Fools Vol. 4

fools vol. 4 april 2018

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A THANK YOU

TO OUR SPONSORS. FOOLS MAGAZINE IS GENEROUSLY FUNDED BY TWO DEPARTMENTS WHO SAW POTENTIAL IN THE FOOLS TEAM & EFFORTS.

WE WOULD LIKE TO FORMALLY ACKNOWLEDGE THE FRANK N. MAGID CENTER FOR UNDERGRADUATE WRITING, THE SCHOOL OF JOURNALISM AND MASS COMMUNICATION, AND UISG FOR THEIR CONTRIBUTIONS TO FOOLS MAGAZINE.

The ideas and opinions expressed in this magazine are not representative of the University of Iowa.

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PRINT I S N O T DEAD.

E D I T O R S .

MADELINE SMITH

KENYON ELLSWORTH

MARY MATHIS

CHOSIE TITUS

Editor in Chief

Design Editor, Print

Photo Editor

Design Assistant

CECILIA FERNANDES

JENNA LARSON

ELAINE IRVINE

RILEY NAKAGAWA

Writing Editor

EIC Assistant

Creative Writing Assistant

Design Assistant

JOSEPH FLESNER

ANANYA MUNJAL

GABBIE MEIS

Design Editor, Web

Creative Writing Editor

Writing Assistant

CINDY GARCIA

ALEX KRAMER

VIVIAN LE

Copy Editor

Web/Marketing Editor

Photography Assistant

CONTRIBUTORS. JAYME BIGGER

JOE JENNINGS

ANNALISE CASTRO

HAYLEY ANDERSON

page 1

pages 15,29

pages 9, 31, 41, 67

page 60

ALEX HERRICK

GABBIE MEIS

CHOSIE TITUS

GENEVIEVE CLEVERLEY

page 18

pages 4, 9, 41, 43, 45

page 60

MARY MATHIS

LIAM SPENCER

RILEY NAKAGAWA

pages 18, 25, 33, 37, 47

page 43

page 51, 55, 58, 60

VIVIAN LE

ELLEN WINES

JACKSON GUILFORD

covers, page 19

page 43

page 63

HANNAH GRIMSON

MARY WALZ

DARIEN BUFORD

page 29

page 46

page 63

RISHI PATEL

JACKIE JIMENEZ

ALEXA STARRY

page 29

page 47

page 67

ANDY HAMMES

JULIA POSKA

BREE JONES

page 31

page 49

page 28

PHILIP RUNIA

ALEX BARE

ELLY HOFFMAIER

page 33

page 51

page 51

ELLIE ZUPANCIC

MAGGIE COUTRE

ANANYA MUNJAL

page 39

page 57

page 67

CALEY GRIEBENOW

RYAN CLEMENS

page 13

page 39

SKYLER KNUTZEN

TYLER STERCULA

ELAINE IRVINE

page 15

pages 9, 41

page 1

MEGAN DERIEMACKER page 4

PAIGE MORGAN page 5

ZOE HERMSEN page 5

JENNIE WONDERLIN page 7

CASEY GARTLAN page 7

NICOLE PAGLIARI page 9

HANNAH GULICK pages 10, 13

page 57

LAUREN ARZBAECHER page 60

T A B L E O

F

C O N TENTS.

COMING HOME 1 THIS IS A QUIET DRIVE 4 I HAVE NO HOME 5 ANTHROPOLOGY 7 A JARRING 9 THE BIG BAND 10 ANCHOR ROAD 15 SIMPLE EDUCATION 18 INTERNATIONAL STYLE 19 GABE'S LAST SUPPER 25 I CAN NAME EVERY COLOR 28 THE BEAUTY OF DATA 29 MALL WALKERS 31 QUEEN AMONG QUEENS 33 ORANGE PEEL 39 WOMEN IN HEAVEN 41 JUNK FOOD 43 NOTHING IN THE DARK 45 JOVENCITA 47 CLOUDS, TRUMP, STONES 49 VENEZUELA 51 CANCER IN COLLEGE 55 THE STATE THEATRE 58 BLOODY ALTRUISM 60 ERASURE POEM 63 IN THE BAND 65 HOW TO LEAVE A LOVE 67 LETTER FROM THE EDITORS 68

COMING

HOME by jayme bigger | illustration by alex herrick

I DIDN’T THINK I would miss clean Midwestern air until I breathed it in. I hold it in my chest for as long as I can manage before my lungs force it back out, relieved I’m not surrounded by the stench of urine that lurks in the streets of London.

We laugh again.

Headlights bounce across the pavement as a car turns onto Maple Street and slows to a stop in front of the Terminal 3 exit doors. A red Ford Fusion. I tug at the door handle.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t really feel like bringing much of my old life with me. I needed to mix things up for a little while. College is rough.”

“Uber?”

“Everything’s always mixed up at your age. That’s what makes being young so exciting.”

The driver twists to look at me, his round face exhibiting a smile of reassurance. “Most people call me Randy, but you can call me anything you’d like, I suppose. Monica?”

I smile back and slump into the backseat. “Sure, that’s me.”

I yank my backpack over my lap and onto the seat beside me.

As the car pulls away from the loading zone, Randy taps on a phone secured in a mount on the dashboard.

“Anything in particular you wanna hear?”

“Nope, you can play anything you’d like. I’m not picky when it comes to music.”

Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” filters through the speakers.

The familiar notes of Dad’s favorite song reminds me of the days we’d spend driving aimlessly, without my brother David, and he would quiz me on band names and song titles. I would allow myself to pretend everything was fine, just like my oblivious father could.

My chest tightens. After so much time away, even the ten minute drive from the airport back home feels too long.

“What could a little lady like you be doing traveling this late at night all by herself?” Randy asks.

“I’m a runaway.” I stare blankly into the rearview mirror.

His eyes nervously flitter across the mirror. When he sees my smile he relaxes.

He eyes my bag. “You spent an entire summer in another country and you only have one bag? I’m impressed! My daughter woulda filled the car with just her shoes.”

The song ends and is replaced by a ballad I don’t know.

“Turn right up here, please. This way is quicker,” I suggest.

“I just go the way the GPS tells me to, little lady.”

I lay my head on the seat.

After several seconds of depleted conversation, I tap my phone, bringing it to life. My beautiful, smiling niece, Sarah—dressed in the pink polka-dot dress she picked out for her fifth birthday—fills the screen. My stomach clenches. I had intended on leaving her, she didn’t deserve to be involved in this mess. I knew that growing up in that house with David was unbearable, and if she could find a way out sooner, rather than later, she would have a better shot at life. But the more I think about what is in store, I know things are better off this way.

Randy turns down the music. “Well here you are. Try and enjoy college while ya can, little lady.”

I feel my cheeks get warm. “No.” His eyebrows furrow in the rearview mirror. “You don’t want to have fun?”

“I asked you to take me home.” I point to the brick building in front of us. “This is a police station.”

He looks at the GPS, and then back up at me, confused, “This is your destination. You have to get out here, little lady.”

“This is not where I need to go. Can you take me somewhere else?”

“I probably should’ve ran with ya. I could use the exercise.” He lets out a laugh much louder and longer than necessary. I can’t help but laugh too.

“Now I know you’re having a hard time, little lady, but I’m not sure how to help you.” He sighs. “This is the address you put in.”

“I spent the summer abroad. I’m not sure you would have gotten very far trying to run across the ocean.”

A black SUV pulls into the parking space to the left of us.

The windows are tinted, making the driver impossible to see in the night.

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Randy glances out the window and then back at me, “I don’t want to do this to you, but you need to get out.”

“I need to go home!”

Randy rolls down the window and yells to the uniformed man getting out of the SUV, “Sir, can you help me?”

WE KNEW WE'D CATCH YOU EVENTUALLY.

The officer walks toward the car. I reach for my backpack.

“What can I help you with?”

I recognize the officer. He went to my high school. He sat two seats over from me in Biology.

“Well, I’m an Uber driver, and it seems this girl ordered it to here,” the officer’s eyes flicker back to me. Nylon dug into my palm. Randy continues, “But now she won’t get out of my car.”

My fingers fumble to find the door handle in the dark.

“Ma’am, you have to get out of this man’s vehicle.”

“I’m sorry, officer.” I pull the handle and the door pops open. “I didn’t mean for any trouble.” I swing my leg out onto the pavement and flash a tight smile in his direction, “I can walk from here.”

His eyes widened. “Taylor? Taylor Morris?”

I run, afraid to look back. The backpack weighs me down.

Heart racing, terrified of getting caught. One foot after the other, smacking the pavement. Not fast enough. Arms grab my waist, pull me down. Chest on the ground. Pain, as if my shoulders are being ripped from their sockets.

“We knew we’d catch you eventually.” The officer’s breath feels warm against my ear. “People don’t just slaughter their family and get away with it.”

Cold metal pinches my wrists. My heart continues to beat wildly in my chest.

“Taylor Morris, you’re under arrest for the murder of Bill, David, and Sarah Morris.”

I suck in the Midwestern air, willing it to sweep the taste of blood out of my mouth.

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THIS IS A QUIET DRIVE by megan deriemacker

In a range of sound song eternities I fry my eggs in yesterday’s grease pressed yolks haphazard as last night’s cleavage and the occurrence of current care or lack thereof is astounding or ordinary maybe both but the balance can no longer be found in the Hand-Made bread-to-butter ratios

or in the eyes mirrored or otherwise not in the liquids of measuring cups or the unmeasured pulls of gin and again the song sings to the scope of imbalance but there it is: a song finite so balanced they Dissolve Me

and thoughtless they’re fried and almost burned and I never imagined I’d notice but eternities end and I did too bad their taste is lacking at the onset of another eternity Dramamine coating the ears though sadly not my insides but I’ll find myself alone in fresh sheets later and clean close-eyed as the endless blends of ends and beginnings roll round and loose themselves on me though they won’t matter much as I’m lost loosed to crisp sheets and synthetic fragrance nonethe less comforting

though not eternal at least not 'til tomorrow if I’m lucky and these songs nevertheless infinite

design by chosie titus 4

I HAVE NO HOME. by paige morgan

illustration by zoe hermsen | design by kenyon ellsworth

HELLO? Have you heard anything about Mom and Dad? No. A call from my sister, not my parents, announced the new reality that consumes my thoughts daily. My parents are getting a divorce. I’m five hours away from home, a freshman in college, undertaking decisions that will shape the rest of my life. I tell myself to keep my head forward, but it gets difficult every time I get a call.

Most of my friends were toddlers when their parents divorced, barely old enough to comprehend how drastically their lives were changing. That doesn’t make their situation any less painful. It doesn’t make their experience of divorce any less heartbreaking than mine. In truth, the only difference is that I’m experiencing mine today, through the loving medium of a cell phone.

You’ve made me cry more than anyone in my life. I stared at the words on my dad’s phone screen. The words were familiar to me, my mother had used them in a fight before.

I only felt a flash of fury at her manipulativeness before realizing what I’d begun reading. The texts showed my father giving up on their marriage—on our family. I gently placed the phone back on the desk and looked ahead.

Parents change. It’s what happens when children move out, or so I’ve been told. But no one let me know before I’d left for college that my mother would start smoking cigarettes and my father would follow suit. No one warned me my mother would begin drinking like a college student and partying with friends ten years younger. I was never informed that my father would become more and more despondent during this time. Without notice, my parents were giving up on the life they had created for us.

Why are you even calling? My father’s voice only greets me with hostility. My sister’s nightly calls had worn him down. I apologize and say I’ll call the next day, hoping he’ll be in a better mood. My parents’ calls had gone from being a daily occurence to me desperately trying to contact them, only to be dismissed as an annoyance. I laid my phone down and looked ahead.

This isn’t just about you. I hurt and what remains of our family hurts too. Mom, do you know about the late nights I got into my car, screaming and hitting the wheel while tears streamed down my face? Dad, did you know that it’s my best friend’s parents who grab me by my arms to shake me back into reality instead of you? Do both of you know how much I’ve blamed myself for this?.

Because no one calls and no one answers anymore. I try to look ahead. I remove their sappy pity posts from my social media by blocking them, and bury my head in my textbooks to distract myself from the distance. Yet it still manages to leave me feeling hollow.

You’ve got a new roommate. I didn’t understand the text from my mom. I was stopped at a gas station, on my way home for winter break. I’d been excited at first. That was before I was informed that my mother would be sleeping in my bed while I would be allowed the air mattress on the floor. In short, relations hadn’t improved. I avoided my parents like the plague. I slept in my own house less than five times in a month-long break. My parents pretended well. They took me out to dinner, made stiff conversation about work to each other while I sat quietly and refused to speak. My winter break carried on in this fashion until I ran back to college and classes with open arms.

It’s January and I haven’t contacted my family or heard any word of fighting since break. Then my sister called.

HELLO? Have you heard anything about Mom and Dad? No. Well, Mom’s moving to Alabama, Dad’s getting rid of the dog, and I’m taking the cat. What are you going to do?

Call ended.

THE ARTISTRY OF ANTHROPOLOGY by jennie wonderlin

illustration by casey gartlan | design by kenyon ellsworth 7

I WILL NEVER say that my high school self made the best decisions, but I will indefinitely argue that my adolescent curiosity led me into a life-altering field of study: anthropology. It was a gloomy, or perhaps a more polluted day than normal, in Shijiazhuang, China. It was my first time out of the country, so I thought there was no better time to experience something new… by that, I meant attempting to complete a summer reading assignment. The book I selected had the fewest number of pages and a catchy title: Mountain Beyond Mountains. Sure, I liked mountains, and I liked that the name implied an aspect of adventure, because at this point I thought of myself as a well-traveled, cultured, worldly, and inherently adventurous person.

This book eternally captivated my mindset by realigning my beliefs about what it meant to be 'worldly and adventurous.'

In it, author Tracy Kidder recounts the life of anthropologist and physician Dr. Paul Farmer and his global endeavors to fight tuberculosis. After finishing this book, I was infatuated and needed to know more: What is anthropology? How does one practice anthropology? And why is it important?

Anthropology is the study of humans, both past and present.

The field of anthropology is typically categorized into four subfields: cultural anthropology, linguistic anthropology, biological anthropology, and archeology. The overarching goal of these subfields is to understand what makes us human, with a particular interest in understanding cultural variation and difference. To make this possible, one must cast aside their own beliefs to create space to learn about others in a holistic manner.

When putting this into practice, cultural, linguistic, and biological anthropologists use a unique research method called ethnography. The purpose of ethnographic research is to be able to study a society within its own environment; therefore, anthropologists literally move their offices to the location where their subjects live. A crucial component of ethnographic research is that it takes time and is grounded in trust. Anthropologists must learn local languages, build relationships, and participate in the society they are studying, which can take months, if not years.

In 1964, medical anthropologist Arthur J. Rubel’s multisited data directed research in Latin America defined the culturally specific illness susto. Rubel interpreted susto as a feeling of loss, hopelessness, and despair caused by an individual's inability to live up to social and cultural expectations. In Western biomedicine, these symptoms are similar to those who suffer with depression. However, in indigenous populations the cause is from one’s soul being captured by a spirit. In non-indigenous populations, one’s soul is simply identified as lost. This demonstrates that the

interpretation of susto varies even within Latin American populations. Rubel’s work legitimized the complexities of culturally specific illnesses by producing data in conjunction with ethnographic research. This data is useful because it is used to create guidelines for prevention, treatment, and intervention strategies. Ultimately, this work called attention to the need for an culturally sensitive approach to medicine.

Anthropology is not only for those yearning to conduct research. It is a valuable discipline that can be applied and taught at any level. It is a field that is admired for understanding differences and celebrating diversity from new perspectives. Can you imagine learning about the world through a cultural lens that challenges and expands your own? A lens that demands empathy and understanding? In the politics of American society, where cultural diversity is discouraged, perhaps anthropology should play a more important role within our educational, political, and social institutions. Truly, all humans are cut from a more similar cloth than we think.

ONE MUST C AST ASIDE THEIR OWN BELIEFS TO CREATE S P A C E

A JARRING by nicole pagliari

When I was a little girl I collected ladybugs In a cloudy glass jar and Called them my friends.

When I grew up I learned that When the wind turns cold They go dormant, Lying in wait for the sun.

When I met you I wanted to collect Your unruly curls Your bouncing knee And put you in a jar.

Instead I trapped myself.

Still in the dim absence of your gaze.

I realized yesterday that I no longer want to be a ladybug, You can no longer be my sun. illustration by elaine irvine | design by kenyon ellsworth photo by annalise castro | print by chosie titus

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I’ M JUST TIRED.

key observational key key stones supporting:

THE BIG BAND photos & poem by hannah gulick

A THESIS 10

A THESIS 1. hubble ex-pand-shun v = h times r = h times

are

you sure that’ s it? yes, yes of core, see the con duc tor blew on his trom ba own and an in tire galaxE shot just like that, like tooth paste from his brassE horn and i, eye did see it wiggle there like a babeE buff a low on the thE ate her floor. but nE way,

vE = h times r where h is hubbles con stant con SHH us, and r is just the dist dance to the ate teenth let her in the alphabet. make King vE the very , v(er)E im port tant

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1. hubble ex-pand-sh = h times r 1. vhubble ex-pand-shun v = h1.times r ex-pand-s hubble 1. ex-pand-s v =hubble h times r 1. hubble v = ex-pand-shun h times r hubbler ex-pand-shun v = 1. h times hubbler ex-pand-s v = hex-pand-shun times 1. hubble 1. v = v = h times r h times r 1. hubble ex-pand-shun v = h times r

velocity at which we are growing apart.

but don’t chew were E v(elocit)E is proportional to dist dance so eye, i will always no where you r (see Fig you’re 1)

hun

shun shun

n shun

Notesss on Fig you’re 1: if i am think King about you and the uni verse ex-pands to

2 * length of when i was think King about you, and it is taken that length = affect shun then,

2 * length = 1/2 affect shun concluding that: ex-pand-shun of the universe is the cause for ninety nine.7 per/cent of divorces 12

SOUR HONEY SPARK COME, CLIMB HOME FROM DENALI WIND CHIMES SPIN YOUR WEB

haiku by caley griebenow | photo by hannah gulick

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by tyler stercula | illustration by joe jennings LIFTED FROM THE JOURNAL OF HENRY J. FISHER (1864-1909), FIRST AND ONLY PROPRIETOR OF THE LEDSER HISTORICAL SOCIETY: Without Anchor Road, Ledser might just float away. A heavy enough rain or a strong enough tide could pry the buried fingers of forgotten memories from their coastal holds. A strong enough wind could blow years of history—of life, of legacy —away. Without Anchor Road, Ledser would be worse than the ghost town it already is; it'd be normal....

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THE ROAD, which runs at just under a mile from Ledser to the mainland, is awash in just as much folktale as it is rainfall and bay water. And for good reason. In summer, Anchor Road floods over with each high tide—twice per day. In winter, it does the same, only colder. The inlet swells, the basin floods, and Anchor Road submerges, drowning for hours at a time.

Ledser, serendipitously like its more renowned sister city, Rock Harbor, started with a shipwreck. Early in the winter of 1702, Ledser’s founders sailed into the basin on a particularly stormy night. Four families packed into the Oblinante, a small two-masted caravel-like vessel commissioned out of Portugal: the Ledsers, the Barringtons, the Da Rochas, and the McMurrays. After a months-long journey and thousands of miles sailed, the Oblinante came up short. In the storm, the sandbar we now call Anchor Road grounded the Oblinante outright, forcing the four families to abandon ship and plunge into dark, frigid wind-whipped swells.

The road’s history is one paved in death. Most of the McMurrays drowned with the wreck of the Oblinante, not to mention the Barrington sisters and the Ledser father.

Then of course, in the war, there's the Battle of the Tides.

Colonial soldiers defending the coast with men in the basin, bayonet-to-bayonet with Redcoats as the waterlevel rose from their ankles to their knees to their chests, the disappearing gravel and sand of Anchor Road steadily becoming the last salvation any of them could find in the rising tide…. No telling how many forgotten graves there are along that road.

Anchor Road proved a great boon to the colonies in the war for independence. Two more ships—British cruisers— joined the Oblinante's fate afoot the submerged road.

Ledser provided a crucial choke point for the small colonial navy, whose smaller ships could navigate the basin and more easily avoid Ledser’s deceptive inlets.

NO TELLING HOW MANY FORGOTTEN GRAVES THERE ARE ALONG THAT ROAD

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Now, however, Anchor Road is simply a danger for locals and visitors alike. After a record-breaking fifteen automobile accidents last year, over half of which resulted in fatalities, Ledser residents have grown tired. The Ledser City Council has been petitioned to build a proper bridge directly to our sister city on the coast, Rock Harbor. The project will literally take Anchor Road off the map, but the city is hopeful it will put Ledser back on it. With funding from Rock Harbor, the project should be completed by 1997.

The folks in Ledser don’t appreciate their own history—or their present—and it’ll be the death of them. God gave Ledser a life-line and they simply ignore it. And, like all things touched

by God, it is perfect. Like an annual tide, the basin’s wetlands also have a beautiful migration of diamondback terrapin turtles. They travel from marshy island to island, traveling exactly when we do: at low tide. White and gray gulls and ospreys make nests of reeds in the roosts of our channel markers. How else can you experience that perfection, other than on Anchor Road? It’s no wonder so many succumb to the call of the tide. It’s no wonder Ledser is a ghost town.

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Now, only when the tide goes out and the basin lays naked in the night can you hear its whisper on the wind. Every drowned soul, nameless soldier, reckless driver, helpless suicide, all lending their voices to a choir that demands not to be forgotten. Without Anchor Road, Ledser might just float away in the apathetic tides of time.

In honor of Mr. Fisher, the lifeblood of the short-lived but long-remembered Ledser Historical Society, construction will begin immediately on the H.J. Fisher Bridge as thanks for his undying dedication to Ledser, its history, and its people. His work soon to be immortalized for generations, Mr. Fisher’s ghost will linger for far longer than he could have ever expected. On particularly frigid nights as the tide rises and the basin swells, as Anchor Road starts to disappear beneath the inky black water, you can see Mr. Fisher reliving his final hours: peacefully walking down the road to join a spectral procession centuries in the making.

IT'S NO WONDER SO MANY SUCCUMB TO THE CALL OF THE TIDE

YOUR SIMPLE EDUCATION by gabbie meis 2. You’re two, and your grandfather tosses you into the iridescent blue awaiting. Someone catches you, and your body lurches. Your own splashes reach the back of your neck as others wait for you to laugh.

4. You’re four, and they’re determined. You’ll learn, they remind you.

Your Costco swimsuit is slick like the fish you know you’re not. They got you a ‘real’ teacher this time. You start out in the kiddie pool.

It’s seven inches at the deepest, and you’re not afraid.

6. You’re six, and you’re testing again. Swim to the end, they repeat.

You thought you were supposed to be kicking, but no matter how hard you try, metamorphosis eludes you. You are not a butterfly.

8. You’re eight, and you find it. Fluorescent green and pink, reserved for the big kids, the pros. It touches your foot, weighed down by the same force that makes you wary of dipping your head under. Your toes graze the grooves along its side as you hide it from those diving in to capture the treasure. You trust it. It supports itself better than you can in the water.

10. You’re ten, and you accept the challenge. You open your eyes and realize your mistake. The same diving stick greets you at the bottom, four feet feels too long when you’re reaching. Your sinuses fill as the burn reaches your eyes. The round bobble at the stick’s end mocks you. Two more inches, and your fingers curl around the pliable plastic. Triumph.

12. You’re twelve, and it’s your turn to throw. The limber tube seems small now. Its marked nodules demand a supporting hand. The sickly sweet smell of sunscreen radiates from its core and floods your nostrils. Sun-bleached and worn, its opulence is gone, and you forget why its own indifference allured you just years ago.

14. You’re fourteen and in charge, for the moment. The children you watch mirror your own movements. One hand spirals forward. Then, the other. New masters of old arts. A volley of splashes wet your cheeks, and a glimpse of pink refracts through the otherwise clear panes of blue.

16. You’re sixteen, and you still smell it sometimes. When you turn on the sink, it floods. That plastic scent mixing with the water. Your mind tricks you into feeling the slippery throwing stick again, and you sense phantom water trickling down the back of your neck, a slight burning in your nose.

photo by mary mathis

INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS FROM ALL OVER THE WORLD COME TO THE UNIVERSITY OF IOWA TO STUDY AND IMMERSE THEMSELVES IN AMERICAN CULTURE. THEY ENRICH OUR IOWA CITY COMMUNITY WITH THEIR UNIQUE SENSE OF STYLE AND CULTURE. THE UI STUDENT ORGANIZATION, BRANDYOU, WAS CREATED TO GIVE A PLATFORM FOR DOMESTIC AND INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS ALIKE TO SHOW OFF THEIR STYLE AND CELEBRATE DIVERSITY ON CAMPUS.

photos by vivian le | design by kenyon ellsworth

CANYI YANG AND YUKUN HU

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“AS AN ASIAN AMERICAN STUDENT ON IOWA’S CAMPUS, MY CHOICE OF CLOTHING ALLOWS ME TO MOVE ALONG A SPECTRUM." - JASON LIN

HAESUNG LEE, JASON LIN, JENNY CHONG, JEFFREY CHAN

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IT DOESN'T MATTER HOW EXPENSIVE OR CHEAP YOUR CLOTHES ARE, THERE IS NO RIGHT OR WRONG WAY TO WEAR THEM. AS LONG AS YOU'RE EXPRESSING YOURSELF YOU'RE DOING IT RIGHT. FASHION IS PRICELESS. I AM FROM MALAYSIA. THERE THE FASHION IS PRETTY LAID BACK. - BEN ONG

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CANYI YANG, MUYAO XU, KYLE KIM, BEN ONG

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“I GET TO SPEND EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE C R E A T I N G SOMETHING I FIND B E A U T I F U L &COMFORTING, & I GET TO SHARE IT WITH PEOPLE.” - GABE BRANCH, CHEF. ST. BURCH TAVERN.

I COULDN'T CARROT ALL roasted carrot, pickled carrot, carrot top chimichurri, carrot fresno pepper romesco, arugula, brown butter solids, pearl onion

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photos by mary mathis

BEEF TARTARE steak tartare, crispy leeks, smoked hollandaise, fennel frond

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SZECHUAN SALMON szechuan peppercorn cured salmon, lime pickled jicama, orange supreme(sous-prem), salmon roe, cilantro, and cucumber aguachile.

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I CAN NAME EVERY COLOR by bree jones

I can name every color!

An infinite catalog of refraction and light is no stranger to me Its hue, pigment, chromatic temperature, numerical identification, chart placement And taxonomy can be identified with neurosurgical precision My optical finesse is a spectacle spectacular I am well versed in the verisimilitudes of blood orange and vermillion Can see behind the charade of chartreuse and cerulean And even pinpoint the nexus of neon I can get technical too Down to the nitty-gritty Map spectral reflectance curves Like the sumptuous contours of your lower back Recall the Kelvins lingering on my fingertips Your infrared warmth burning against my skin Its iridescent electromagnetic radiation draws to my Black-body Creating thermal equilibrium We are harmony Your color intoxicates me Fills my eyes and mouth with Polychromatic infatuation sedation Yet my words remain colorless to you Achromatic adjectives can not capture your shade Sentences saturate with #001a33 No wait, please wait It's rgb (0,26,51) Yes, those are the coordinates to your soul 8000 Kelvin above me Besides, what good are words or feelings When I have an infinite spectrum of light Or tangible classifications built upon the science of sight Because when words fail, color speaks And color never fails I can see you now With neurosurgical precision I can see your glazed gaze wander See the monochromatic melt off your parabolic smile slope down See the sinews of your muscles tense in frustration See the light drain from your eyes So yes, I can name every color But the pain you left is nameless

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by joe jennings, hannah grimson, & rishi patel 3 lidar imagery by joe jennings | design by kenyon ellsworth

THE BEAUTY OF DATA

SPREAD OUT IN RELAXATION, soil settling comfortably down to the land around it, Mount St. Helens holds itself up majestically, mottled with ruts and channels. Snow sits on its shoulders, and the mountain watches the wildflowers on the ground at its feet, where they, too, stand embedded. They have all taken root here, as stationary as a forest, just without the trees. The middle of the mountain is hollowed, like whatever was there flooded out in a moment—an explosion. Nature has done the work for us. We stand face to face with its insides, climb into its lap where our boots touch the hard supports that used to hold up the peak. Around it, Pumice Plain and Crater Glacier provide the entire experience, and together, these natural formations comprise one of the most exceptional and breathtaking outlooks that can be found in a national park. But cartography opens yet another door for exploration.

It is one thing to look at collected data as a set of inputs and outputs, but it is another to see the numbers as the physical manifestation of phenomena in nature. Between science and art, however, a language barrier tends to form when purpose is misconstrued in its translation for public consumption. Yes, one can appreciate the fact that meticulous calculations were made to express a concept with “clarity,” but the connection of one’s life to these phenomena is not always clear.

Luckily, the Earth offers an unprecedented amount of beauty to enjoy as well as interpret. Artists and scientists alike have been doing both since the dawn of time, either hand-inhand or within their own discipline. Science, the output of internal knowledge about the external world, has furthered its way into the abstract. Data can change shape now, expose overlapping realities, an X-ray machine trained on the Earth; and in that light, scientists in the field of Geographic Information Systems (GIS) are given the opportunity to create art out of the living world and the landscapes that comprise it.

In the last century, the rise of remote sensing technology marked a paradigm shift in earth exploration. No other time period prior to the satellite era has been able to capture images of the entire planet at once, let alone interpret the intricacies of its surfaces. Never before have we been able to create elaborate models for potential flooding or landslide hazards of a landscape in a matter of minutes, let alone visualize a cityscape and identify all its different surfaces with clarity. Imagine being able to capture real three dimensional space, nearly every nook and cranny, using laser technology.

The eruption of Washington state’s Mount St. Helens in the 1980s significantly impacted the geological topographies of the area. One feature impacted by the eruption was the North Fork Toutle River, which was thrashed with rocks and volcanic debris. An aerial map of the river today reveals a natural masterpiece, smoothly curving around the outskirts of the mountain before continuing its downward flow.

Humans have long been hiking Mount St. Helens, approaching the scenery as natural art, and an elevation map can help clarify various changes in the area. A merged laser point cloud creates a 3D Mount St. Helens. A light green color is used to show the mountain’s base, starting at roughly 4,000 feet above sea level. This is a tranquil climb for beginner hikers. As the mountain transitions to yellow, the hiking becomes rigorous as the rugged peak is approached. Red represents the top of the mountain and the site of a potential eruption. This arduous hike can only be completed by the most seasoned hikers, but the climb showcases the mountain’s biodiversity and breathtaking natural beauty. Staring down from the peak at 8,400 feet provides a fantastic view and immense contentment for those daredevils who scaled the entire mountain. In contrast, slope maps color code the mountain based on the degree of incline at a specific point, as opposed to elevation maps, which show altitude.

These GIS practices open a window for dual interpretation of the landscape as it is and as it could be. New levels of reality are lifted with the addition of elevation-coded colors and the pinprick precision of LiDAR dots plotted on paper or displayed on a monitor. In this specialized language, art emerges. As math becomes mappable data, a creator realizes that the world looks different depending on who, or what, is viewing it. The shape and colors express life and vision and the artistry of nature.

With remote sensing technology, we can integrate our personal knowledge of the spaces we occupy to further increase our understanding of the places we celebrate.

Spaces where we feel the gentlest breeze or beads of sweat on our brows provide context for how the elevation changes within the valleys we explore. Alternately, we can understand why these places make us feel the way we do.

Somehow, a specialized language was the answer all along.

Within algorithms and programs, the world is re-angled, recolored, and reconsidered. We can understand how things really are, not just how they appear to be. This is art. This is what realism art wishes it could be, the most realistic of the Realist’s paintings. We are remaking on paper a whole physical world.

We are mapping ourselves onto the landscape, treating the Earth like a Freudian patient and giving it a personality test.

Blots of ink reveal how it thinks and becomes itself. We create the map key and the map takes shape before us. We impact the landscape by changing its physical appearance at a cones and rods level for ourselves. But we can see even more. We get to play with a million possibilities.

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MALL W by andy hammes

YOU’VE SEEN THEM BEFORE. Across America, malls and shopping centers are populated by a group of people known as “Mall Walkers.” These white-haired hikers choose to exercise by walking laps of the long concrete corridors of shopping malls and retail stores.

They often arrive early in the morning, hours before any sensible shopper would be there. They power-strut their stuff around the empty shopping centers, sometimes from dawn until dusk, or whenever they run out of breath. Often mall walkers can be found walking in packs, much like wolves. They chit-chat past Orange Julius, around the Auntie Anne’s, and even disregard the Barnes and Noble clearance sale. However, this group of people, who is dedicated to the pursuit of healthy living, has a dark and terrible secret. These are the people who run our nation, and we don’t even know it.

Yes, the humble mall walker, who is easily disregarded as nothing more than a harmless consumer of fine mall walkways, is, in fact, an integral part of the way our nation runs. These people are the fifth estate of the United States political system. It is their agenda which influences the way our nation has been shaped throughout the years. The common belief is that mall walking came after the first true shopping mall was created in 1956 in Minnesota, but that is incorrect. Mall walkers are, in fact, a splinter group of the Freemasons who left after falling out with the main group of Freemasons in 1784. The mall walkers (who were not yet mall walkers) disagreed with how the United States should be run after winning the Revolutionary War and decided to form their own secret society. The Freemasons believed that the group was short lived, but we now know that they were secretly consolidating money and power. The mall walkers are believed to be the hand which instigated the SpanishAmerican war and even caused the stock market crash of

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illustrations by annalise castro design by kenyon ellsworth

ALKERS October 24th, 1929, which led to the Great Depression.

You might be wondering: why would a secret society walk around malls? Shouldn’t they be in catacombs, playing out the plot of National Treasure? No, the reason that malls have become the meeting point choice for this increasingly growing secret society is that they offer the perfect cover.

No one would suspect a group of elderly exercisers of attempting to destabilize the government during a power walking session outside of a Jamba Juice. The group meets early in the morning, when not too many eyes are around.

This works well for them, as they are frugal and unwilling to spend money renting a secret lair, when there are people to be bribed and ninja assassins to be hired. Also, it’s not too bad of a workout. So, it is under the cover of fitness that these individuals meet in malls across the nation to plot their nefarious acts of world domination. It makes sense when you think about it. Why else would the nation be in such a state of disarray? Who else but a group of illuminati seniors could cause such chaos?

Next time you find yourself in a mall at American Eagle or Games by James, look out and see these people walking by. Mall walkers are easily identifiable by their bright white New Balances and by the way they walk with their arms swinging at 90-degree angles while they whip past strollers and spilled ColdStone with determination. Listen to them and see if you can catch which election they are planning on rigging this time, or to find out what will be on sale at Macy’s (spending a lot of time in malls causes you to gain this kind of insight). We must take back our country from these people, or we will soon all be their pawns. It’s time to put down the Maurices bags and pick up the fight for our freedom. For if the mall walkers have their way, they will be power walking over the nuclear ashes of our nation. The only reminder of our freedom will be the smoldering remains of a Foot Locker.

THESE ARE THE PEOPLE THAT

RUN OUR NATION & WE DON'T EVEN KNOW IT.

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the queen among T

H

E

Q U E E N

BY PHILIP RUNIA photos by mary mathis | design by joe flesner & kenyon ellsworth

A M O N G Q U E E N S

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queens

I BECAME AN EXPERT AT FILTERING MY WARDROBE, INTERESTS, SPEECH, MOVEMENTS AND LINE OF SIGHT,

LAYERING PADLOCKS ON MY CLOSET DOOR. CLOTHES FROM ANOTHER GENERATION meet recycled bright blue eyeshadows and rosy red blushes—all in the name of embracing femininity. But femininity is synonymous with weakness, tainting this joyous experiment. As a result, many boys and men feign exaggerated masculinity so as to not disrupt our socially constructed gender role identities.

Growing up in the closet, sheltering myself was a part of daily life. After I learned, or was conditioned, to distinguish boyish behavior from girly gait, I immersed myself into the world of masculine mannerisms and self-presentation. I became an expert at filtering my wardrobe, interests, speech, movements and line of sight, layering padlocks on my closet door.

I was able to put on a performance to mask who I was underneath all of the toxically layered masculinity.

After coming out years later, my repressed femininity was dragged onto an open stage as its own incarnation: Regina Royale. An alter ego emerged from the soulful confidence I gained from being genuine, femininity I had never before felt comfortable expressing, and of the audacious sexuality that I had not previously explored.

Leading up to my decision to do drag, I

was berated by an onslaught of personal attacks coming from my ego and selfconscious masculinity. What would people think? Would they see me the same way after the makeup came off?

Will my personal identity remain intact?

Fighting through my unfounded shame and doubt, I was aided in my ascent into the world of drag by none other than The Queen FantAsia Woods. Becoming my impromptu mother, I was sat in front of her boudoir and began that foreign, forbidden ritual of dress-up.

Shower and shave. Foundation, highlight, contour, powders, eyeshadow, lashes, lips, wig, then outfit. To The Queen FantAsia Woods, drag is not only an art, but a science. A drag queen’s experiment is to be perfectly controlled. The illusion of womanhood must be preserved at all costs. An alter ego must be separate, leaving all traces of doubt behind. Any little thing that will get in the way of your performance gets tucked away—literally.

Having my face beat, ‘fit fitted, hair styled, and music mixed by an expert filled me with appreciation and anticipation.

The Queen FantAsia Woods, a self-made legend coming into her persona out of a history of ridicule and appreciation for the magic of drag as well as AsianKorean cultures, asserts herself as the 34

reigning Queen of Iowa City drag. There are various drag queens in Iowa City, but Woods is not just anyone. Magnificence emanates from her, attracting a mixture of adoring and jealous looks from the crowd and other queens. Creating her own music mixes, outstanding poetic or dancing performances, and putting together a magical look in 30 minutes, Woods screams “royalty” within the court of Studio 13. Growing up taunted for being feminine, Woods was called “queen” in her youth. Reclaiming that feminine title, she is now: The Queen FantAsia Woods.

comfort are surrendered. “You must have a conversation with your body about what you will and won’t accept and how far you are willing to push yourself to perform,” Woods said. “Comfort is also sacrificed emotionally; drag is cutthroat.”

Sitting among postered inspiration and a wall of over 40 wigs in front of her, Woods painstakingly nitpicks musical transitions for future performances on her laptop. According to her, impromptu doesn’t exist. “You must know what you’re performing to, because drag is all about how you present yourself,” Woods said.

“The presentation in performance is the most important thing.”

Upstairs in a sanctuary of Studio 13, a vanity-lined dressing room houses several drag queens as they prepare for and reflect on their performances. Woods’ thick skin provides her with a shield from the relentless shade thrown from other queens.

There is a sense of comradery embracing this facet of queerness, however there is also competition. As a black queen, Woods faces isolation and blazes a trail in her own race to be a queen. Combatting the racism in the queer community is no easy task, but Woods is doing it with regal poise. Sticking to her own brand, she demands respect for her craft and her people, inspiring many around her— including myself, her drag debutante.

But drag is no game. With it comes sacrifice. To jumpstart a drag career, Woods shelled out over $1,000 on wigs, shoes, and outfits. That’s not counting makeup, an entirely different money monster. Money aside, time and

35

Coming off the stage to hear relentless critiques from audience members saying she was ugly or that her hair was bad are just a few examples of how harsh the world of drag is for performers. “I think we forget that we’re also people, and we have emotions,” Woods said.

A pseudo mother-daughter relationship ensues, between a drag debutante and a queen, providing a nurturing foundation for a miraculous transformation in healing, confidence, and personhood.

Seated on a stool before my mock-mother, a nostalgic presence is palpable. In place of a boar-bristle brush tugging at my curls, there is an eyeliner pencil scraping my water line (although still producing tears). Giving my drag mother total control, my face is painted to perfection, inducting me into a secret society of glamour. Slowly converting my being, the line between man and queen grows progressively thinner. Then, the wig comes on, and I become She. As a man, identity is limited; however, as She, identity is limitless.

With wig attached, face beat, and a fully coordinated, acrobatic performance, King Robinson, 25, becomes The Queen FantAsia Woods. After one step onto the runway, the crowd is already screaming. Woods’ beautiful blackness glows in the limelight, illuminating the path for queens of color to follow in her footsteps with their own sickening light.

Dragging me onto the Studio stage, Woods touched the queen within me, permanently transforming my walled being into a boundless entity.

e

drag

g

n o

a

m

is,

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38

ORANGE PEEL

BY ELLIE ZUPANCIC

photo by ryan clemens | design by joe flesner

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40

WOMEN IN HEAVEN by elaine irvine I IMAGINE SOMETIMES a land of mothers, of true mothers.

The women who live there are taking care, fate as their nature.

They watch over their daughters still on Earth throughout our lives.

I read about the women who were brave before me and they materialize. I cry as I write and they unclench my jaw. They arise when I don’t feel like getting out of bed, and I swear they carry me.

They’ll be waiting for me after I die, whenever I die. I think about them all the time.

I imagine the land of mothers, of true mothers, has a glow like the way cantaloupe cut into slices has a layer of sweet juice over its surface. The mothers have a garden full of flowers in healthy bloom, trays of perfect ripe fruit. They set Carole King, Selena, and Etta James records to play in the background and no one grows tired of it. Their pride parades are thundering and joyous, not just in June. Courses on all subjects are offered for free for those who lived without the education they desired. No one is the oppressor or the oppressed because here, they learn better.

There is harmony between all of our mothers. All of their bodies and souls, they feel like one in their power. All of the daughters 41

and all of their mothers will be willing and happy to dance together. Empowered as a force.

The land of mothers, of true mothers, is filled with biological, foster, adopted, and friendly mothers, aunts, and grandmothers.

They give great hugs. They are those who have served a daughter well and not for a selfish good, who have fought, loudly or silently, who have talked back, advocated, tried their honest best, they help. They help.

When we bruised our knees as children they cradled us; they smelled like lavender and sage. When we fought for our promotions and got them, when we won in court, when our divorces were finalized, they were proud. When we repeated the mantras taped to the bottom of our mirror they are watching with pride as we nurture ourselves. “I am worthy. I am worthy. I am safe, and I can remain calm.” It had always felt like there was a hand in our empty ones.

A breath, here, as gratitude.

The mothers feel every emotion with us because they know we

illustration by annalise castro | design by chosie titus need it. They give us time to breathe, while giving us the freedom to learn how to feel. So often they are a therapy. Healers.

They’ve held those whose last name will permanently remain the same as their nemesis. They are are patient with their trust and careful of their touch. They’ll provide their daughters with what it feels to be free. They’ll help .

I imagine they are terrified for us.

Holding a universe of daughters dear to their hearts must hold so much sorrow, reminiscent of a time they thought they’d escaped.

There isn’t a safekeeping strong enough. Violence still resides firmly planted in their minds. They remember too.

They recall who they’d wished they had. They know, too well, there isn’t anyone better to take us in than them, after it’s all over.

So they watch us pass on. Not like a procession, but like a fading. They wait for us to come, to rest. They are waiting to welcome us to the lives we should have had the first time.

There is a bridge, here to there. An invocation, farewell, golden, orange, pale pink slap in the face to those who have killed them.

Before we arrive though, the mothers see how they were left on Earth.

They do not get to plan their daughters’ funerals. The mothers, true mothers, gather in alleyways, in the trunks of cars, in bedrooms,

underground, on the street, shedding tears as they watch their daughters or pieces of their daughters leave. Here, on solid ground, daughter’s bodies are left for funeral processions while their souls have already left them. They have bled out and been left unembalmed. There is no shiny cherry wood casket here.

Tissues are passed around. This is routine.

Traced, beaten, raped flesh. What is left of their dignity. The hands who’ve trespassed against them. A systematic slaughter concludes with a funeral hand-drawn by a stranger.

Their murderers did not drop dead on the same night.

I don’t ever imagine a land of fathers.

I IMAGINE A LAND

OF MOTHERS. 42

JUNK FOOD by liam spencer

if you are what you eat then are you what that junk is are you junk and the junkie / you aren't battle for position battle for the last poptart the good kind I see the red line we all know what this means our last hope for breakfast the sun is down we wake up and battle for poptarts we all do it every one of us once in a while we draw that line for poptarts the good kind and I still see lines, drawn between what I just said and what I am about to say is something we can all agree with they're feeding us drugs swear to god! look at the label look at the side effects are you looking do you see what I mean it's our last hope for breakfast before the sun rises and falls we don't get up filled with junk miss class miss work miss our moms you know you miss your mom but you never call never care to let her see the junkie you are you know the junk she likes on TV she loves you even more than the junk she likes she hates the drugs you know I mean drugs, the battle continues 43

photos by ellen wines | design by chosie titus

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NOTHING IN THE DARK by mary walz

I’m sleeping uneasily in my bed when I feel a strange presence. I try to ignore it, thinking I need to sleep, have to wake up early for work.

But I can’t. Opening my eyes, I see the hazy outline of a figure, barely visible in the pitch blackness. It mirrors my position, curled on its side, watching me. Its fingers trace the dark stripes on my quilt.

I blink, “Are you real?”

“Of course.” The figure replies, its voice a hoarse, echoing whisper.

I focus on its face. It is featureless, androgynous, the only distinguishing feature is its eyes. They’re familiar. They look sad.

I can’t move. “Who are you?” I ask it, my voice interrupts the silence.

“Don’t be afraid.”

It reaches towards me. I flinch.

“I told you not to be afraid.” It begins to cry, slow tears that escalate until they’re streaming, a waterfall glinting in the moonlight that escapes through the cracks in the blinds. Each tear expands when it hits the ground, beginning to fill the room.

I jump off the bed and run to the open doorway. Something stops me, along with the water, which is now above my knees. A hand is on my arm, glowing white in the water, pulling me back. Its nails are painted a dark, shimmering black.

“Please! Let me out!” I scream.

It sobs harder, bucketloads pouring through its eyelashes. I now have to tread water to keep my head up. The water lifts me closer and closer to the ceiling, it reflects the dark violet waves.

My tears join with the creature’s.

My face is now pressed against the ceiling.

I am submerged. I hold my breath.

Then, its in front of me, face an inch from mine, watching. I stare back. Its long, blonde hair floats up around its face.

My lungs ache.

It doesn’t blink. Those eyes are all I see. Familiar.

My head is light as the air I desperately need.

A bit of light ripples through the water. Its eyes are illuminated.

They’re blue. So are mine.

It no longer hurts.

A stormy blue.

It doesn’t hurt, like falling asleep.

The creature stares, my own eyes in its pale face.

I can no longer see.

design & illustration by chosie titus

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JOVENCITA by jackie jimenez

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Desde que era jovencita, Me trataron como un adulto. ¡Imagínate!

Hablaba cosas de adultos Pero solo tenía ocho años No, Tenia solo 5 años.

Desde los 5 años, hablo cosas de adultos sin saber de qué hablaba. ¡Imagínate!

Cuando un estudiante de México llega a mi escuela, Y los maestros me solicitan apoyar a mi nuevo compañero para traducir.

Fui maestra desde los 5 años. ¡Imagínate!

Una niña de 8 años, Traduciendo a sus padres porque ellos no entienden el inglés, A ir a la hospital para entender lo que dicen los médicos. ¡Imagínate!

La policia parando a mi papa Y yo traduciendo desde el asiento trasero y diciendo al oficial de policía que lo perdone porque el no habla el idioma. ¡Imagínate!

Fui creciendo y la circunstancia me ha llevado a hablar cosas de adultos desde los 5 años.

Tengo 20 años.

Mi madre dice que crecí muy rapido, Y es cierto.

Ahora soy adulta, Tengo 20 años, Y sigo siendo traductora.

illustration by jackie jimenez | design by kenyon ellsworth | photos by mary mathis

Since I was a child, They treated me like an adult.

Imagine An adult, talking to a child as if she was twenty years old.

But reality knew she was eight.

No. I was five.

Since I was five years old, I’ve been translating, talking about adult things I didn’t fully understand.

Imagine A student who immigrated to your small town from Mexico, going to a school filled with people who don’t have the same skin you do, whose teachers use her to help the only other brown girl in the class learn English.

I was five.

Five years old and I was a teacher.

Imagine An eight-year-old girl translating for her parents.

Translating for her parents at the hospital when she knew there was something wrong but didn’t fully comprehend what the doctors were saying.

Imagine Your dad getting pulled over by the police and having to explain to them from the back seat that he is sorry for what he did but he doesn’t speak the language of the Motherland.

Imagine That I was doing this, And I was a child.

I am twenty years old now.

My mom tells me I grew up quickly.

She’s right.

I’m twenty.

And I’m still translating.

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CLOUDS, TRUMP, &

by julia poska design by kenyon ellsworth

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THE ROLLING STONES

CLOUDS FORM WHEN MOIST AIR RISES. The air’s ability to rise, however, depends on certain variables. If the moist air cools more quickly than the ambient environment, it will get trapped under warmer air and remain stable, but if it cools more quickly it will rise and cool until the water vapor condenses onto particles suspended in the atmosphere. Thunderclouds form as a result of the deepest sort of instability; once the moist air gets going it continues rising unrestricted until it hits the bottom of the stratosphere and flattens out into the recognizable “anvil head” of a stormy cumulonimbus. The conditions of runaway cloud growth are undoubtedly interesting, but what really fascinates me is how certain public figures have been able to attain the same sort of absolute ascension, especially considering today’s political climate.

Despite their controversial music and involvement in a surplus of prominent scandals, the Rolling Stones’ upwards trajectory seems to have gone majorly unaffected throughout the 50-plus years of their career. Lead singer Mick Jagger and guitarist Keith Richards emerged from their first jail stint in 1967 as heroes to a generation of recreational drug enthusiasts, though Mick’s girlfriend Marianne Faithfull emerged shrouded in hypersexual shame. Their “Golden Run” of wildly successful albums from 1969 to 1972 immediately followed the infamous free concert in Altamont, California, where an audience member was shot by a Hell's Angel “security guard,” and the Stones were blamed for killing flower power. Several decades of sex, drugs, and rock and roll later, Jagger was even knighted by the Queen of England.

How could the band have avoided career derailment through all of this publicly unacceptable behavior? Shouldn’t the public have been turned off by bad behavior? How did the Stones gain the unconditional lift to fuel their stormcloud of eventual superstardom?

In the early 1960’s, the Rolling Stones entered a scene of significant tension between teenagers and their parents. In both Britain and America, the press coverage only amplified the friction by obsessing over the Stones’ long hair, sloppy clothes and nonconformist lifestyles, and encouraging the young people to obsess alongside them. For every ounce of love teens gave the Stones, though, the older generation had an ounce of resentment to match; the popularity of the unruly band was threatening the conservative foundations of society. The establishment’s detestation thrilled the media, who fed the fire by promoting Rolling Stones fandom as a sort of deliberate protest against parents. Fueled by feelings of defiance and the sexually charged soundtrack to their youthful revolution, the fans’ excitement intensified and Stones performances began to break into violence as audiences lost control. The press’s still fervent coverage of the rioting continued to exhilarate the teens while infuriating the adults, sustaining the feedback loop which was widening the chasm between the generations. The Stones quickly came to embody the very forceful currents their generation

P U S H E D TO THEIR PINNACLE BY

ABSOLUTE ADORERS. believed in. The band’s very public mistakes and flaws, then, only reinforced the change they represented, allowing the Stones to continue climbing upwards in the public eye for decades, raining down sex, drugs, and rock and roll all the while.

Donald Trump’s rise to political power followed a similar pattern.

How did he come to lead the free world even after months of overt racism and ignorance on the campaign trail, as well as the release of an incredibly incriminating tape from Access Hollywood? After each scandal, political or otherwise, Trump and his supporters continue to deny and obscure the accusations. As far as I can tell, it is because he represents something as meaningful as what the Stones represented to the 1960’s youth to another sizeable group ready to be heard: white Americans, especially those who have felt snubbed by the political and educational elite. To this group, Trump is a deviation from the “institution” they feel has cheated them out of their American dreams. Though he is a wealthy white man, as most of our politicians are, he is considered an outsider to the political game who will champion the causes of the common man.

It is hard for me to imagine that these people all agree with every one of Trump’s more controversial statements, but not so hard to see how they might look past their discomfort to watch the supposed personification of their values climb to glory.

As a diehard Rolling Stones fan and equally fervent Trump nonsupporter, this connection makes me somewhat uneasy. I recognize the hypocrisy I engage with when I sing along with the Stones’ “Brown Sugar,” a song about raping slaves, but condemn Trump supporters as racists and sexists. I see how I participate in the same unconditional devotion that allowed a man like Trump to rocket to the top, and wonder if my own musical heroes are any more deserving of their rock ‘n’ roll thrones than our president is of his oval office, if I can fairly judge my Aunt Sandy for wearing her “Make America Great Again” hat everywhere she goes. The questions prickle and scratch, but regardless of their answers, the ascensions of both the band and the businessman are complete, pushed to their pinnacles by absolute adorers. Now we face the storms we created.

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THE FACE OF VENEZUELA’S REFUGEES

photos & story by alex bare design by riley nakagawa 51

ON THE FIRST OF JANUARY, thousands of tourists and locals alike reveled in the streets of Cartagena, Colombia as the clock struck midnight. Among the partygoers is Jaiver Zambrano, a slender 21-year-old from Barquisimeto, Venezuela. His curly hair peeks out from a baseball cap brandishing the colors of the Venezuelan national flag: red, yellow, and blue. Unlike the other foreigners, he isn’t in Cartagena to drink and soak up the sun along the Miami-esque Bocagrande oceanfront.

Instead, he works a grueling 13 to 16 hours a day at a bakery alongside his cousin. Each receive a flat payment of 27,000 pesos ($9.72 US) per day. They haven’t had a day off since beginning the job on November 4, 2017.

Jaiver and his 18-year-old cousin, José Miguel, are at work by 6 a.m. The small bodega bakery sits just a five minute walk from the building where the cousins live with their two roommates, Brisel Fernández and Marianny Escalona, all from Barquisimeto.

A stream of customers strolls up to the counter to order bread under the bakery’s fluorescent lights. Above, a white ceiling fan provides relief from the afternoon heat. Behind the glass case is an array of bread baked throughout the morning: pan de sal, pan bocadillo, pan de yuca.

“Lots of work,” was all Jaiver can manage to utter before another customer comes to the counter. I raise my camera for a quick shot, but Javier shakes his head sharply without speaking a word. His boss has returned.

“Of course his jefe doesn’t want photos,” Brisel exclaims when she walks in a short while later. “What you are seeing here is exploitation, plain and simple. Take a photo so the world can see what us Venezuelans are suffering in Colombia.”

Colombian law prohibits employees from working over eight hours a day or 48 hours a week. Jaiver and his cousin work at least 91 hours a week, yet barely make more than the monthly minimum wage.

Like thousands of Venezuelans before them, Jaiver, José Miguel, Brisel, 31, and her girlfriend Marianny, 24, left behind their families in Barquisimeto last August to cross

BACK THERE,````````````````` STARVING

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the border at Cúcuta.

Hyperinflation in Venezuela rendered their wages and life savings virtually worthless in a matter of months. Once living in one of Latin America’s most prosperous countries, Venezuelans faced chronic hunger and malnutrition. One study published by the country’s National Survey of Living Conditions in February indicated that 75% of Venezuelans had lost 19 pounds in 2017 alone.

“Let me put it like this,” Brisel explains while kneading corn flour dough on her kitchen counter. The room is narrow enough that I can touch both walls at the same time.

“One day, you go down to the market and corn flour is $7.

The next day you go back and it’s $8. Days later you go back and it’s now $10. It never ends.”

Brisel previously worked at a the offices of an international transport courier in Barquisimeto, where she made a modest living before the economy took a nosedive in early 2015.

By the time she quit in August 2017, her wage was 70,000 bolívares—just $5 a month. By April of 2018, economic freefall had devalued that same wage to the equivalent of 29 cents a month according to DolarToday, a website that tracks bolívar exchange rates.

“We brought half a suitcase of bolívares in cash [to Colombia],” says Marianny in exasperation. “But when we received the pesos, there were maybe five bills.”

Brisel and Marianny met in Barquisimeto and made their way to Cartagena through the help of a friend who located a place to stay. Both arrived in Colombia with university degrees in hand, not uncommon for young Venezuelans. Without the nearly unattainable work visas, however, their degrees are worthless. They now work together in a beauty salon.

“When we first arrived here, we put up with the sun selling tizana [chopped fruit drink] on the streets for a week to pay rent. The rejection was horrible,” Brisel says, shaking her head.

The four spend time at the jetties after the day’s work to dance raspacanilla and merengue until the speaker’s battery sputters

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out. To get home, they wander through the labyrinth of streets to their neighborhood, just a stone’s throw from the gates of Rafael Nuñez International Airport and some three miles from the dazzling hotel skyscrapers of Bocagrande, where rooms go for half of Colombia’s monthly minimum wage a night.

After purchasing two onions, four cans of tuna, corn flour, and a lime from a bodega, they continue home. A feral dog barks in the distance, and only the faintest hint of the ocean breeze sits in the air.

Jaiver leads the group through the front door and beyond a curtain to one of the house’s two rooms. On the other side of a makeshift mortar wall in the kitchen, Brisel vigorously kneads the dough that she soon crafts into circular arepas—a Venezuelan national dish.

We sit on a Jaiver’s mattress, one of the few pieces of furniture in the makeshift home.

“Here in Colombia, people make fun of our desperation,” laments Jaiver. “They say, ‘venico’—Venezuelan-Colombian.

For us, it’s an insult. I’m a Venezuelan and I’m proud.”

But Jaiver is certain he made the right decision in moving to Columbia.

“Back there, I was starving alongside my family. As hard as it is here for us Venezuelans, it’s an opportunity to get money doing honest work to send to my family to help them. I’d still have come anyway.”

As for their future, they hesitate to make a next move with the crippled economy they left behind. Jaiver and Brisel’s family members in Venezuela quit their jobs because of the hyperinflation and rely on the remittances the young adults send to stave off hunger. Waiting for hours in line at shortagestricken grocery stores to purchase basic food has become a job in itself.

“I’d like to go to the United States,” says Jaiver. “I want to be an actor. When I’m alone in my room, I sit in front of the mirror and practice. It’s my dream.”

Brisel joins us with a plate of steaming tuna arepas.

“Americans have treated me indifferently,” she says, “I don’t think I would like life there, with all I’ve heard about how it is.”

She continues, “If I were given the opportunity, I’d go. But I’d prefer Canada.” *Author’s note: Reported in March of 2018. As of early April, all four have safely arrived in Lima, Peru, where they hope to find better working conditions and higher wages to continue supporting their families in Venezuela.

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CANCER IN COLLEGE

by maggie coutre photo by skyler knutzen | design by riley nakagawa & kenyon ellsworth

AFTER FALL SEMESTER and before her 20th birthday, my roommate Kenzie found out she had ovarian cancer. We sat down on the couch in our North Iowa City apartment to recount the evolution of her situation over the last months: the discovery of a huge tumor, surgeries, fertility treatments, egg retrieval, and chemotherapy.

Kenzie leans in when I ask about this stage in her life. She tells me it’s such a weird age to be experiencing cancer. “I’m at this point in my life where I could totally let this take me down. I could drop out of school, move home, be sad all day, let people treat me like I’m ill, but it’s not worth it. I have a great life, I have great friends, I have a great boyfriend, I have a great family life at home.” So she decided, for her own mental and physical health, to stay at our apartment most weeks and continue taking two of her classes for the semester. School is a welcome distraction.

She no longer goes out, and her priorities have shifted towards spending time with her family and close friends. “Obviously I'm not going to be able to live a normal college life, but I will be able to live a normal woman’s life [after treatment].”

The gravity of the responsibility Kenzie had for her own health hit her when she found out she had a tumor in her abdomen the size of a football. After months of thinking (and being told by doctors) that her abdomen was protruding because she was gaining weight or bloating, she finally found herself in the care of a concerned physician. It was tricky, because none of Kenzie’s symptoms were unusual for her, albeit worsening slightly. She thought she was just gaining the “freshman 15.” But she says to never let anyone tell you not to be concerned about something.

“There are so many things you could have wrong with you that I don’t want you to think, ‘Oh my god, I have cancer,’ but there are other things like gastrointestinal issues or stress related diagnoses that you’re not seeing and need to see.” Not noticing her tumor earlier would be Kenzie’s only regret, if any. The responsibility that comes with taking care of one’s body transfers from our parents to ourselves in a gradual and unspoken way, but carries a lot of weight. Kenzie says you’ll never get a note in the mail telling you you’re an adult. One day you look back on all the decisions you made to keep yourself happy and healthy, and realize that you've become independent.

Mere minutes after Kenzie was informed she would have to go through chemotherapy, she was faced with another heavy decision to make for her body. There was no way to know if, after the surgeries and chemo she would endure, she would still be fertile. In just a few hours, Kenzie had to decide if she should undergo yet another procedure to improve her chances of one day having biological children. Kenzie tears up when she remembers how overwhelmed she was when the reproductive endocrinologist barraged her with questions: “‘Have you thought about your future? Do you know how many kids you want?

AS A Y O U N G WOMAN YOU

NEED TO PUT YOURSELF F I R S T When do you want to have them? This is going to happen, you're going to hit menopause at 35. You may never have a period again after chemo.’” After the meeting, she sat down with her boyfriend and decided that it was important to the two of them to have biological children, if possible. She spoke to her mom, who asked her the question that provided Kenzie the most clarity: “Ten years down the road, are you going to regret not checking all the boxes now, while you still can?’’ Kenzie didn’t think she could live with that regret in ten years—wanting children, not being able to conceive them, and wishing she had done everything possible years before. After weeks of fundraising, fertility hormones, and a successful egg retrieval, her eggs were frozen and stored away. She lights up with confidence when she talks about how happy she is that she has an extra bit of assurance about her future. Family is the most important aspect of Kenzie’s life, and she wanted to do what was in her power to help her odds of having one of her own.

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Kenzie’s family lives in Bettendorf, IA, about an hour drive from Iowa City. She is grateful for how close she is to them. They come up for doctor's appointments, and she goes there when she’s recovering from surgery or chemo is especially tough. However, she often appreciates the distance between her and her family.

Kenzie wipes a tear off her cheek when she thinks about her parents grieving for her situation. “They need time to be able to cry about it and not have to be strong for me,” she says.

When I ask Kenzie how she copes with it all, she says that despite bouts of extreme sadness, she can’t mope for long. Dance Marathon gave her perspective and optimism. She’s inspired by kids who have gone through even harder times but still radiate positivity. Dance Marathon has also been an incredibly supportive community for Kenzie. Luckily, DM folks already know how to talk about cancer. Kenzie says she talks about cancer not as just the illness, but as her “situation.” She appreciates being asked about her life rather than receiving a gloomy, “How are you feeling?” At home, my roommates and I lighten the mood with humor,

like joking about the absurd size of her tumor. We accompany Kenzie to weekly chemotherapy, wearing matching shirts with teal ribbons. For Kenzie, coping can mean just being in the presence of others, even if there’s no conversation.

Kenzie’s message is this: “You need to know your body -- know what’s going on -- and if things change or things are weird, don’t be afraid to ask. As a young woman you need to put yourself first before anything else. And if things change and aren’t normal, you need to speak up about them.” She reiterates that you know what “normal” means for your body better than any doctor would. Kenzie doesn’t recommend getting alarmed about bodily changes, but says that differences are worth checking out. It’s better to understand your body and what it may be up against than ignoring something that concerns you. Although college students may feel young, everyone is responsible for providing a healthy peace for the bodies we inhabit. Doing this requires awareness and confidence, the strength to advocate for oneself, and the willingness to reach out to those you love.

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THE STATE THEATRE. by lauren arzbaecher

photos by hayley anderson illustration by genevieve cleverley design by riley nakagawa & kenyon ellsworth

WE TEND TO THINK of movies as we know them today: a two-hour visual and auditory journey filled with dramatic characters and captivating plots. Early film, however, is vastly different. On May 14th of 1897, the State Theatre, previously known as the Graham Opera House, first opened its doors to filmgoers. Housed in Washington, Iowa, the State Theatre is the oldest continuously operating cinema theatre in the world. Earning its Guinness World Record in April of 2016, the theatre is a constant reminder of the wonder of cinema. Unlike the movies we see today, early films were largely monochromatic, silent, and only lasted a few minutes. Hardly enough time to enjoy a large butter-coated popcorn.

William Franklin Brinton, an early manager of the Graham Opera House, has a legacy that is practically as old as the theatre. The Washington, Iowa native traveled around the United States in the late 1800s to early 1900s projecting slides and showing films to crowds. Brinton died in 1919, his wife following in 1955, leaving behind their collection of films and a slew of other artifacts kept in the basement of their home. The collection is extensive, comprised of thousands of reels, projectors, photographs, journals, visual slides, family items, and much more. Unfortunately, this piece of cinematic history was largely unknown until it was gathered in August of 1981 by Michael Zahs, a fellow Washington native. Zahs shared the influence of the Brintons with the students he taught at a local Washington school. “The Brinton home adjoined our schoolground, and that house was built to have a landing strip on top for airplanes before airplanes were really established,” Zahs says. “I was always interested in that and I would take my students there as well. We would stand outside and I would say, ‘This is the first airport in the world.’”

Zahs’ students also played a role in the cultivation of the collection itself. “The collection was in a basement with a coal stoking furnace and rats. The students helped clean

C U L T U R E EXCEEDS BARRIERS OF TIME & SPACE 59

the slides and became very familiar with [the collection] from a preservation standpoint.”

“I was and still am interested in what [the Brintons] did because it is Iowa-centered, but it wasn’t just Iowa. They went from Texas to Minnesota, around the whole center part of the United States,” Zahs explained. The Brinton legacy was far-reaching, but much of it is centered around their hometown, Washington. While the Brintons have been part of the culture of Washington since the late 1800s, they were not always heralded as the great contributors to history they truly were. “The community is becoming more aware and more proud of the Brintons, but that has just been in the past few years,” Zahs admits. “While they were alive, people were embarrassed by them.” Newspapers at the time would even go so far as to print articles that commented on the mental state of members of the Brinton family. They were treated as outcasts due to their love of invention. “I think that many of the Brintons were so far ahead of everybody else intellectually, that the only way the community could evaluate that was to assume that they were crazy.”

Zahs kept the collection in his house for several years in a room affectionately titled “the Brinton room,” the community still mostly oblivious to its existence. Advocating for the promotion of the artifacts on his own had proved unsuccessful. Just as it was during the Brintons lifetime, there seemed to be no desire to exhibit their developments to a wider audience. That changed when a former student of Zahs, Tim Johnson, who worked at Humanities Iowa at the time, attended a state convention in which Zahs was displaying some of the old Brinton films. One of the first people to show real interest in developing it further, Johnson was a big step in the collection making its way to Iowa City. The Brinton collection was brought to Special Collections at University of Iowa Libraries in 2014. Pieces of the collection are scheduled to exhibited at the Main Library in May 2018.

Back in Brinton’s home theatre, the light-laden marquee displaying STATE in proud letters above the entrance illuminates brick archways that outline the windows of the lobby. Mirroring the look of 1940s theatres, the State is a time-capsule in and of itself, bringing viewers back to the age of John Wayne and Katharine Hepburn. Although the theatre has gone through some cosmetic renovations throughout its 119 years of operation, the State works hard to uphold the classic appearance of its origin, though not without obstacles. A fire in the projection room that started from a discarded cigarette closed down the theatre in November of 2010, and the State didn’t reopen

until April of the following year. Washington has a rich history with the theatre, and residents of the small town have cultivated a strong bond to the landmark.

According to Crystle Christner, a current manager at the State, the majority of viewers that come to the theatre to see movies today are seniors and families, and the movies shown correspond to that demographic. With only one screen, the State does face some struggles up against multiplexes that contain anywhere from five to twenty screens.

“Currently, one screen theatres are not looked upon as being any kind of revenue, which is why most of them are shutting down,” Christner says.

“Hollywood wants the multiplexes to do the shows because they can get so many movies in them. We as a single screen theatre are not seen as important to them.” The studios also heavily influence which films are shown at the theatre, when, and for how long. This makes it difficult to show some of the older films that made their debuts within the very walls of the theatre many years ago. As the motion picture industry has changed, so has the State evolved to match it, but in its own signature style. The vintage look and feel is what keeps the State true to its roots. All the new technology of modern cinema can’t equate to the unique sense of nostalgia viewers can get from stepping inside the historic theatre. “We’ve tried to keep it as original as we can from when it first opened,” Christner claims. This emphasis on community has been a main tenet of the State since its opening and continues today. The comfortable atmosphere and friendly staff keep people coming back to celebrate the past and present of cinema along with the culture of Washington.

History is an integral part of the narratives of the State Theatre and the Brinton collection, and emphasizing the past is of the utmost importance to Michael Zahs. “I hope to expose people to the Iowa that people don’t think ever happened here,” he says. “We raise corn, but people tend to think that’s the only ‘c’ word in Iowa, “culture” isn’t part of it.” Culture transcends barriers of time and place.

Or at least, it should. And shifting our cultural focus to embrace history rather than move away from it could very well be the plot of a new film the Brintons themselves would be proud of.

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bloody altruism bloody altruism

by jackson guilford

I AM sitting next to other individuals of roughly the same age, tubes hooked up to them as they vigorously pump their hands, feet up and mindlessly staring at their phones as their life source is drawn out of an intravenous line. A worker dressed in a long, white garment reminiscent of a lab coat approaches me and asks for my name, date of birth, and social security number. I am then asked to read a long list of numbers and confirm my social one last time. After this is over she proceeds to begin what is called “the stick.” My arm is cuffed and prepped with iodine.

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The needle is inserted into my most prominent vein.

She leaves and I am left to pump my hand until the required 880 milliliters is extracted.

I am at Biotest, a center where you can “donate” your plasma—I put donate in quotations because you are actually compensated for your giving of plasma, and quite handsomely. New “donors” can make up to 360 dollars in their first month. This is particularly attractive to one of the main clientele at the plasma center in Iowa City: college students. For a college

student, the idea of simply being able to sit mindlessly for an hour and donate something that we don’t even really know we have is very appealing. This is particularly true when the compensation is so high.

If you look at Biotest’s website, you’ll notice that they have locations all over the country in Lincoln, Nebraska, Iowa City, Iowa, Athens, Georgia, and Clemson, South Carolina among many others. All these cities have universities with students numbering well over 25,000 people.

Clearly the college student demographic is an important one to plasma companies.

Plasma is very important to the pharmaceutical industry. It is used to create the medicines that fight a wide variety of diseases such as hemophilia and immune deficiency. It cannot be artificially manufactured and therefore, companies depend on individuals being willing to donate the substance…a willingness that is perhaps encouraged through compensation.

When I walked into my first donation, I noticed the sheer amount of signs that show families, children, and other individuals who benefit from the “life-saving plasma” that I am about to donate.

My question is as follows: if plasma is such an important bodily product that can’t be artificially manufactured, why isn’t it treated like blood where you do not normally receive compensation for donations? This may be because companies like Biotest make a profit from their plasma extraction and can afford to pay their donors a little stipend to make them enjoy the benefits, if not depend on it, to supplement their income with an extra 4060 dollars a week. These companies also knows that they needs to target low income individuals in order to maximize their profits. An article published in 2017 from ABC News said that nearly 80 percent of plasma centers in the U.S. are located in America’s poorer neighborhoods.

In the same article, Dr. Roger Kobayashi, a professor of immunopathology at UCLA, stated, “What was once an act of altruism has now evolved into an act of necessity or desperation.”

Your first screening is quite thorough, but what struck me was the fact that nothing is verified. They ask you if you have any piercings or tattoos and

when you got them. Having gotten either of these done in the past year would make you ineligible to donate. Other things that exclude you from donating include a prior gonorrhea or chlamydia diagnosis, HIV, and other diseases. This is fair enough, but the problem is that people can lie on these questionnaires—and with the monetary motivation, you can bet people will be inclined to lie. While the plasma is tested to verify it is not contaminated, many of the questions are easy to thwart, especially since cash is the reward.

As you sit down, you’re struck by the machinedriven nature of the donation. The specialist sticks you with a needle, asks you if you’re doing okay, and then leaves you for approximately hour while a machine performs plasmapheresis on your blood. If the name doesn’t sound weird enough, the process definitely is. Plasmapheresis, in short, is when the machine extracts your blood, separates the blood and plasma, and then returns the blood back to your body. So, by the end of the procedure you haven’t lost any actual blood, simply 880mL of plasma. This 880mL of plasma provides Biotest with quite a bit of profit. Biotest isn’t the company that actually makes use of the plasma. A report in 2006 showed that each bottle of plasma can be sold for around $200.

I can imagine that in the past 12 years the price has gone up even more.

The rhetoric surrounding plasma donation makes it sound like you are saving lives, which is not untrue -- in the end, the existence of places like Biotest are invaluable to the medical community.

The issue becomes gray with the compensation aspect of plasma donation. Are individuals more motivated by money than kindness? Does being compensated for an act of goodness negate the altruism? Can we be intrinsically motivated to do good, or must we always receive something in return? What does it say about human kindness that plasma clinics must compensate donors to help save lives? With these questions raised, my need for a little money outweighs the qualms I have about a company that may be profiting from selling the life-saving fluid. Despite this exploration of morality that by no means made me feel better about the plasma industry, you will still be able to find me pumping my hand next Friday for some extra cash.

illustration by darien buford | design by riley nakagawa

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erasure poem by alexa starry, derived from lucy cotter's piece in sky news photo by mary mathis | design by kenyon ellsworth 64

IN THE BAND. by elly hoffmaier

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FIVE BANDS, several dozen musicians, and not one female. The overwhelming presence of men at the 2017 Battle of the Bands in Iowa City seemed obvious to only the women in the room. The male motif in the Iowa City music scene has been on my mind ever since.

dripping with soul, it was her fingers that entranced me. Her left hand moved frictionlessly across the guitar’s fret while her right hand danced masterfully about the strings. I watched her bend that guitar to every soulful whim with intensity until something in the corner of my eye broke the hypnosis.

With her silvery disposition and undeniable steeze, Elizabeth Moen gave my worried heart a needed break on stage at Big Grove Brewery in February of this year. While her vocals were luscious and rich,

“Dude, she has fricken’ guac and chips sitting on her amp!” I relayed to my friend. Needless to say, spirits were high as Moen reached for a chip and a mighty helping of guacamole, shamelessly

chomping down for a cheering crowd.

“Can you hear me chewing?”

Undoubtedly, people positioned across the gender spectrum are infiltrating local music scenes. But why still so little visibility for anyone other than men? To further investigate, I caught up with a few Iowa City musicians. I wanted to know from an insider perspective: what the heck is going on with all the men getting the attention?

“I didn’t know what to expect, but you can actually play guitar.”

This is a phrase all female instrumentalists are acquainted with.

Elizabeth Moen is certainly no stranger to these microaggressions.

Despite being a well-seasoned, touring singer-songwriter, Moen often fields misguided, well-intentioned comments. Moen typically takes these transgressions in stride, noting good intentions.

Like Moen, trumpet player Toni LeFebvre recognizes that pushback she receives from her male counterparts is subconscious, but understands how pressure to betoken all women can derail achievement.

“People are going to have automatic perceptions of your abilities because you’re female, and you don’t have to just meet those perceptions, you have to overcome them if you want to be respected.” LeFebvre explains the psychological phenomena of “stereotype threat,” which occurs when an individual is confronted with the possibility of confirming or being judged by a negative stereotype.

Alongside the pressure to disaffirm a stereotype often comes a push to totally disassociate with its character traits. In Juliette Enloe’s case, that’s femininity. Lead vocalist of local fast-punk band Piss Exorcist, Enloe describes themself by telling me, “I look mean and I yell at people.”

Punk culture is known for its progressive leanings and allinclusiveness, but punk music typically demands a more aggressive and masculine demeanor from performers. Enloe, however, is rather soft spoken and in many ways effeminate. “It feels like you have to prove yourself a lot more,” they confided.

“There’s a general attitude when it comes to heavier music where you have to prove you really like it…I have to work a lot harder and assert my presence even more.”

Enloe is learning to disregard the confines of the feminine musician stereotype as well as its antithesis. “You don’t have to be tough and hardcore and prove yourself all the time.” Though

photos by mary mathis | design by kenyon ellsworth

there are people like Enloe challenging gender’s relevance in music, navigating the already emotionally demanding profession while deviating from the historically favored end of the spectrum can be too much for some.

Unofficial subgenres are often formed for musicians of the same gender – women are only compared to women, men only compared to men. Iowa City emcee and hip-hop healer Mariah S. Dawson (a.k.a. “MSD” a.k.a. “Dr. Dawson”) sees this frequently in rap music. “Men are able to rap and sound the same and it’s a wave and it'll be okay, but the minute Cardi B. starts sounding like Nicki Minaj, they immediately put them together.” While these comparisons may seem insignificant to critics, musicians want to have their skills appreciated by being related to artists of the same technical caliber, not just artists of the same gender. Dawson’s particular sound certainly demands the respect of genderless review.

When it comes to closing the gender gap in Iowa City’s music scene, the musicians interviewed here have several pieces of advice: encourage each other, provide opportunities for young girls to play instruments, and teach kids about powerful women.

Above all, Dawson says you just have to get out there and do it. "That’s the only way. Talking about it is cheap… find your craft, find your dopeness.”

HOW TO LEAVE A LOVE by ananya munjal Gather in small bars with wooden booths, the kind that have been annotated over years with initials, drawings of whales, WE WERE HERE in block letters. Mention that there are too many people for one table, smile when no one moves.

Enjoy the feel of so many, never too many, warm bodies huddled together around you, the abundance of arms.

Take careful notes in permanent ink, statistical formulas, parabolic equations, the hair of the girl who always sits in front of you. Imagine her spinning concentric circles, racing from class to class, weaving patterns around a gold dome reflecting the rays of the cosmos above. Read about dead satellites, how they keep moving, still circle the Earth even after their time is up. Think of perpetual orbits, all of us, everywhere at once, circling gold forever.

When it is cold, and it will always be cold, connect to your own Wi-Fi in a coffee shop below your apartment. Wrap familiarity tightly around loose shoulders, a backpack to hold fears, tears. In Latin class think about a word for missing something before you’ve left it, pre-nostalgia, fore-longing.

Learn large, learn like you’re running out of days, you are running out of days. Learn of moon cycles in biology, lunar calendars in anthropology. Watch tides affected by planetary rotation. In the corner of your window the unmarked clock face grows larger every night, convincing you of the passage of time.

If the sun is high and you are crossing the street, watch closely. When street lights change, there is a quick moment, a millisecond, where all traffic lights are red, all pedestrian illustration by annalise castro | design by kenyon ellsworth 67

bulbs off, all signs simultaneously screaming STOP. It’s like waking up late. It’s like constantly waking up late.

When it is time, talk about the loving, the leaving, the longing, the abundance of arms.

Return in two, eight, thirty years. Oh, how it’s changed, and wasn’t there a bench over there? Contemplate the absence of stagnancy.

Re-gather in small bars, booths permanently engraved, your own initials, a lyric, WE WERE HERE.

A LETTER F R O M T H E EDITORS.

It is a Fools tradition for the design team to present a working file of the issue at the last meeting of the semester. The room fills with cheering, clapping, and the occasional, “We need to fix that.”

During this year’s last meeting, the editorial board said goodbye to a magazine that we started in a backyard four issues and two years ago. At the end of the meeting, we found a draft of the magazine with a note from a member on the front page: “Thank you for believing in me.”

In that moment, we regained the clarity we had when we created Fools Magazine—clarity that so often gets lost when leading a team of over one hundred creators. Before we had funding or support, we had people. Talented, driven, and creative people who wanted to join an initiative that seemed impossible at the time. We had no idea of the fundraising it would take, the long nights huddled over glowing screens, the people we’d have to prove ourselves to. When someone on campus told us no, there was always someone else to tell us yes. Out of sheer desperation, or perhaps a will to succeed, we made it work.

When you take away the writing, design, photos, and illustrations, what you have in the pages of this magazine is a group of people who care about each other and each other’s creations. Just like anything else, we rely on people to believe in us. We’ve had the honor of watching hesitant writers walk in our door and leave with a three page spread, meeting photographers who push themselves to shoot, reshoot, and shoot again to get the perfect image, and working with designers who collaborate to bring an artist’s vision to life.

Fools is for those who make art with the sole purpose of creating, those who believe in the power of standing behind their work. It is our hope that upon leaving, Fools continues to empower aspiring artists, budding journalists, and everyone in-between.

Because we didn’t create Fools, you did.

ALL OUR LOVE, MADELINE, MARY, KENYON, JOE, ANANYA, & CECILIA.

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