I’m teetering o the sidewalk in front of my house

And I face plant into the empty street

As my mom’s car slowly drives up the road and stops before me

And that’s what needs to happen

For me to slide over the sun

to kick from one cloud to the next

And keep this ability to completely destroy myself from the inside and eat my own heart like a jackal

I am a ferocious city rat

Disease ridden and angry

e villain of a story nobody’s writing

And I’m so so happy, swimming in formaldehyde

My sneakers were once white but are now covered in dust and dirt

I’m the happiest I’ve ever been and I know what a fool I am

by Lucia Pieto

by Deborah Han

P H E N O M E N A L

w o m a n 26

W O M A N

Empty Flute

by Neha Malik

I want to be happy.

I want to feel the painful brightness of the sun behind my eyes, The thoughtlessness of my breath, And the trickling stream In my head.

I want to lean into the vibrance, The song, The scent, To the grass I lay on: Take my body, Water me, feed me Color me Pink, Purple, Red, Yellow, Blue—

This hug of sadness that was once a home, The written maps on my veins merely dents in a wall. Now comes the time to lose the hand, who I gripped so hard Till my love lines were blue— With no room for any other.

(I’m ready to be happy again.)

by Neha Malik

photos by Nina del Cid

Mi cariño

by Geritza Carrasco

poder nadar en tus olas una vez más sería una bendición ni siquiera tendría que nadar si me dejaras

bautízame en sabores de granada y suaves aromas de hierba en el aspecto sedoso de tu risa en el aspecto sedoso de tus rizos

envuélveme en los besitos de la Brisa en los abrazos de los rayos del Sol cualquier cosa que podría imitar la sensación familiar de tu cuerpo

porque no puedo soportar estar de rodillas por mucho más tiempo en vigilia rezando que quizás estás pensando en mí también

photos by Joyce Yang

My Leafy Friends

My Leafy Friends

Welcome, prickly Euphorbia to this sunlit windowsill of a home that habitually smells of coconut chapstick.

I chose you, for unlike the others, you are resilient. You have persevered through the desert’s ceaseless fever and His unrelenting thirst.

Maybe, you can survive me.

I like to blame the passing of the lilacs, the daffodils, the maidenhair fern, a sprig of ivy,

and even that humble shrub on my chronic case of black thumb, though I think it’s this ceaseless vertigo life always whisks me into.

As I twirl 20 counterclockwise through my days, I can barely take care of myself, let alone my leafy friends.

But you, my scratchy Euphorbia, you are different. And so am I.

by Samantha Martin

photos by chloe suzuki

thefor f izzle s izzle f izzle s izzle an elegy an elegy

I watered my dracaena, leaves shriveled and tips black as your loafers; snipping wasn’t working. I placed it atop rocks and water – humidity needed, or so I’ve heard.

you told me to follow instructions, but my poor unnamed fern shivers in dry winters— what are you?! maybe not even a fern at all.

as much as I plead a corkscrew albuca, otherwise known as a fizzle sizzle, will never sprout from the groves between my knuckles, even if I squeeze and water and will it to grow. I am not equipped to fix my longing for sour grass… how are wildflowers wild on my windowsill?

photos by chloe suzuki

Must You Also?

I sat on the floor in tears

IdoNotunderstandwhy

Anyonewouldwanttohurtme

Andyet

So many have

So many times

Isitnotenoughforyou

To own a woman

Mustyoualsotakeher

Steal her from herself

I was So afraid

Andbecauseofyou(plural)

ImustLiveeachday

SoAndafraid in mourning of What had died

Inside me

Isitnotenoughforyou(plural)

Mustyoualsodoitslowly

To kill a woman

Poisoning me so that each time I breathe

I suffer

byAlexandraMucher

art by Alexandra Mucher

Silence is the loudest scream

Everyone is talking but no one is listening

There are always questions and never answers, deception and never confession

Every time we try to turn over a new leaf, winter comes and licks all the trees bare

I want to sleep and never wake up

I want to yell and never be heard

Because speaking is too painful And running away never works

And I know you’ll want to talk me out of it if I tell you my secret

by Jade Ferguson

Because I am reaching for the surface, thrashing underneath the blanket of cold water, but there meeting nails digging into my raw chest and I can’t breathe and I can’t breathe and I can’t breathe. And I am barefoot, and I am bare skinned and I am broken down...and I am empty and there is a by another voice, by another soul except for the one in the mirror that rips out her hair and scratches down her cheeks and picks at her eyelashes and tells everyone she is okay...she is but she has a secret that she keeps in her little dark box: She is not okay. She is not happy. She is not perfect.

Now everything is everything

What is meant to be, will be

After winter, must come spring

Change, it comes eventually

Sometimes it seems

We’ll touch that dream

But things come slow or not at all

And the ones on top, won’t make it stop

So convinced that they might fall

Let’s love ourselves and we can’t fail

To make a better situation

Tomorrow, our seeds will grow

All we need is dedication

Let me tell ya that

It could all be so simple

But you’d rather make it hard

Loving you is like a battle

And we both end up with scars

Tell me, who I have to be

To get some reciprocity

No one loves you more than me

And no one ever will

He was the ocean and I was the sand

34 34

He stole my heart like a thief in the night

Dulled my senses blurred my sight

I used to love him but now I don’t

The purpose of this work is to highlight women who are two are only considered so when convenient. By “convenient”, I mean when we have debates on the best female rock or hip hop artists, discussions on female artists during Women’s History Month, or any moment when we are forced to choose a female artist rather than just an artist, not tied down by their sex or gender. Janis Joplin and Lauryn Hill are two of the most important and impactful artists in their respective genres, and more people need to recognize their

by: Nickie Demakos

Didn’t I make you feel like you were the only man yeah

And didn’t I give you nearly everything that a woman possibly can?

Honey, you know I did!

And each time I tell myself that I, well I think I’ve had enough

But I’m gonna show you, baby, that a woman can be tough

I want you to come on, come on, come on, come on and take it

Take another little piece of my heart now, baby!

Break another little bit of my heart now, darling, yeah, yeah, yeah

Have another little piece of my heart now, baby

Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose Nothin’, don’t mean nothin’ hon’ if it ain’t free, no no

And, feelin’ good was easy, Lord, when he sang the blues

You know, feelin’ good was good enough for me

Good enough for me and my Bobby McGhee

Sitting down by my window

Honey, looking out at the rain

Sitting down by my window, looking out at the rain

All around that I felt it

All I can see was the rain

Something grabbed a hold of me

Feel to me, oh, like a ball and chain

Hey, you know what I mean that’s exactly what it felt like

But that’s way too heavy for you, you can’t hold them all

The Stars are my Calendar

by Alexa Huether

Living a busy life in an even busier city, the stars are easy to miss. I can distinctly remember the last three times I really took time to gaze at the stars in the past five years. The first was my sophomore year of high school, as I went outside my room to cry about a boy who rarely crosses my mind now. The second was my senior year of high school out in the middle of nowhere Arizona; the last time was tonight, laying down gazing at the clear sky on a little piece of land way out in the ocean looking between two palm trees. Would I find them as beautiful if I saw the stars like this every night?

The sound of the crashing waves, the bright lights hidden behind the palms, the fresh smell of the thick island air, the sand on my feet, and my body resting on the slightly wet chair, I laid listening to songs that bring back memories from completely different eras. Among the songs were Silver Linings and Every Holiday by Mt. Joy, Se Io Se Lei by Biagio Antonacci, Oggi Sono Io by Mina, Staring at the Stars and Beneath Your Beautiful by Passenger (Consistent with my huge Passenger phase early in high school), Hey There Delilah by the Plain White Tees, and Budapest by George Ezra. The stars and these songs reminded me of how much life I’ve already lived, how far I’ve come and how far I have yet to go.

I tried to take a picture but of course, you couldn’t see any of the stars. Maybe that’s why they’re so beautiful, they pull you into the current moment and keep you there. The stars aren’t for anyone else but you, and the entire world, or whoever else is up and looking at them too.

The hole in your head

by Casey Rae Borella

You had a hole in your head.

SIS SIS STA STA

by Maddie Kearney by Caleigh Andrews

morning rountine

by Madeleine Gibbons Shapiro

the sunlight gently soothes the shutters, swooping across the smooth, sturdy slats, and here I live another day inside myself. stuck with this rock festering deep in my gut, I tend to my growling innards and hush my grumbling mind: we know how to do this now; we’ve got this.

I spoon the veritable poison (or maybe my lactose intolerance is a figment of my nervous imagination?) into my bowl, then into my mouth, pausing every so often to ponder my appearance in my dark, shiny, magic box — the virtual wor(l)ds stream in, swirling around me like hyenas poised to attack.

frigid, round water clings to my squinty, pillow-imprinted face and my mind begrudgingly starts to discern 3am’s nightmares from 6am’s fantasies. who would I be, I ask myself, if that gigantic, purple octopus had really engulfed me? if my future were really made of freshly-spun cotton candy?

on autopilot, my ears search for meaning in the garbled sounds of the sidewalk, in the blabbering buzz of pretentious podcasts spurring my ever-unsatiated inquisitiveness. after all, what could be worse than some unfiltered thoughts showing up instead and overstaying their welcome for eternity or even longer?

zoom zoom zoom the doors open shut open shut and I am in a social experiment, closer to strangers than I am to my friends, the touch I yearned for so profoundly is gone now, or perhaps was never there at all. And from within I exude waves of passive panic, my eyes scanning for imposters yet I know the real imposter is me.

against my will my forehead boasts a clear sheen of sweat and I confront the true futility of those five extra minutes spent powdering myself to palpable perfection (I will do this again tomorrow, of course). with a surge my innards protest again but I know this game -- they won’t get their way just yet:

this time, right now, I’ve made sure everything’s in my control. I breathe deep and blink hard and catapult myself out of my tortured yet tranquil anonymity once more, I search the horizon for the next bit of certainty to latch onto, I pick up my pace then stop and think better of it, and I wave goodbye to this bit of myself until the morning to come.

Morning in Konalve by Kathleen Neill

dream state

by Sophia Elliot

My dream fills my lungs and makes my head spin. Only to be exhaled almost involuntarily just as I become conscious of its potency.

It’s edges and nuances escape me despite my struggle to contain them.

It rebels, taking new forms until inevitably it’s gone - a cloud of white smoke dissipating into nothingness.

It’s presence confirmed only by the feeling of dissatisfaction that replaces its fading memory.

A structure you can consider:

My dream fills my lungs and makes my head spin. Only to be exhaled, almost involuntarily, just as I become conscious of its potency.

It’s edges and nuances escape me despite my struggle to contain them.

It rebels, taking new forms until inevitably it’s gonea cloud of white smoke dissipating into nothingness.

It’s presence confirmed only by the feeling of dissatisfaction that replaces its fading memory.

Buza Bar by Kathleen Neill

To the boy I used to buy kiwis for

by Britney He

by C a l e i hg swerdnA

It’s a Wednesday: shoulders heavy with work. I grab ours, you yours.

“I love those,” you murmur to the kiwis in front of you and when you turn, I pluck one up just for you. It was like that every week.

“I love you” was countless kiwis from me to you.

See, I used to buy you kiwis. I would’ve bought you the sunbeams that light up your beautiful blue eyes too. Until

I realized you would never do the same for me. Until I realized I was never worth a kiwi, a brunch date, a 500 foot walk, movies over a night out, flowers on my birthday

to you. I never meant much time or thought and that’s when I knew. That’s when I stopped.

Be Be

by Matthew Thomas

i saw the most beautiful boy today. the sight of him stirred something deep inside me. he sent my mind spiraling in chaotic circles.

why is he so calm? why am i drawn to him? is it the fact that he looks at me the way a mother looks at her child? or is it the way his laugh radiates through my body like morphine? or do i see the despair in his eyes?

the despair that he wears on his face like a mask

what is so special about him? is it his eyes? his smile? his laugh?

it’s the fact that he simply longs to be. be away from his insecurities. be away from his emptiness. but looks in all the wrong places.

i look in the mirror and must confront myself. confront my demons and the hold they have on me. i feel the need to run. the need to hide. but it’s time i learned to stop running and take off the mask

Olivia Lebos-Planas

Love Poem with Lilliputan Shimme r

By Samantha Mar tin

He sails concrete, sporting a plastic homecoming crown, gloriously brazen,

5 blissfully unrushed moonwalking afraid to sever the invisible strings connecting our pupils. 10

And for once, I don’t march, I don’t whiz, I don’t barrel,

A lilliputian shimmer cocooning him, extending to the soles of his feet, down my spineas close to buoyant youth as absolutely unthinkable

exhilarated, knowing he, I will never again be this light, young,

I hover beside him, not grounded gait. But now, he reeks of whiskey, low achingly frail shoulder managed to carry, stride wobbling through granite tentatively-carefully until I think my frame will 40 crush under his weight.

And I don’t hover, barrel, I walk weighted and weightless.

Card Blanche

by Aiganym Nurakhanova

A devouring flame, a perilous gameOne player too much and the scale is not the same. Held onto my promises, yet I let you drownHaven’t you heard, my dear?

I’d do anything to keep the crown. Don’t think I switched sidesHe just fit into my scheme; Don’t know much about allies, But you’re like a wasted dream. Love at first sight or a strategic move? Take your aim and roll the dice Since all my friends would disapprove. I took his hand and paid the priceWe’re on the run, caught in my lies.

It’s a prisoner’s dilemma - nobody wins; Everyone’s for themselves and so another round begins. He stabbed me in the back, But I had time to swerveThough we lost count of the attacks, We all shall get what we deserve.

Don’t blame me if you lose, my dear, I’ll get a card blanche and disappear.

artwork by Michelle Renslo

Sometimes by Kathleen Neill

Sometimes, after you have done all you can think of, like, sitting for 6 hours straight to finish the book, or, letting the pounding of your feet on the road the heaviness of your breath be the only sounds you hear, or, shuffling that playlist or, drinking another cup of tea, or even, driving 12 hours north and turning the phone off and stowing it away to burrow under a blanket in that cold little Cape that still has no heating, the pieces of him still find a way to creep in.

Bikini-clad Trespassers Bikini-clad Trespassers

by Samantha Martin

Because we are so stupid, the sign warning “NO TRESPASSING, VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED” was ignored. the curiously low fence between us and the hot tub hopped.

Despite a few grievances, out comes the pink Swell water bottle *ahem* not filled with water, off comes the flip flops, shorts, tops, and in, HOT, HOT, HOT, in we go.

Adults created private property to tell us “Get out!”, which is why our generation will probably reject Propriety, it proves to be a terrible investment and requires religiously chanting “GET OUT!” and the occasional call to the COPS. Yes, someone called the COPS and suddenly beams of light began shining in the distance and the thought of RUNNING crosses your mind but RUNNING would look suspicious as f***, so you push the water bottle into your backpack and a few bikini-clad girls begin sipping on chlorine water to dilute the smell of GIN which you arenʼt technically, legally allowed to drink even though countries like FRANCE have less DUIs due to exposure to Alcohol at earlier ages.

photo series by Julie Guan

The beams of light overhead, “Ladies, did you know you arenʼt supposed to be here?”

“We arenʼt?”

“We got a call that someone hopped the fence.”

“Really? Some Miramonte boys let us in. They mustʼve lied to us!”

“Well, Iʼm sorry about that, but youʼll have to leave now.”

“Okay, thank you so much officers!”

So out, COLD, COLD, COLD, out we go, and on come the shorts, tops, flip flops, that beam of light pointed directly at our bodies. Walking past the fence, to the car, without even a slap on the wrist.

Iʼd vote the greatest accomplishment of womankind is the bikini.

Here’s what I do know:

I’m in love with everyone I meet I don’t know any other way

I want you to feel that, how

I’m not in the business of a love that goes both ways In fact, I’m asking you for the opposite

I want to love you so badly with nothing in return

What do you think?

The snag is this: we all want to be loved and I maybe

I live in grey areas, I’m stuck in a hopeless chase

It’s because those who put me on this earth are so consistent that I’m not sure anyone else ever will be, So I love what I can while it’s here.

And I love him

Forgive me, by him I mean you

but you could be anyone who listens when I can’t help from spewing my nothingness anyone who wraps me in their arms in the middle of the day anyone who writes on my skin the words “I love you too”

What I mean to say is:

I don’t know how to love carefully

As long as you keep showing up, I’ll promise you another episode

We can hold hands until our palms are sweaty, and I’ll be thankful my heat left something behind

Something you took home

If the lights are on when I get back, let’s talk for hours

If the books on my shelf have fallen, I’ll leave them be

I’ll believe you

thebeginning never makes any sense,but by Rachel Newman thebeginning never makes any sense,but by Rachel Newman

I think, if you had asked me to describe Heaven when I was younger, you probably would have gotten a story about the angels walking around on clouds, maybe a little bit about my dad’s mother, but probably more about a place where I could read for as long as I wanted, and the Harry Potter books never ended.

But, if you were to ask me today, I story. Maybe about last Sunday. With my body pressed between the couch of consciousness, as you watched the Eagles game.

byKathleenNeill

for

TrinitybyJoyceYang

Fridays are “date nights”— at the pho place, or the Thai place, always dessert afterwards; I’m laughing at his jokes and his hands are around my waist. He licks my cheek in public and gives me a who cares shrug, I’m embarrassed but not bothered. We walk down the street carelessly other. Intimacy comes too easily.

In front of the mirror, I am in: a lacy top, pink paisley shorts, and hair clips like the girls on Instagram. straight?” I ask him.

“I don’t know what that even means,” he responds.

So much of the semiosis of queerness is in presentation. Yet, his very presence dominates my text; hand-in-hand down the street, I am read as the girlfriend to his boy-friend, the softness to his sturdiness. Hand-in-hand down the street, I feel locked out of the queer lexicon.

I love my boyfriend

Being in a Het-Presenting Relationship

imagining the Nebulous Woman. The Nebulous Woman also licks my cheek in public,

dinner, and warms my bed at night. Her presence validates my sexuality and raises my voice in queer circles. I want to feel her touch if only to say I did (“of course I have been with a woman!”)

“Triplets” by Mary Grace Yaeger

Art by Olivia Lebo Planas

by Leina Hsu

I will never be able to date a woman without partially condemning her to being the Nebulous Woman. Just as my boyfriend is not only my boyfriend, but also Boyfriend: a cisgender man granting invisibility to my queerness and heterosexual privilege to me. With Boyfriend, I am not afraid to tell my parents or even my grandparents about my relationship— they invited him over for dinner almost perfectly happy and non-deviant. And as a 5’10” woman, it is not often that I feel feminine, but I do next to tall, strong Boyfriend and I hate how I love it.

but only to beg that someone answer me. But there is a light, I have found, in the company of other bisexual women. Women who do not tiptoe around these tensions. There is validation, without a queer-presenting relationship, in having queer relationships. Because it shows you how queerness informs parts of you and permeates the entire you. What I’ve it is around my queerness, not away from it, that I have built my relationship: as one that disengages from gender roles and is based in exploration and

There are still many elements of gender, sexuality, and love I struggle to examine my queerness, the more chaos Iexperience. Yet, the more chaos, the more I am at peace.

“Chaos”

by Mary Grace Yaeger

Lily Yamagata

Life in shape/Lost

When I was younger, I attended a Korean sleepaway

My siblings and I loved it. We counted down the days every year until we could make the 8-hour drive to the campsite, see our friends, and participate in the crafts and activities that occurred every week. Through activity would bond with our friends while also learning more about our Korean culture and history.

I loved the arts and crafts sessions. Every summer I would come home with a new project—freshly carved rubber stamps, carefully constructed birdhouses, and piles of colorful friendship bracelets, their edges frayed from campground activities. Yet, there was always one rotation that I dreaded participating in: Korean drumming. Every year, all campers would participate in a traditional Korean drumming lesson with the janggu, a two-sided percussion instrument. The instructor, an old Korean man from the UCLA music department, was known for being particularly strict. Given his usual class of capable college students, he would get frustrated with younger campers who could not keep up with his teaching.

Art by Alexandra Bowman

The In Between by Allie Cho

From the front of the room, he would tower over us, commanding us to pick up our mallets and play the beat he wrote out on the board. “modu-

each note, explaining the pattern to us in Korean.

Most of my friends nodded at his words, picked up their own mallets and began to play the beat that he outlined. Unlike them, though, I struggled to follow his words. I didn’t speak Korean, but was determined to clumsily wrapped themselves around the drumsticks, and I attempted to follow along. However, the beat was much more complicated than I had imagined. I quickly fell behind the other kids, who switched seamlessly between drumming patterns at the instruction of the professor. After a few moments, the teacher stopped the entire class and pointed at me, then forcefully asked me something in Korean.

I felt my face grow hot with embarrassment. I hated being singled out for my errors, but was even more ashamed that I didn’t understand what he was saying or how to correct myself. I remained silent while he contin-

waited to see what everyone else did. After watching the sequence a few movements.

Even as a nine-year-old, I knew that this moment meant something important for my own identity. At camp, I was with a community of people who looked like me. I thought that this would empower me make me feel

began to wonder if I could even claim Korean culture as my own.

As a second-generation immigrant, my unique position in my family’s lineage is a product of our rich, complicated, and moving history. My grandparents’ lives were full of hardship, such as my grandmother’s escape from the turmoil of the Korean war and my grandfather’s defection from North Korea. Yet, their history was also full of hope, and their desire to pursue better opportunities for their children led them to immigrate to America.

English and didn’t know anyone. Like many immigrants, they struggled to even land minimum wage jobs. However, determined ents excelled in their high school coursework and took overtime shifts on the side to help keep food on the table. Years of hard work paid off, and my parents earned advanced degrees and achieved success in their careers. My parents are among the lucky few to attain the American Dream, and they are proof of the grit, determination, and strength of immigrant communities today. Looking up to them, I know that I have a lot to be proud of: my family’s struggles, our victories, Like countless other second-generation children, I am caught in an identity crisis. Unlike my parents, I had the privilege of an ically and socially stable life. I never had to struggle to learn English or take on extra jobs, and I grew up being accustomed to American values and traditions: my parents’ kimchi was my caesar salad, their favorite bibimbap was my macaroni and cheese. Until very recently, I couldn’t even speak Korean beyond a basic “happy new year”, “happy birthday”, and “I love you.” Even now, my understanding of the language is poor—something I’m painfully reminded of when I try to speak with my grandparents,

through their determination to achieve the “American Dream”, my grandparents were able to opened small businesses. My parmy heritage and struggle with my two-fold identity.

who never completely assimilated to American culture.

At the same time, I will never be a “true American”. As an Asian-American, I occupy a very different space than many of my peers. This is something I have become acutely aware of since coming to Georgetown. Attending a predominantly white institu

nomic diversity.

Here,however though, I am frequently one of the a few women of color in my classes and clubs. Though many people on this campus are accepting of other backgrounds, some are not—as evidenced by some of my classmates’ outright racist statements, language, off-the-cuff remarks, and jokes—that makes me feel most isolated. They serve as a poignant reminder of how ingrained

At the same time, I recognize the complexity of the social norms I face and know that I am afforded privileges that other racial Minority Myth, these same stereotypes also result in increased racial credibility and higher pay in the workplace as compared to our black and Latino peers.

vast and complicated cultural gap, with one foot in the United States and the other in Korea. At times, this frustration has been

or comments here and there about “yellow fever” or “Asian eyes.” Sometimes, it is this combination of microaggressions—body these racial biases are, and how they permeate into daily life to exclude me and many other minorities on campus. minorities do not receive. For example, although Asian-Americans are targeted by harmful racial stereotypes such as the Model overwhelming, and it has played a role in my aversion toward Korean culture.

Since coming to this realization, I have more actively worked to learn about and appreciate my Korean heritage. One of the ways that I’ve done this is through exploring Korean food, a seemingly simple medium that communicates culture and history. In addi tion to this, I try to speak more with my grandparents and have taught myself more Korean to better understand them. I am unsure if the feeling of being “in-between” my Korean and American identities will ever go away. However, with time, I hope to learn how to navigate this cultural limbo. In exploring more of my own relationship with my heritage, I can already see

“in-between,” not following a beat, but creating a new one—syncopated, out of rhythm, but wholly mine.

Background:Active Listening

by Madeleine Gibbons-Shapiro

pla

by Jessica Richards

when i think about the coldness, the absence of warmth, in the way my grandfather interacts with me, all it makes me want to do is interact so warmly and lovingly and gently, caring with parts of the world that don’t expect that kind of warmth. i want to be a grandfather, sitting at the side of my granddaughter’s bed, listening to her tell me about the bugs she saw running around outside that day, I want to paint soft pictures with her and leap from note to note in a song that she wrote all by herself, and listen. it will be warm, and she will feel safe.

I want to be a grandparent sitting at the kitchen table with my grandson, listening to him stumble through tears and articulate what breaks him as he grows into the age where he is supposed to become colder, i want to light candles in every place flames are being blown out and where candles are pushed to the back of the attic because they are no longer needed.

la pl

photo by Cynthia Desmet Villar

c es aces places

Yes! I said, deeply sick and full of scum, Tongue beating the roof of my mouth, a ram Running wild with glee and teeth, A deep-sea eel.

I can’t see until I cry, and once I cry I can’t see What I need, breathing deep so I can scream At the teat, which it fled from last month Before I needed it.

Hiding beneath the dirt with the worms And legs and wings, lurking and smirking And fooling me with its green eyes and black hair Stoning me.

Underwater, I plead to breathe or speak or leave, Any will do! It smiles as if it can be me.

by Nick Hallett

painting by Mary Grace Yaeger

Selfwords

by Panna Gattyan

i.

He didn’t give me time to pick up the neon and plastic beads. Psychedelic fantasia on the ground. e video store holed up in a grey building that crumbled like grain between your teeth. Outside it is not raining. Spindles and bers, praying mantis, preying mantis, the mantra overwrites the cassette tape that we rented. We learned the wispy tongues with bloated, seizing mouths allergic to lips. I spill the beads, the second, he angers, or else he angers then I spill the beads. e bracelet breaks the cement. e yellow alligator at the bottom of the pool chases me across the chlorine place and I am scared. We ate chestnut puree tendrils and whipped cream from a frozen rectangular prism. e bee was dead so it stung me, crying. I was about to pick them back up, the broken beaded bracelet, when he arrived. e rst place was billowy textured white clouds oating half ensnared by the blue sea. e cold was water and I giggled. She and grandmother say we’re swimming beneath a dictator’s palm, and the castle on the hill by the river was ours but now it’s an apartment complex. e elusive camou aging creature, yet, sips cocoa in our warm kitchen. is nightmarish vision is our pet. Gnawing worry about decisions sing historical operas with the determinants I want to control but others do. Passenger-strike mob with wooden signs tramples train without looking back, but however indeed while by. e tracks unwind like furls of smoke from a camp re, and I do not know where to begin, but maybe sex and warm plum dessert.

ii.

Children play hide and seek inside the sandsunk tires, and climb the fences to look at the tragedy of other. In school I learned of the shaved heads and tree-bleeding of the Iroquois, of cumulus cirrus church and Jolly Rancher precipitation. I imagined four-pawed animals iceskating on the rings of Saturn and thought when I grew up I would be an inventor. I planted tilted planets into your uneven eyebrows and waited for the rst dawn bud. Murdered blackbirds carpeted the garden, and we took back our conviction to sleep outside with the forget-me-nots. Ancient, ruthless cobblestoned streets! I can still see the weathered dents in the curb from the restless horses of the carriage. Everything magical about a place hides as soon as you move there. Business men in dark grey suits scootered on Mozart because the tra c insisted on festering. In the other place there was a desert of dry and a desert of wet. I slept in the inbetweens. One morning ash fell from the sky and made winter of the desert. It made sense: it was December. He despises smoking but now he keeps in touch through photos that pollute the air with fuming butts. e beads. I keep forgetting about the beads, the beat of the little bit of heat in the armpit of history. Eyesight deterioration happens naturally, especially if you read in half light and stare too long at bare limbs. ree failed drivers’ tests and a half completed course, an abandoned possible plotline. “Don’t ever do something that stresses you out” but in a foreign tongue, not Portuguese and not Russian. Funny fat sh used to wake up at 6 o’clock—di erent land, time, world, dolled up faceelegance like an empress.

Silent worms live quick, toothless days in circular jelly earths and sugar rivers surrounding. I do not wish to die! Please don’t terrify me with that smile, the same you gave me under the black lights of the holographic, shroomsed Japanese noodle shop. I used to fence the swordiest kind (saber), but now I only fence myself into impossibly uncomfortable situations. My worm committed suicide and they laughed. ey always laugh. Dead, my dove? My phosphorescing violet carrier pigeon? Violent, three-legged bird, teetering by the trash can in the park where I spilled iced tea, sweetened, onto his metallic Vertu. Not even a smartphone, but an old trestle conquered by the forest of African clawed frogs. Reporting daytime nightmares, I bare only myself, highly edited, to the reader, like printed static social media. I keep rewinding to the beads: is it dreaded dream or clunky arolling sideways on mountains and oating inches o the bed. Terrible, o , uncertain experience...everyone says so but you don’t truly know until you also. Forced isolation. Tame, tombless past that erases most moments but a few of ants, heat, and sweat. Under my eyelid I speed the rivers of the sky on a pirate ship of timber and ag. e tip of my tongue bleeds ink onto the bookends and writes o ce memos to the negligent coworkers. Last night, the blue glass chandelier that hung on my bedroom ceiling made a noise and when I checked on it, it crashed like that plane. So I wanted inventor for my job and stuck my broken earphones into the wall socket to x them instead. I just needed more time to pick the beads up, neon plastic barbie brain for breakfast.

Smudge

by Olivia Jimenez

“We’ve ralized how fragile it can all disappear with a smudge.”

I think it had been 5 months, & we still And I did know.

by Toella Pliakas

THE LANGUAGE OF LOVE

by Kathleen Neill

GONE FOR A SWIM

by Geritza Carrasco

by Katie Glaser

Lukewarm honey laps against the small of my back

I bathe in the knoll’s luscious dew

by Janessa Mendoza

by Zhanelyn Cacho

Reach

by Rebecca Raslowsky

Self portrait

Skintimacy

by Leina Hsu