Fools Vol. 3

fools magazine

vol. 3 december 2017

1

A THANK YOU

TO OUR SPONSORS.

FO O

FO

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

OL S 2

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

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

A WORD FROM THE EDIT ORS. If there’s one thing we have learned in the past three volumes it’s that you need a passionate team to succeed. There are times we need someone to agree with us, and times we need someone to challenge our ideas so we can learn to stand by our work and represent it to our best ability.

Fools wouldn’t have been born without collaboration. Through the intersection of the University of Iowa School of Journalism, the Magid Center for Undergraduate Writing, our incredible Fools family, and you, the reader, we are able to create art unapologetically.

Our cover conceptualizes the collaboration it took to make Fools Volume III. We were told a year ago that this task was too large, but now Fools stands with over 60 dedicated members, seven editorial board assistants, and seven editorial board members.

It takes a village, and in our case, village members come to your door with pineapples. Thanks for all your support, we hope you enjoy the read.

Cheers, The Fools Magazine Editorial Board

1 ANDROGYNY 5

AT THIS MOMENT

7

TUESDAY NIGHTS IN 1980

9 PROVIDENCE 11

MORE THAN HONEY

12

HANNAH SONG

13

COLOR IS, COLOR WAS

14

I’LL SPILL MY GUTS

17

ICON ACCIDENTAL

19

ARTISTRY OF OPHTHALMOLOGY

21

THE BEATLES LADY

23

ROOMMATE HORROR STORIES

24

ICE FISHING

25 MONSTROSITY 27

THE VALUABLE HIPSTER TREND

29 ICELAND 33 UNSETTLED 34

GOOD GRIEF

35

GIRL GONE WORKFORCE

39

JOSHUA DE LANOIT

41

A MOTHER’S TOUCH

42

FLIGHT 5081

43

IMPULSE

45

HOLA, CIAO

EDIT

ORS.

MADELINE SMITH

CECILIA FERNANDES

KENYON ELLSWORTH

Editor in Chief

Writing Editor

Design Editor, Print

MARY MATHIS

ANANYA MUNJAL

JOSEPH FLESNER

Photo Editor

Writing Editor

Design Editor, Web

CINDY GARCIA Copy Editor

ASSISTANTS. JENNA LARSON

ALEX KRAMER

SURI HUANG

Editor in Chief

Creative Writing

Design

ELAINE IRVINE

GABBIE MEIS

ANNA LESSMAN

Creative Writing

Writing

Design

VIVIAN LE Photo

CONTRIBUTORS. STEPHON BERRY

ALEX HERRICK

GRACE OETH

pages 19-20

page 7

page 24

JAYME BIGGER

JAIMESON HICKLIN

JULIA POSKA

pages 25-26

pages 45-46

page 21

ANNALISE CASTRO

ELAINE IRVINE

JULIA ROHN

page 42

pages 34, 44

page 14

AMEENA CHAUDHRY

BREE JONES

page 34

page 13

pages 1-4, 34-38

JOSHUA DE LANOIT

JENNA LARSON

pages 39-40

pages 17-18

HANNAH SONG

CALEY GRIEBENOW

VIVIAN LE

page 11

pages 1-4, 11, 21

CLAIRE HARMEYER

NADIA LOEPPKE

pages 7-8, 27-28

page 33

ZOE HERMSEN pages 5-6

PHILIP RUNIA

page 12

TYLER STERCULA pages 9-10

MARY WALZ pages 5-6, 23

JENNIE WONDERLIN page 41

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AND ROG YN Y. by philip runia

1

photos by vivian le2

BOYS ARE ENCOURAGED

TO --- WRITE THEIR OWN STORY,

CONQUER THE W O R L D ,

AND ARE TOLD THEY CAN

HAVE IT ALL - - - - - - - - - ONLY

IF THEY

FOLLOW THE RULES. 3

4

A T THIS MOM ENT

BY MARY WALZ

CONTENT WARNING: This piece includes a description of sexual assault. illust rat ion by z oe herms o n

5

“you needed the experience.” “you needed the experience.” “you needed the experience.”

“It was good for you.” “you needed thewas experience.”

“It“It was good for you.” good for you.”

“Ityou.” was good for you.” wasexperience.” good for “you needed“Itthe “It you.” was good for you.”

“It was good for “It was good for you.” “you needed the experience.”

“you needed the experienc

“It needed was good you.” the expe “you the for experience.”

“It was“you goodneeded for you.”

“It was the goodexperience for you. “you needed “It was good for “It you.” was good fo “It was good for you “It was good for you.”

“It was good for you.”

“It was good for you.”

“you needed the experience.”

“It was good for you “It was good for you.”

Sixteen I can’t shift any further, half sitting on the checkered armrest, clutching my beer too tightly, denting the can.

I’m trapped against the side of the couch, he puts his arm around me. It rests heavily, weighing me down. The weight settles on my lungs too, freezing the air.

What’s well-known is barely recognizable in the dark. Familiar shapes somehow look foreboding, leering.

My neck is craned, pushed into an awkward position by his pointer finger. My chest heaves as my lungs expand. It feels like they’re trying to leave my body.

“I should get you some water,” he says.

He doesn’t get me water.

“It was good for you. You needed the experience.”

I wash my face and stare at my reflection. The circles under my eyes are a soft lilac color matching the hickey on my neck.

I’m just tired.

Nineteen At this moment they’re laughing. Across the orange hall that smells like weed, the color of the carpet. But the weed is less ugly, a better shade of green.

Water droplets are falling off her cheek, absorbing into a blanket that’s softer on the inside than outside. It hides her.

Unable to see her, wrapped in a blanket, soft to the touch, a deep blue, her favorite color, like water, but it can’t wash it all away.

At this moment she doesn’t know what he’s doing, but she can guess. Probably in a dark room, hiding the colors.

He only wants pleasure. Pleasure, so often a replacement for happiness. Something to fill what’s missing.

But pleasure doesn’t hide it anymore. What isn’t there overwhelms what is.

So she’s hiding from it all, from the people, from the hallways, from the room, inside the blanket.

Maybe it will cover her.

6

tu esday n igh ts BOOK REVIEW BY CLAIRE HARMEYER

i l l ustrati on by a lex her r ick 7des i g n by kenyon ellswor t h

NEW YORK CITY AT THE ONSET OF THE ‘80S: wild, colorful, creative, infectious, chaotic. Tuesday Nights in 1980 drops you into this scene – a world where energy is bursting at the seams, where writers, artists and dreamers alike are desperately trying to find their way through the maze of the bright city streets. In her debut novel, Molly Prentiss uses Manhattan as a backdrop to tell three powerful stories, each distinctly fascinating, yet more captivating when intertwined. Strap up the seatbelt in your taxi and keep your eyes open wide, because Tuesday Nights in 1980 is a wild ride.

Meet James Bennett: “The Writer.” James is a wacky art critic with the unusual talent of being able to hear, see, smell, and feel sensations that are not actually happening. He has synesthesia.

James smells wild strawberries when he kisses his wife, feels a rush of wind when released from a hug, and experiences fireworks and symphonies when looking at art. All of his life, James has been called a “nut job,” but now he is one of the most respected art critics in all of New York – that is, until tragedy strikes and he must reconstruct everything he has ever known.

Meet Raul Engales: “The Artist.” Craving a life full of color, Raul moved from Buenos Aires to New York at age twenty-three, captivated by its abundance of possibilities and dazzling art scene. Not only is Raul a promising oil painter with infectious gusto, he is also strikingly handsome and entrancing. Taking on his artist name, “Engales,” he wrestles with the opportunity for fame while remaining authentic and true to his craft. Raul is an endearing character whom I gravitated towards and miss already.

Meet Lucy Olliason: “The Dreamer.” Fresh into her twenties, Lucy packs up her life in Ketchum, Idaho, and moves to New York in the hopes of finding her destiny. Infatuated by artists and the whimsical fantasies of the city, Lucy searches for her true self through the approval of others. She begins as a small-town girl exuding innocence and naiveté, not well suited for “The Big City,” as she calls it, so she distorts herself to fit the mold of a girl in New York in the ‘80s.

Prentiss creates three brilliant voices that readers can truly hear in their heads – James’ eccentric rants, Raul’s charming wit, and Lucy’s desperate sensuality. She takes people who can seem hard to understand – starving artists and creatives of all sorts – and makes them human, complete with insecurities and flaws. Each character faces immense struggles and goes through a distinct arc throughout the course of the novel, changing drastically yet realistically. I felt as if I had known these three for an entire year, true to the timeline of the story. By the end of the book I was sorry to say goodbye to these intriguing characters; I wanted to carry them around in my pocket, hearing more about their lives and what their fates had in store. Every character in Tuesday Nights in 1980, no matter the size, oozed bright energy, unique quirks, total them-ness. Prentiss writes characters we want to have conversations with for hours on end.

The story of these creative people begins as somewhat of a love letter to New York, New York. The city is romanticized, presented as lavish and magical. I was reminded of the beautiful blazing descriptions of New York City in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby, where every corner holds a dazzling New York secret.

Prentiss writes rare, energized sentences about the city, painting her pages with exotic scenes that you must be a part of. I wanted to drown in her words, diving deep into the story without ever coming up for air. Tuesday Nights in 1980 has a somewhat fairytale-esque quality to it, making us believe in fate and magic and beauty, just before it is all ripped away. Tangible, glamorous New York becomes intangible as it turns to the harsh reality of gritty neighborhoods and authentic lives. Romance turns to vulgarity and art turns to war. The mixture of fantasy and reality makes this novel believable while still clinging onto that little bit of magic that deep down everyone believes New York City holds.

Prentiss’s poetic lines play out like a movie, images flowing from one moment to the next, creating a scene without any dialogue or concrete sentences, getting the point across in an artful way. The explosive world of creatives in New York, full of horns honking, meltdowns, talent bursting from every angle and utter chaos, felt reminiscent of the film, “Birdman,” right down to the bittersweet ending.

James, Raul and Lucy are filled with an inextinguishable passion for art. Whether that is making it, loving it, or idolizing it, they are obsessed. That obsession leads to their triumphs, but also their downfalls. Tuesday Nights in 1980 explores this crazy passion that fills New York City’s streets in the ‘80s. If you have even one creative bone in your body, this book will make you wish that you could turn back time to be a New Yorker in 1980 yourself.

A WORLD WHERE

ENERGY IS

g n i t s r Bu

AT T HE S EAM S 8

p r ovi de nce They say there are three things all wise men fear. I was not a wise man.

9

d e s ign b y k e n y o n ells wor th

THEY SAY THERE ARE THREE THINGS ALL WISE MEN FEAR. I was not a wise man.

We were one hundred miles due east of the coast when the sun dipped beneath the horizon. Its blood orange hue, only slightly obscured by clouds, finally faded away. “There’s a storm blowing in from the northeast, Captain,” Cuthbert yelled to me. “What should we do?” He had taken the liberty of manning the crow’s nest for what was sure to be the last leg of our journey.

Cuthbert’s father eagerly awaited him in Janisport along with his mother and two brothers. He was a young lad at the time—not more than fifteen. When he begged his father to be my apprentice just over one year ago, before we set sail, he didn’t even have peach fuzz to claim on his face. Back then, Cuthbert hadn’t even been on a vessel bigger than the rowboat he would take to the center of the lake near his father’s cabin—the one they would travel to when the season was just warm enough for good fishing and better hunting. Cuthbert liked to regale me with stories from his childhood, ones that really weren’t all that long ago.

“Hold course,” I yelled back to him. “We’ll make port by the next moonrise.” I looked to the west, hoping to see a full moon crest over the horizon.

They say there are three things all wise men fear: the first is a sea in storm.

The hurricane took us by surprise. A bolt of lightning hit us from on high, splintering the crow’s nest into twine. Luckily, it was unmanned.

Rain poured in through every available crack it could find in the ship, running through the levels like small brooks searching for low ground.

The sea threw wave after wave over the deck, carrying away supplies.

Another bolt of lightning struck the sails, setting them ablaze. Pulling the wheel with all my might, rain drops hitting my face like daggers in the wind, I thought to myself, “If Hell exists, then surely this is it.”

After a time, everything was black.

I held onto jagged planks in the water, clutching them like a babe clings to its mother’s breast. They were my lifeline. I was dunked under wave after wave, losing strength fast. Finally, the storm subsided, moving past to terrorize another part of the ocean. I screamed for my crew. I heard nothing. I saw nothing. Clouds kept the starlight at bay.

By morning, I saw only splintered wood and floating corpses. Cuthbert had been next to me the whole time, face down on the planks.

With little expectation, I reached for his wrist and nearly screamed at what I felt. His pulse was faint, but there! He was alive! But reality kicked in as I surveyed the scene: the boy was fading fast, and I would follow him.

IF HELL EXIST S,

this is surely it.

They say there are three things all wise men fear: the first is a sea in storm, the second is a night with no moon.

When rescue boats came, it was three days after our scheduled arrival in Janisport. They came at night, trying to focus torchlight with mirrors, scouring the sea with beams of hope. Empty hope. The stars were alive and shining, but there was no moon. I swore I could see it though, slowly obscuring star after star, mocking me as the ships passed. Hypothermia was setting in, and the previously frigid ocean started to feel like bath water. It felt good.

By the time the ships were gone and the moon had set once more, its evil grin gone from my view, Cuthbert’s pulse was no more.

They found me on the return journey clutching his body in my arms, rocking him back and forth. Small fish had pecked at the decaying flesh on his appendages, which had remained submerged throughout our time on the raft. I didn’t notice.

They say there are three things all wise men fear: the first is a sea in storm, the second is a night with no moon, and the third is the anger of a gentle man.

When I got to port, a crowd awaited me: the sole survivor of a terrible shipwreck. “It was a miracle,” they said. “It was providence,” they cried.

Cuthbert’s father stared from the back of the crowd, hoping for word of more than one survivor. He tore into my eyes, tears welling in his.

I thought of how he urged his only son not to go, to choose a safer job, to wait until he was older and more prepared. I thought of how he told me to take care of his son, to not let anything hurt him. To keep him safe.

I understood when he pulled the trigger. The warmth felt just like the numbness from the ocean. It felt right.

I was not a wise man.

10

M O R E THAN H ONEY by caley griebenow I, Saturn’s rings Enveloping you a thousand times Dancing in cosmic grace Icy and sun kissed I, sand on the beach You, waves, wanting more and more of me Each time you take me away, swelling lungs when we touch I, further out to sea You, loving nothing more than honey I, dream I am a bee Golden drenched, light, floating to your lips Space between us disguised as a kiss I, forget it is a sting How strange it is Strangers again You, your heart beating faster around me I, Saturn’s rings

d e s ign b y k e n y o n ells wor th p h o t o s b y j o e f le s n e r & viv ian le

11

HANNAH SONG. artist, illustrator.

12

C O LO R I S C OL OR WAS

THE RED , WHI TE, AN D BLU E S

by bree jones I am of broken voices and colored faces Underprivileged, thriving in a land not my own, That is and isn’t.

Free yet imprisoned By a construct we call society, That they call emancipation, Proclamating equality, yet we are Perpetually blue-penciled by pallid-skinned blue bloods Beaten black and blue ‘Til black becomes red Anger to bloodshed, Streets become burial grounds, News forums steeples for black dead Making white-washed, No, brainwashed, minds misled Into believing violent retaliation Is our soul salvation As biased laws prolong black incarceration— A system of cynicism Built upon a predilection for conviction, My country ‘tis of thee theoretically But how can I pledge allegiance To a country I am deemed a felon in, All due to the shade of my melanin?

13

photo by m ary m athis

I ’ L L S PIL L M Y GUTS by julia rohn

I’ll spill my guts to you: I have a deep purple pain through this particular Cavity, captivating me, study, observe, pardon me, I’m fine.

I have a flair for creatures crawling under skin itching, inching, scratch remold my molecules. So my mind won’t meander with forgotten meaning, long ago misconstrued.

I’m weak, a slow learner, slow, slowly she walks.

Down a street cased beforehand, blind to violation, cold creation.

The would-be savior; those who lure and keep her from lace curtains bellowing to blue Eyes watching worming holes in flesh.

They wait want weigh your words never passing inspection. You’re missing something indefinable.

So simple you forget the name; its existence debatable.

Cases called and overturned. See me look at me gaze on me and I’ll spill my guts to you.

design by k enyon ells w o r t h

14

15

ANGE R DOK p h o t o s b y m a r y m athis

16

icon accidental AN INTERVIEW WITH CULTURAL INFLUENCER LYN SLATER BY JENNA LARSON

desi g n by k enyon ell s wo r t h

17

Q: Where did you grow up? Did you go to college? Where did you go, and what was that like?

A: I grew up in a suburb about 20 minutes north of NYC. I went to a small all-girls college in the early 70s when there were social movements that served to empower women, and my school was already about producing intellectually strong and critically-thinking women. Despite going on and getting two Masters and a Ph.D., I never again experienced that level of intellectual rigor.

Q: Did you have any life-changing experiences that led you to what you’re doing today?

A: That is hard to answer because I have always had an experimental and curious approach to life and learning. What I am doing now is not any different than what I have always done, it is just a different venue. I think the important learning here is that you do not need a life changing experience to follow your passion or reinvent yourself. If you are a lifelong learner and experimenter than you can’t predict what your path will be and you remain open to opportunities you would never have thought of.

i

h ave

a lways

had

an

@iconaccid ental

Q: What trends do you love and what trends do you want to come out of style?

experimental

A: I love all fashion and do not have a preference for a particular style. I choose my garments as if I was assembling a collection. I have been around long enough to know that trends and styles have repetitive cycles and will leave and come back again

and

Q: What are your plans for the future? Where do you see yourself taking your fashion career?

c

u

r

i

o

ap p ro a c h

L

I

F

u

s t o

E

A: I really do not have any long term plans. Because technology change happens really quickly and what was working six months ago is probably not going to work now.

My stance is to do my research, put myself into the space I want to be in which is fashion and see what comes my way.

When I first started I could never have imagined what has happened to me, so I just make sure I am prepared physically, mentally and emotionally to take advantage of opportunity.

18

ARTISTRY OF OPH TH AL MO L O G Y

BY STEPHON BERRY 19

d esign by kenyon el l sw o rth

THE ESSENCE OF YOUTH IS INFINITE POTENTIAL, though few children first dream of being scientists. Most of us imagined ourselves as paramedics, firemen, astronauts, movie stars, Wonder Women or Supermen. We wanted the power to bring people back from the brink of death, walk through fire, fly to the moon, single-handedly beat up forty bad guys, slay a dragon, and maybe even be one (no one’s judging). We wanted to save the day, to be superhuman.

At our cores, we wanted what many of us are taught to internalize as children and learn to give up on as adults -- the power to be whatever we want.

Enter scientists: adults who refuse to abandon their childish dreams. For me, the desire to pursue science was a combination of wanting to control metal with my mind like Magneto and watching my grandfather slowly lose his memory and life to cancer. The former I’d attempted to accomplish as a 10-year-old. I took apart my mom’s speakers for their magnets, crushed them up, and put them in the lining of a winter glove. It didn’t accomplish much more than moving a few iron nails around on a table, but to this day I haven’t given up on my dreams of being Magneto. The latter event has placed me on a journey to research alternatives to organ donation for otherwise terminal patients.

EN T E R S C I E N T I S TS: ADULTS WHO REFUSE

TO A B AN D ON T HE IR

CH ILD IS H D R E A M S .

Enter 3D printing, Induced Pluripotent (IP) stem cell research, and Dr Kristan Worthington, a lively woman with an awkward charm and brilliant mind, and a salient example of an adult who has retained her childish essence. A conversation with her is a foray into a world where the superhuman is not uncommon. The focus of the research I perform under Dr. Worthington is toward the restoration of eyesight in those whose worlds are slowly being phased out.

This deterioration in vision quality is most often due to macular degeneration. Dr. Worthington’s work combats this by regenerating and devising a method for best delivering specialized neurons, called photoreceptors, into the eyes.

Photoreceptors (specifically cones) make up the fovea, a part of the macula, and allow our eyes to convert light into signals that our brains can interpret as an image. Loss of function in these neurons is often a contributing factor in age-related macular degeneration (AMD).

To combat macular degeneration, a skin biopsy is taken from a patient and induced to become stem cells that are capable of becoming many different specialized cells.

These are later differentiated into photoreceptors for transplant into the patient’s eye. The delivery method is a 3D-printed structure designed by Dr. Worthington and Jessica Thompson that helps orient the photoreceptors so they intercept incoming light. And voila! The restoration of sight. Sounds easy, but it’s damn difficult. Optimizing the parameters for printing the 3D structure alone has taken months. Yet, we’re still working at it with the same fervor. We see potential. Perhaps one of the most exciting projects involves using 3D-printed cell templates to induce differentiation in IP stem cells toward a specialized cell.

This is a step in the direction of 3D printing fully functional organs for transplant. As an added bonus, the stem cells coming from the patient themselves minimizes the chances of their body rejecting the resulting organ. Life-saving procedures currently out of reach for those lacking resources would be far more accessible. If this cell templating technique were to work, even 3D printing cells for an entirely new heart could be possible. A foolish venture?

Maybe. Hubristic? Definitely. But what else would you expect of overgrown children?

20

T H E B EA TLES LADY

BY JULIA POSKA photos by vivia n le

Seated before a wall covered in photos of Liverpool, the “Fab Four” themselves smiling down on her from a poster above, the University of Iowa’s own “Beatles Lady” Dr. Donna Parsons insists that people who say they want to be her don’t know what they’re talking about.

“I don’t think they realize how much time and energy I spend on teaching, on research, and how intertwined they are,” Parsons said.

“I never stop working. You may have an hour or two here and there – but it’s constantly reading, listening, watching, going to conferences,

21

listening to presentations, giving presentations, wandering around London, Liverpool, and other cities. There really is no time off.”

In defense of those envious individuals, does that really sound so bad?

As her former student and current undergraduate research mentee, I know Donna pretty well and can confirm her life is way too cool. The flood of recent invitations she has received to speak at international conferences and publish books on her unique research seem to suggest that others think so too.

e

v

e

r

y

t

h

i

n

g

i’ve done has opened the door to a Donna has made a career of studying and teaching about her greatest passions – most notably, The Beatles. A diehard fan since her older brother first introduced them to her, she has always been obsessed with “her boys.”

Her first distinct Beatles memory is writing her favorite song on a yellow circle of construction paper for a bulletin board at school. Fourth grade Donna had been grooving to “Yellow Submarine,” and added “by The Beatles” in all caps to let her classmates know exactly who was responsible for that hit.

From there, her fandom grew as her love for Paul, Ringo, George, and especially John “cut to the core” of her being. The young student who educated her classmates on The Beatles and their yellow submarine would grow up to teach her own course at the University of Iowa called “World of The Beatles,” first offered in 2004.

In order to better understand the band and their legacy, Donna buys a lot of Beatles memorabilia for academic purposes. “It’s probably enough for a down payment on a house, and then some.”

During our interview, Donna showed me one particularly exciting piece of memorabilia she recently got her hands on – an original score of “Yesterday” from Beatles producer George Martin, one of only 500 in the world. She purchased it for $350.

Nearly fifty years since their breakup, material on The Beatles is still in demand and Donna supplies it gladly. One would think that after such a long time there wouldn’t be anything new to say, but Donna’s digging still turns up treasure. She says the importance of continuing to study the band’s legacy lies in the way The Beatles completely transformed the landscape of popular music.

“It’s one thing to be musical icons of their generation – but think about the impact that they had. It’s as monumental as that of Beethoven,” she beamed. “And so you study their music, you study their story, and it helps you understand why and how they were, and are, a defining element of not just popular music, but culture.”

Through her research, Donna is able to academically speculate what the music scene today would look like without The Beatles – something she still can hardly imagine.

“You think about the formidable Lennon/McCartney songwriting partnership and it’s because of John and Paul that we lost that division between those who wrote songs and who performed, because now musicians were expected to write their own music,” she said. “So would The Rolling Stones have happened? Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, would they have written?”

When she began her career, Donna had no idea that her favorite band would become the subject of her life’s work. She got her undergraduate degree in piano performance, intending to be a voice coach. When she couldn’t quite figure out how to reach that goal, she pursued an interdisciplinary Ph.D. in music and literature.

She first studied women’s musical lives through the literature of the Brontës, examining how their novels dealt with female artistry. “That’s where it started,” she says, “but everything I’ve done has opened the door to a brighter, more wondrous world.”

That world, apparently, is “A World of The Beatles,” in which Donna is paid to conduct research on and teach her favorite topics. Though Donna still teaches courses on music and literature – the two focuses of her Ph.D. – she does so in rather different contexts than when she first started teaching.

From “World of The Beatles” stemmed “Issues in Popular Music: Women Who Rock,” the class where I first met Donna. In that course she lectures on female musicians of the 20th and 21st centuries, who often go unrecognized for their contributions, opening students’ eyes to a whole new perspective on the music industry. She also teaches the wildly popular “Harry Potter and the Quest for Enlightenment” course, which she conceptualized after reading “Harry Potter and The Sorcerer’s Stone” for research on a children’s literature survey course.

Each class opening a door to another – Donna built a career out of her greatest passions. “I guess it was just a natural progression.”

After the interview, Donna and I discuss our own research project a bit.

We confirm our regular Friday afternoon appointment before she asks about my classes (mixed reviews), my health (better), and my family (oh boy). “The Beatles Lady” may love the subjects of her studies deeply, but to anyone who gets to know her, it’s obvious that she cares about her students even more.

brighter, more

wondrous

world.

22

ROOMMATE

R O R R HO STORIES by ma r y wa l z

HOW I LEARNED

HAPPY BIRTHDAY

(A COLLECTION OF LIES TOLD ABOUT ME)

(A SIMILAR STORY, NOT MY OWN)

I AM MAGIC -- I ripped up her sheets and pillow cases with a letter opener (I don’t even own a letter opener; scissors would have made more sense).

-- I broke two crosses and persecuted her for her religion (she was Catholic; I went to a Catholic school for eight years).

-- I threatened to kill her on social media by cutting her up. (Woah. No way, check all my accounts. Follow me on Instagram: @mary_walz.

Also, was this threat also to be carried out with a letter opener?)

-- I demonize her (no comment) -- I live a double life (yes, I am Hannah Montana, thanks for outing me).

23

-- Living with me was causing her to go blind (Do I have magic powers I am unaware of? If so, where was the Hogwarts letter I waited for when I was 11?)

HERE’S YOUR BAIL MONEY -- His ex snuck into his dorm room (and already had enough times to get in trouble with Housing & Dining.)

-- She stole: his sheets, his laptop, his backpack, and his condoms.

(His condoms??)

-- She was reported to the police. (He recovered his possessions. Most importantly the condoms.)

-- She went to jail. (Woah.)

-- Her mom had to bail her out on her birthday. (Happy birthday?)

-- He never saw her again, just came back one night and found all of her things gone. illu s t r a t io n b y k e n y o n ells wor th

ICE F ISH ING by grace oeth

Love is ice fishing it seems difficult and I have never tried it

des ig n by s uri hua n g

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MONSTROSITY

BY JAYME BIGGER

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WHEN I WAS IN THE FIFTH GRADE, the small oil distribution company my dad worked for was experiencing a shortage of truck drivers. Even though his official title was “maintenance,” my dad was forced to make a bi-weekly delivery that required him to stay overnight in a hotel four hours away. Every other Thursday for several months, I would come home from school to my grandma at the house making dinner.

One night when my dad was gone, I was having difficulty sleeping.

I usually kept my door closed so the hallway lights wouldn’t bother me, but my sister Darsea was in my room for the night, and she preferred to sleep with the bathroom light on. She was sound asleep and nestled into a ball of blankets on the floor. Black hair spilled over her pillow, and a dark spot had formed on the carpet from the drool leaking from her mouth. I closed my eyes. Muffled voices from Grandma’s late night soap operas nearly lulled me to sleep.

“No, I’m not leaving!” Grandma suddenly shouted from the living room.

I sat up and glanced over at Darsea. She hadn’t stirred. I jumped to my feet and ran down the hallway to the living room. Grandma stood in the middle of the room, facing the hallway. Turned away from me was another person I couldn’t identify from the back.

“Leave,” commanded the figure.

“Mom?” Both of them turned to look at me. My mother’s usually blue eyes were black, and spikes of blonde hair poked out of her messy ponytail. “What are you doing here?”

The police arrived and assessed the situation. Despite the fact that my parents have been separated for the majority of my life, the police stated that because they were legally still married, the house was just as much my mother’s as it was my father’s. This gave my mom the authority to decide who could and couldn’t be inside. My grandma never learned to drive, so when she was told she had no option but to leave, she reluctantly asked the police officers to drive her home.

Darsea appeared in the hallway, rubbing her eyes. “Mom? Is that you?”

I looked at my sister. “She got Grandma kicked out,” I spat.

My mother clenched her jaw.

“What happened, Mom? Why are you here?”

Her eyes narrowed.

I pressed further, “Did another one of your boyfriends break up with you?”

She barreled toward me, making me flinch. Her hands wrapped around my neck, pinning me to the wall. “You don’t talk to me like that!” Her grip got tighter. I couldn’t breathe. I struggled to keep my toes pressed to the floor. I begged her to let go, but I couldn’t open my jaw to speak. I looked my mother straight in the eyes.

Her expression was one of disgust and determination. Terrified, I clawed at her fingers, but they didn’t budge.

Finally, after several seconds that felt like minutes, I heard my sister scream, “Stop it, Mom! You’re going to kill her!”

“This is my home,” she snarled at me through gritted teeth.

My mother let go.

“This is Dad’s house, and he left Grandma in charge.”

My mother turned her head, dismissing me. She took two steps toward Grandma. “You heard me! Get out, or I’m calling the cops.”

I sucked in quick, deep breaths as my lungs pleaded for oxygen.

“Go to bed,” she demanded.

Petrified, I did as I was told.

Grandma’s hands were balled up into fists at her sides. “You’re going to have to call the cops. I’m supposed to be here, you’re not. I’m not leaving!”

My mother produced a phone from her pocket and pounded her thumbs on the glowing numbers of the keypad. “Yes, I’m going to need an officer to come to my house. I repeatedly asked my mother-in-law to leave, but she refuses.”

She rattled off our address.

My mother sat in silence until the police arrived. I interrogated her, trying to understand why she continuously fazed out with periods of no contact with our family, and why she was unexpectedly at our house that night. She didn’t respond.

The next morning, I trudged to school. Shortly after I arrived, I was pulled into a conference room in the office to answer a phone call from my dad. I was nervous to give him the details about last night with the school secretary on the other side of the wall, but I knew that my dad could help, so I told him what happened. Per my dad’s instructions, I repeated the story to my teacher, and again to my principal. I wasn’t allowed to go outside for recess, or walk home after school. At the end of the school day, I was escorted to the entrance by an adult, where my dad was waiting for me after ending his day early.

My dad stopped going out of town for work.

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TH E V ALUA BLE HI PS TER TR END ( A C T U A L L Y)

BY C LAIRE HARMEYER

THERE’S SOMETHING SPECIAL ABOUT HEARING MUSIC ON VINYL. You hold your breath while you slowly lower the needle onto the shiny black plastic, hoping to God that you don’t scratch your newest prized possession. As soon as it touches the surface, a pleasant crackle comes to life, warming the room like the first flame in a fireplace, and you exhale.

The beginning notes of Angel Olsen’s “Intern” trill through the air and you smile, content knowing that you can sit back and listen to an entire album without connecting to WiFi or having the song interrupted by the ding of a text message. The music will just play – plain and simple, timelessly beautiful.

Owning a record player qualifies you as a true music lover. You’ve not only invested in a thing, but in a hobby. Buying a record player means you are willing to go out into the streets and sift through record stores, hunting for a hidden gem to adopt forever. You’re willing to do more than lay on your couch and click a button that adds a song to your library. I understand the convenience of collecting all of your music in one place you can take anywhere you go. I can’t say I don’t do the same thing – for road trips, long walks, working out, and sharing playlists with my friends – we are living in 2017, after all. But record players are a unique item that create a feeling that just cannot be replicated by phones or laptops.

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Vinyl collections are curated specifically to your taste – they exhibit the music you loved enough to buy for 25 dollars.

They’re the albums that you know every single song on.

They’re a stack of your favorite artists and bands lying on top of one another, sheathed in unique covers, ready to perform for you. With record players, you learn to appreciate the entire album, because you don’t hit the skip button when the intro gets too long; you sit back and let the record run its course, hearing the intricacies and nuances of each track.

There is a feeling of nostalgia that comes along with buying a used record on vinyl. You know that a stranger held that cardboard in their hands, slid the plastic disc out of its slot and sang along to every word. You know that you will soon do the same. You can eventually pass your collection down to your kids, or your sister’s kids, or whoever needs a dose of music education. Vinyl collections are enduring entities.

v i n y l c o l l e c t i o n s are

enduring e

n

t

i

t

i

e

s

Sure, they’re not as loud as a Boom Jacket Speaker, and EDM doesn’t sound quite right blaring through them, but for more intimate gatherings where candles are lit and banana bread is baked, they’re the loveliest addition. Or, if you want to curl up in bed with a cup of tea and your most recent issue of Rolling Stone, they fit that mood pretty perfectly too. You could say that they romanticize life.

In a world where few people still print pictures or make home videos on discs, where memories are marked in a digital space and playlists are erased and forgotten over time, invest in something tangible. Create a collection that you will have for the rest of your life – a collection that represents who you have been and hope to be. Let your records take you back in time to each place and person that you were when you listened to them. Vinyl collections are not just old-school, they’re classic.

T H E Y ROM A N T I C I Z E

L

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I C E L AN D

BY M A R Y M AT H I S 29

30

31

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UNS E TT L E D by na dia l oeppk e

d es i gn b y k eny on ells wor th

she had an unsettled soul one that craved adventure whether in books or on a plane she fed off wonder She liked to wander and discover places within herself she’d never known They said she’d settle eventually but they didn’t know she was made of the air itself never staying in one place for very long

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GOOD GRIEF b y ame e n a c ha udhry

I read a book about a crow who helps children with dead parents.

I wonder why no one ever covered me in black feathers ever told me

fight for three days

cry for a week, then

sprinkle the ashes and move the hell on. my grief looks more like the back end of a house fire the back door of a church the backside of the wrong man. mostly hoping you aren’t actually watching everything from up there. because what an invasion of privacy. without any fowl, any claws teaching me to bend my hands in ways that will mourn you I’ve been improvising for eleven years.

I swear off happiness, put my heart in my throat for safekeeping, and still leak pure joy most days. still think that at the end of the day, I’ll sit beside you maybe light a smoke with you say,

how could I be sad

when I had a dad like you?

i l l ustration by ela ine ir vine

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GIRL GONE WILD WORKFORCE

BY PHILIP RUNIA

35CONTENT WARNING: This piece includes a description of sexual assault.

I WAS LATE to my interview with Sloan*. The delay was an issue – “I was ready at two,” she said. The gritty memories of the porn industry needed emotional preparation to tell, and Sloan had been ready fifteen minutes prior. Having thought about the interview for a few days, she knew that reliving that situation was going to hurt; dealing with a mental illness and working in the porn industry are two heavily stigmatized identities in today’s society. With a little more time to prepare, her dogs around her, and a few sips of wine, Sloan began her story.

When asked why she wanted to enter the porn industry, Sloan’s answer surprised me, “I wasn’t actually interested in it, I was tricked into it.” After a familial fracture which involved her parents forcing her into a psychiatric facility, and a false diagnosis of bipolar disorder, Sloan dropped out of high school and found comfort in Minnesota, where she began nude modeling. It was artistic, nothing pornographic, “the kind you print on canvas and put in galleries, that kind of thing.” Soon after, her personal life started to crumble and she found herself alone without a place to stay. Looking for modeling gigs and not finding any, Sloan was losing hope.

Then came the email from an agent in Miami, offering ten thousand dollars for a nude shoot. The money, of course, sounded great to a 20-year-old sleeping in her car. Once she arrived, the agent picked her up from the airport, and she was taken to a luxury condo on the beach for the photoshoot. Sloan knew what to expect from modeling shoots: a team of makeup artists, stylists, and photographers. However, the only person in the condo was a middle-aged man, which she found strange. “You don’t have any idea why you’re here, do you?” he asked. She told him that she was scheduled for a nude photo shoot. He replied, “Yeah, that’s part of it.” Sloan went on to describe the man going to a freezer, getting liquor, and taking her to the patio to talk.

After a few drinks of Jägermeister, Sloan was coerced into bed with the man. Drunk and vulnerable, Sloan’s first pornographic video was shot without her consent. “To this day, I can’t drink Jägermeister. It disgusts me. I woke up hours later on the bathroom floor with barely any memory of what happened.” The agent took all of her money and Sloan was stuck with nowhere to go but with him.

I WALKED OFF THE SET

AND NEVER

went back.

Dishonesty is a trademark of her story. In the porn industry, there is a lot of “trickery, rape, sexual assault, [and] agents taking advantage of models,” according to Sloan. “I’m sure there are women who go into it willingly, but as far as me, it wasn’t. I chose it eventually, but I didn’t seek it out. I didn’t have family at that point. No friends. I decided at that point that that was my life.”

The adult film industry comes under fire for a lot of things, but not enough for the treatment of its workers. Sloan’s advice is just not to get involved, no matter how much money is offered, nor privacy promised. “People will find out, I guarantee it.” She describes sex work as a dent in life’s path that is very emotionally, verbally, and physically abusive. Money doesn’t keep, especially when your job is based upon the way you look. Sloan wants to make sure people don’t place blame upon themselves. “I guarantee you 99 percent of the time, if someone is leaving the industry it’s because they do not want to be part of it anymore. People do not get kicked out. It will find a way to draw you back in if it can. Don’t be afraid to reach out, be strong-willed, and put your foot down.

Don’t let them suck you back in, because they’ll try.”

Sloan traveled around the country to make films, but when sent to California, her mental illness caught up with her. She realized her misdiagnosed bipolar disorder was actually severe anxiety and depression. Sloan recalled painful moments where she would

*Name has been changed to preserve anonymity ph otos by m a r y m at his desi g n by kenyon ellswor t h

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RTING FRESH BACK HOME-STARTING FRESH SHE WAS BACK HOME-STARTING FRESH SHE WAS BACK HOME-STARTING FRESH ME-STARTING SHE WASFRESH BACKSHEHOME-STARTING FRESH STARTING FRESH WAS BACK HOME-STARTING FRESH STARTING FRESH STARTING FRESH S BACK HOME-STARTING FRESH SHE WAS BACK HOME-STARTING FRESH TING FRESH

have to stop filming because she would burst into tears, only to be reprimanded by a heartless videographer. “It was, ‘suck it up, or we’ll replace you with someone else.’

But then you lose the money, and get in trouble with the agent.” After hiring a new agent and creating her own life plan, she walked away. “I mean, I literally walked away.

I walked off the set and never went back. There’s a stigma out there that the porn industry is all of this glitz, glam, beautiful women and sex, and [that’s] not even remotely close to what it actually is.”

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STARTING FRESH

country. She made it almost all the way through boot camp, physical trials and all, until a ghost from her past began to haunt her yet again.

Sloan’s family had wanted nothing to do with her after they found out about the films. She realized that the producers of her films had linked her real name to them – again, without her consent.

“I didn’t make it through boot camp because of my psychological past with the psych ward that I had been committed to. That came up, and they didn’t allow me to continue. It took some healing after that, too, because I knew exactly who to blame. It wasn’t my choice to be committed, but the Navy doesn’t care about that.” Feeling alone in the world, Sloan decided to reach out to her father, who became understanding of all that had happened. Her mother, though, still tells people that her daughter is dead.

Still rebuilding her relationship with her siblings, Sloan is slowly regaining her sense of family.

To start anew, Sloan moved back to Minnesota. In her place of new beginnings, making a home wasn’t as easy as she had assumed. Getting a job was difficult, as her name was still linked to her former films, and she was once fired after her boss discovered her past. “If you Googled my name, that’s the first thing that you’d see.” The attorney Sloan was dating at the time served as her representation in a court process to change her name. She went before a judge and explained to the courtroom why it needed to be changed. The judge granted the request without question.

On her new identity, Sloan says, “I picked a name that had to do with being a warrior. I got through everything.”

After a breakthrough job offer, Sloan left the sex industry for good to become a personal trainer in Chicago. Golf became a relaxing pastime, and dogs proved to be more loyal companions than humans. After a boating accident that left her ankle broken and her life in a rut, Sloan decided that after her recovery, she would move to Florida. Sloan lived there up until this interview. After discussing her former life with me and detailing all of the trials she overcame, Sloan made the decision to move back to Minnesota, which had been a long-time comfort to her. She had been thinking about moving for a while and decided that it was time after we spoke.

After being rejected from the workforce for so long, Sloan turned to the military. Proud of herself for fighting through her own battles, she felt resilient and ready to serve her

Once she was settled, I received a call from her, just a few days after the interview. I heard hope in her voice now that she was back in Minnesota: her place of new beginnings.

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JOSHUA DE LANOIT. visual artist, filmmaker.

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A M OT HER’ S TOUCH by jennie wonderlin

I. You tug my wrist over to the kitchen sink, Squeezing liquid soap into my mouth.

I spit it back.

You tell me to watch what I say, And that my tongue is too sharp.

I swore by those words.

II. A small bump forms on my middle finger On the spot where my pencil rests naturally, fearful I show you.

You smile, Because you have the identical marking.

It’s a sign of creativity, you believe.

We were alike.

III. In the crack of the sidewalk, A tree starts to sprout.

I tell you to cut it down, As I show you the shallow scratches on my leg.

You nurture its roots.

We remain.

IV. Over a plate of lasagna, Your life veers elsewhere.

You, reborn Young Callow

Naïve

I do not know you.

I am certain I never knew you.

I have lost you.

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illu s t r a t io n b y k e n y o n e lls wor th

F L I G HT 5081 by elaine irvine

How to figure a love When a spine sits on a stump like a seesaw Facing cancellations Instead of recent departures It is impossible to determine the difference Between a fly and a wasp When one is hurdling toward your face and you just spent Five minutes watching a wasp whizz about your window Contemplating a buckle to temptation Or tolerating another absence works best Do sailors have an end of the line The same way subway conductors do Take a rest, look out a window Toward an object assuredly unmapped The same way hands feel with other hands And bodies feel one on top of an other To figure a contradictory pleasant With a melancholy hopeful The same way lawn mowers sound like cellos A few hours after the rain stops

i l l ustrati on by a nnalise ca stro

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I M P U L S E

BY ANANYA MUNJAL 1. Our brains send pulses of electrical energy around our bodies, signals telling us what we see, what we feel, if we are hungry, angry, excited.

In biology these signals are called “impulses.” There are ways to wire a brain; continually firing the same impulses creates nerve pathways that allow us to think quickly, create motor movements, predict habits.

2. I imagine these pathways mirroring the trail from your house to mine, north on Gilbert Street, left onto Market, right on Linn.

A trail of your footprints indenting the soft matter of my brain.

3. In kindergarten, my parents signed me up for piano lessons. We couldn’t afford a piano, so my mother printed a picture of a keyboard onto eight-and-a-half by eleven-inch paper. My small fingers would practice the week’s lesson on the paper, tapping enthusiastically on the paper as if enough energy would elicit sound from the ebony printer ink.

Impulse: a driving or motivating force, an urge or desire to act.

4. You leave mints in my jacket pockets that I find running down the stairs, waiting in line, while pumping gas. The spearmint is cool against my tongue, the air cool against my face. I imagine your red cheeks, windblown hair.

5. I wear the wrong coat and all day I think, we are not ourselves. I have stopped dodging mirrors; you twirl me in the glow of the open refrigerator.

6. Physics lecture: An impulse is the effect of a force acting on a body over time.

7. I think it in the shower and again at the pharmacy: of all the years, we exist together. I hold on to you at twenty, would have chased you at nine, caught you at thirty-six. Ours can be candlelit whiskey or store-brand Windex, it does not matter.

8. I evaluate our silhouette, quiet on twinkling snow, our shadows merging into one. I consider the strength of hydrogen bonds, how tightly water molecules hold on to one another to keep from being torn apart.

9. We wait for the snow to fall and the storm to pass, for dinners, champagne, seemingly mundane. I wait for your damp socks by the fire next to mine, my head coming home to your shoulder, our knees’ charged reunion. An impulse is the effect of a force acting on a body over time.

10. I am watching ice crack under your boots, your long stride. Our breath mingling in clouds above us reminds the stratosphere of our humanness. You reach for my hand and tuck it into your own pocket.

11. It is winter and I am warm.

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i l l ustration by ela ine ir vine

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BY JAIMESON HICKLIN de si g n by ann a le s s m a n & k e n y o n e lls w o r t h

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IMAGINE THIS: you’re sitting at a coffee shop, and two men next to you are having a conversation. Nothing out of the ordinary, really, just some guys chatting over a cappuccino and discussing what the day will bring. One of the men is Spanish and the other Italian, both are speaking and responding in their respective mother tongues. They don’t speak each other’s languages, yet their conversation is fluid.

Alone in that cafe in Italy, I began to wonder what this meant about the way we communicate as we navigate the world’s differences.

Growing up in the Midwest, I was raised speaking only English.

The concept of learning a new language always fascinated me.

With thousands of existing languages in the world, knowing more than one opens doors through which we can express our own individual identities. Like many others, I studied Spanish throughout high school to alleviate the language requirements for college. But despite my best efforts to come up with realistic strategies to tackling this new language, learning it straight out of a textbook just didn’t click with me. Really, what sounds captivating about memorizing a ton of random words just to cram for vocabulary tests?

Everything changed after I graduated high school, when I left my familiar Iowan pond to venture into the unknown Sicilian sea.

Finding out I had the summer to introduce myself to an entirely new language, I knew I was screwed (but determined). Booking it to the library, I used the only strategy I knew from class, subsequently checking out as many CDs and audiobooks that I could find. I tried my best to retain as much Italian as I possibly could, and for a second I thought I had a grasp of the language. Once I stepped off the plane,though, it dawned on me that worshiping Italian for Dummies for three straight months stood no chance of adequately preparing me for the challenges I would soon encounter.

I reached the airport in Sicily with my passport in one hand and a pocket phrasebook in the other, only being able to say “Ciao,” count to ten, and say that I was hungry. The first couple of months in Sicily were incomprehensible to say the least. I started attending a linguistics school, where I realized that not only could I not understand anything, but that people had no grasp of what I was saying either. As a result, I found myself in many sticky situations.

Even holding the emphasis on a word’s consonant can completely change the meaning in Italian. Imagine a foreign exchange student running around at a New Year’s Eve party, cheering “buon ano!” (happy anus) instead of “buon anno!” (happy new year). Fortunately, my peers empathized with me as they watched me take these little, agitating errors and turn them into motivation.

I constantly searched for new ways to improve my language skills so I could actually get to know the people around me. This time around, I was able to get a little creative since I wasn’t limited to a classroom.

Running around to different cities’ piazzas with friends, meeting locals at coffee shops, and getting involved within the community, I began to notice the many unique ways people interact with each other. People tend to speak in regional dialects, which can even vary between city and generation. Despite the prominent language barrier, I started mentoring students at a volunteer-organization for children with special needs for a few months as well. Recognizing that speaking the language isn’t always necessary to communicate either, because for some, verbalizing may not even be an option.

I didn’t realize how accustomed I grew to the languages I was studying until I saw these two men conversing in completely different languages.

Initially having a delayed reaction, it probably looked like I was having a vision in “That’s So Raven” when it finally registered in my mind. It definitely wasn’t unusual for my teachers to give lessons in whatever language we were studying, and everyone would respond in Italian.

But, these two men spoke completely different languages, yet somehow still had a casual, lighthearted conversation.

Those two men illustrated the mosaic of what intercultural communication can be. A lot of the same, unique methods of interaction occur here in the states too, which go unnoticed because it’s just a natural part of our lives. Even within small-town Iowan communities, it’s definitely not uncommon to drive past someone on a rural road and recieve a “farmer’s salute.” We live in a society centered around diversity and creativity, representing a remarkable variety of backgrounds, passions, personalities, and points of view. Just recognizing the many facets of communication introduces myriad opportunities to create deeper, more profound connections.

hola ?

!

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