FOURTEENTH street The Baggage Issue: Catholic guilt, cheating lovers and finally losing "it."
April 2012
FOURTEENTH ST.
contents
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Fourteenth St. goes to NYC to meet a man whose home tells a story. The implications of losing your virginity (or not) in a sexy society.
People of Philadelphia show us what's inside their bags. Cat food? What your lousy hometown says about you, whether it's fair or not. Michele Aweeky complains about the baggage of our generation. Abandoned by the most important men in their lives: their fathers. Colin Saltry shares the baggage he was born with: Catholic Guilt.
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FOURTEENTH street Contributors, and our baggage
Editor-In-Chief Dana Ricci
Allergic to most (good) food.
Editor-In-Chief Kelsey Doenges
Resists technology.
Publisher Caitlin Weigel
Obsessive planner.
FROM THE EDITOR
B
Afraid of knives.
Photo Editor Grace Dickinson
Can't make decisions.
Designer Brie DiGiovine-Florence Has a weird toe.
Editors Elise Bowder
Commitment phobe.
Becky Kerner Chronic spiller.
Meghan White
Third grade...leather pants.
Contributing Writers Michele Aweeky, Colin Saltry, Cary Carr, Kathryn Valilee Contributing Photographers Angelo Fichera, Kate McCann, Chris Loupos, Michael Minkin
SPECIAL THANKS TO
Marissa Harven, Ben Hyclak, Kelly Livezey, Lauren Coone
Fourteenth Street is sponsored by the Temple University Journalism Department. For questions or comments, please contact Professor Laurence Stains (Divorced. Twice.) at lstains@temple.edu.
-DANA RICCI Editor-In-Chief
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right red and buckled around my waist, it used to carry everything I’d need for weeks at a time. Armed with extra socks, a rolled-up pair of jeans, wrinkled t-shirts and a jar of peanut butter, my backpack became the perfect companion to all of my oh-so typical adventures through Europe; it would even serve as a decent pillow those few nights I spent sleeping in airports. Now, weekly, it’s filled with quarts of yogurt, mesh sacks of oranges and vacuum-sealed packages of chicken sausage links. Once my fellow adventurer, now my backpack’s main function is as a grocery cart. No longer does it give me the satisfaction of seeing how little I could lug around and still be sustained. Now it’s just heavy, weighing me down on my bike and bringing me back to the reality that I am no longer a wayfarer. The word “baggage” has the ability to conjure up images of illegitimate children and unsigned divorce papers when it’s used anywhere but in an airport. In reality though, baggage is anything you carry - anything you end up stuck with in a way. It can be debt, an illness, an ex you’ll never quite get over, a painful reminder of the way things once were, a promise to yourself you proudly keep, a lesson learned from another time. This issue of Fourteenth Street is for anyone with baggage – and let’s face it, it’s likely we’ve all got something to bear. It’s for those of us accompanied by the weight of something else wherever we go - be it to another continent, the grocery store, on a date or out for a jog. And while baggage can be a cumbersome burden, it’s there to carry part of us along and make us who we are.
Art Director Valerie Rubinsky
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TALK TO THE HAND I
Now I have a bright and happy future to worry about. By Kelsey Doenges | Illustration by Brie Digiovine-Florence sink down in the floral armchair while she sits down straight across from me. I feel strangely far away from Ms. Lena. I thought this was going to be a close, intimate reading. I don't understand how this psychic could even see the lines on my hands that would tell her everything about my future. Still, here I sit, palms up in the air, showing her everything I have to bear. In a thick accent I have yet to decide the origin of, she tells me to make two wishes and tell her one. Instinctively, I squeeze my eyes shut and take far too long to piece the words together. “I guess I wish for a… promising future? Is that a wish?” I say, adding dramatic pauses and unnecessary question marks at the end. As a senior graduating from college during these “hard, hard times,” I often have trouble sleeping. I toss and turn in my twin-sized bed until the fitted sheet that once clung to the corners of my mattress, snuggles up to my comforter and eventually the elastic snakes its way around my ankles. So I came to Ms. Lena’s Psychic Readings with the hopes that she could show me my future and I could rest
easy that night. She starts spewing out these words that instantly put my life into neat little boxes. A big move, where. A job opportunity at a nonprofit, a nonprofit. A suited husband, whatever that means. A happy family, well how big of a family? An apology from your father, what if I don’t want that. An acceptance within yourself, but I’m not ready. A bright and happy future, we can hope. She tells me the things about myself I never like to admit. A writer, well sometimes. A stubborn yet goodhearted person, alright, alright. A girl who isn’t really sure what she wants to do with her life, but I thought I was. I become hyper-aware of where the lines are and a tingly sensation runs up and down them as these words float in the air and land on the palms of my hands. I came here to know what to expect two days, two months, two years, and two decades from now. As the flowers on the cushion stick to the back of my legs, Ms. Lena tells me more about my life, and I want to tell her to stop. I don’t want to know. My hands have become so heavy. I came here to feel lighter. 2
STRAW HORSE MANURE
For Sale Straw horse manure. Pick up only. Great compost or fill.
TEN YEARS OF IKEA CATAOGUES
GET YOURSELF A LIST OF "NON-HAUNTED" HOUSES
For Free If you don’t judge me for having these, I won’t judge you for taking them. Useful if you buy or sell used IKEA stuff.
ASSURANCE MALE DIAPER SIMILAR TO DEPENDS $5
PHILLY'S GOT
THANKS FOR HERPES
BAGGAGE
and you can find it on Craigslist Craigslist may not be the only place to air your dirty laundry on the Internet, but it is one of the best – both literally and figuratively. You can curse the girl who gave you that STI and give away your creepy plush clown collection all on one website. With Philadelphia's tainted reputation, it’s little wonder that the city’s CL page would be filled with bizarre posts. By Meghan White
NASONEX NASAL SPRAY SAMPLE
HUGE TURTLE COLLECTION $20
For Free
Exp 2/2013. Please let me know when you will pick-up and I will leave it in a bag on the doorknob
For Sale I have a bunch of brand new unopened packs (52 per) of male and or female pads, adult diapers and half a box of depends ... asking 5 bucks per package...sell new for over 10... stock up and save ...
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Rants and Raves Thanks again tressa for the aweful disease you gave me. Here I am going through all this as you lay sound asleep with your new man. I just wanted to say thanks colombo for turning my life intro extreme hell.
Housing http://reaagency.showmetheinfo.net/ non-haunted-house/ email or call joseph leone, rea agency realty
HEY LADIES....
Rants and Raves What do you think of guys who clip their toenails and eat them? And yes I mean swallows them after they are done chompin’ away! Your opinion please, thanks!
For Sale 20 year collection. Mostly children items like stuffed animals and figurines.
LOST with you
S
His baggage became her baggage. True story.
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By Dana Ricci | Illustration by Brie Digiovine-Florence
ergio’s* girl!” the bartenders call out to Sara*, as she walks into the bar. Next to her stands a soccerjersey-clad gentleman, tall with tanned skin and a managed mess of black curls atop his head. Sergio’s. They say it because she is his and he is perfect: handsome with an adorable Brazilian accent and a way of making everyone around him instantly fall in love with him. The fact that he’s a decade older than Sara makes her feel safe. He even buys her groceries and does her laundry. They leave the bar and they’re back at his house. They spend the night wrapped in each other’s arms, pressed so closely that they can feel the slightest movements of their breathing. Sergio reaches around her back and cradles her body so she fits perfectly into his. His upper hand gently caresses the valley made by her waist as the two drift off into slumber. Later, it’s the spooning she will miss the most. “BEIJOS.” Kisses. Sara hears him say it before hanging up the phone. First he says that they’re just best friends, then he says that they dated, but when he met Sara he wanted nothing to do with this girl. Even when she calls him one morning and a woman’s voice answers, even when she starts finding earrings she doesn’t recognize around Sergio’s house, Sara doesn’t let it alter her image of their love. He tells Sara he wants to marry her, have babies with her – bold statements that suggest there isn’t room for another in Sergio’s heart. Sara’s parents don’t like the fact that Sergio is 10 years older than she is, or that he is an undocumented immigrant. “I know exactly his type,” her father tells her sternly. He must be married or cheating, he says. Her father won’t talk to her unless she stops seeing him, so Sara lies. It turns out, Sara’s father is right; Sergio
is married to a woman in Brazil where the two of them have a daughter together. While the story of his separation keeps changing – at first he says they’re divorced, then they’re still working on it – his far-away family is only the beginning of the long thread of drama and deceit that Sara is about to become entangled in. IT’S SARA AND SERGIO’S SIX-MONTH anniversary when a message pops up in her Facebook inbox from the woman he says beijos to. We need to talk, it says and is signed with a phone number. Sara calls her. The woman icily introduces herself as Sergio’s girlfriend, one that he has been with for the past two years. Sergio wants to start a family with her, she says, and he wants nothing to do with Sara. Suddenly, Sergio’s flakiness makes perfect sense: he would constantly blow off plans they had and would be unreachable for hours, often leaving Sara waiting around for him, left in a teary fit. This perfect guy she has, who all of her friends adore, who buys her groceries, who can make her world right with a gentle kiss on her forehead, is someone who she has built up on lies. Hysterical, Sara asks why this woman has stayed with him, knowing about Sara the whole time. Not to mention a wife back in Brazil. “Waiting it out a little,” she sighs, “Why are you crying? You need to calm down.” Sara and Sergio break up, but during the next five months they continue sleeping together. Sara is sneaking around, lying to her friends about her whereabouts. At this point, he’s no longer the favored boyfriend of the group. They can see how it’s slowly chipping away at her; she doesn’t laugh the same way or smile as much. Once carefree, now she’s always tense. By hanging on to him in this small way, Sara loses herself completely. Naked and lying together in the aftermath of one of their sneaky deeds, Sergio tells her he misses her. He tells her that he needs his girlfriend to use her legal immigration status
to help him get his daughter to come visit him in America. Once that’s settled they can be together again. He asks her to give him just two weeks to figure things out. Two weeks becomes months, months where she doesn’t think about what she’s doing to herself because thinking hurts too much. SARA FEELS SICK. UTI-LIKE SYMPTOms have been irritating her. Her test comes back positive for Chlamydia. She feels filthy. It’s as if the betrayal has manifested itself physically, leaving her ill. Tears streaming down her face, she calls Sergio. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” he exclaims. He blames Sara for it. He says that it’s all her fault for cheating on him, though she never did. In those months after their relationship ends, Sara forgets what it means to have self worth. Instead she clings to what she has left with Sergio and, in turn, ends up carrying his burden – his girlfriend who becomes pregnant with Sergio’s child, his immigration status, his family abroad, his rent payments that she has footed the bill for, his diseases. These all become her problems now, as she falls into a trap she feels she can’t get out of. Delusional, she’s not sure she wants to. “HE WAS A DRUG FOR ME. I COULDN’T get away…” Sara says, “I didn’t see how manipulative he was until afterwards.” Starting at a crawling pace, Sara began to dig herself out of the deep hole she had fallen into. She started seeing someone new, bringing her to the realization that Sergio is not the last man she’ll ever love. She learned to respect herself again and to never let herself go back down a similar path. Seeing how far she has come, how happy she is, she can’t help but allow her lips to curl into a satisfied smile as she lets out a content sigh of understanding. Carrying nothing from that year-long mistake, she can finally live. 2 * Names have been changed.
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In those months after their relationship ends, Sara forgets what it means to have self worth. Instead she clings to what she has with Sergio and, in turn, ends up carrying his burden.
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Open Door
Policy W
He's not just collecting, he's connecting with people.
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By Caitlin Weigel | Photo by Chris Loupos
ith its door flung open to Manhattan’s Seventh Street, Anthony Pisano’s home looks like an antiques store. Suitcases, old drums and dusty clocks are stacked from floor to ceiling as if the structure of the home itself is being stabilized by this random assortment. Brass hanging lamps with red lights dangle from the ceiling above books whose pages haven’t seen daylight in years, jewelry unworn, and pictures of a younger version of the man who lives here. During the course of two hours, more than a dozen people enter Pisano’s home. Most of them enter cautiously, sizing up the merchandise before pointing to a framed photo or an antique brass cash register and asking the price. And every time, a warm smile spreads across Pisano’s face as he prepares to engage in a dialogue that has become routine. “It’s not for sale. This is my home.” The immediate reaction of most visitors is quiet embarrassment. They attempt to bow out, mumbling their apologies as quickly as possible. But those who remain stunned for a moment, sure that the door was open and their entrance was not a misstep into a stranger’s home, are quickly ushered farther into the house. “Go all the way back!” Pisano calls to them, beckoning the bewildered further into his home, “Satisfy your curiosity!” And so they continue on through the railroad apartment, a mixture of curious strangers, return visitors with new friends in tow, and the occasional old neighborhood friend, coming to complain about the city’s changing community and the rumor of global warming. Though they were all drawn into the space by the globes and brass candlesticks,
they all stick around because of Pisano. WHEN ANTHONY PISANO IS LISTENING to someone, the corners of his mouth curl up slightly, forming an expectant smile. White stubble outlines his soft face and his hands move through the air, folding and unfolding as he talks about his home of thirty-two years. He is eager to share, eager to invite strangers in, eager to embrace the unfamiliar with a genuine rib-crushing, heart-melting hug. Pisano could best be described as a collector. Over the years, he’s collected numerous experiences – from living as a Sicilian transplant in New York, to working as a butcher aboard Luxury Cruise Liners, to opening a café with a 10-foot waterfall in the backyard – as well as many stories – like the time he accidentally bid on (and won) a box of old watch parts, or the summer he spent giving away 1,000 balloons, or the time a stranger fell asleep in his bed while exploring because she felt so at home. But the first thing most people notice is Pisano’s physical collection – the material objects that inhabit his home. It’s been an accumulation over the years – some pieces were picked up during his travels, others were just items he stumbled upon. The collection began with musical instruments but expanded to include anything of interest. The current mass of objects has accrued mostly as a result of time. Yet something separates Pisano from the usual collector – he does not curate his items, nor does he treat them with great delicacy. He does not see value in the object as a thing, but as a representation of something less tangible. “A lot of people don’t realize but this is all man-made. And when you think about it, my god. We’re so creative in doing all this. And
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these are hands of many, many people that made them, you know? Machines of course too…but the ideas and all. I mean, I have so many friends here in a way.” As he scans the room, he can cite the origin of each object. A photograph of a woman he dated, who passed away in her early twenties, stands next to a small rose pin as a reminder of her favorite flower. A small, simple ring that was acquired through a trade with a visitor sits next to his desk. Thin, elongated cubes of glass sit stacked on top of one another, their sides slightly sloping between the points of the corners – the remnants of a dismantled Park Avenue chandelier. At one point, Pisano had all the bars over his front windows removed. “I see that everybody’s in prison with all these gates. So I figure, I’m gonna take them down.” He’s had no trouble with vandalism or stealing (though the only thing he’s concerned about being stolen is his cat) and maintains that keeping
his door open to the world has only resulted in what he calls “beautiful experiences.” A woman with a long skirt and bright smile, who originally came in to ask the price of an ornate mirror in the window, now finds herself engrossed in a conversation with Pisano. She’s a Motown singer from Philadelphia and her afro sways back and forth as she nods along to Pisano’s story of his own musical experience. She makes plans to return with her manager on Monday and hear Pisano play piano. As she goes to leave, Pisano thanks her for coming and offers her a heartfelt “I love you.” She returns the words, imbuing them with more weight than most do when talking to a near-stranger, and takes her leave. In this way, Pisano is not a collector of objects as much as he is of people. And the objects in his home, instead of weighing him down and cluttering his life, make him more open to the outside world. The
human connection between Pisano and his guests, the brick-a-brak acting as a conduit, leaves both parties feeling renewed in their outlook on the human experience. Not every conversation has to be through a telephone, not every commute has to be accompanied by headphones, not every journey has to be from point A to point B. In between, there is a lot to be experienced. And Anthony Pisano is a reminder of that. As late afternoon approaches, Pisano moves from his office to a chair stationed in front of his home. He sits and watches the people rushing up and down the street while Frank Sinatra drifts into the street from the speakers in his home. And despite the evening chill, Pisano still keeps his door open, ready for whatever “beautiful experience” that may come his way next. 2
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when did you lose it? I
What it means to carry the almighty V card. By Becky Kerner | Illustrations by Valerie Rubinsky
having sex with a good friend simply so she could rid herself of this crippling label. Our conversation made me think: why was she so damn ashamed of being a 21-year-old virgin? When she was a teenager, she had opportunities to have sex but thought she’d be a slut if she did. Now that she was in college, she felt inexperienced and childlike because she hadn’t met someone worth her V card. And I realized something really shitty about American society: unless you’re in a serious relationship near the end of high school or beginning of college and can ‘break the seal’ with that person, you’re basically screwed. In our society, it’s almost as if we’re supposed to be both virgins and sluts. And therein lies the problem: that’s impossible. SO WE’RE TALKING ABOUT VIRGINITY and sex. But what is sex, anyway? Unfortunately, if your life depended upon defining the word, you’d be S.O.L. – because there is no one term for it. It’s vaginal, it’s oral, it’s anal. Hell, there may even be other styles. For a greater portion of the population, vaginal intercourse would be the assumed acceptable answer, but what about the GLBT community? With all these meanings, we start to see the definition of sex expand into the unknown. And if we don’t know what sex is, how do we know what virginity is? We’ve also seen an increased tendency toward casual sex. After all, the Center for Disease Control (CDC) says 9.2 percent of females ages 15-44 have had 15 or more partners. People are throwing around terms like “hook up” and “hang out” and let’s be real – no one knows what any of it means. But one thing is for sure – the new culture has really rocked the old dating system. What happens to the courting process when people are jumping into bed together on first dates?
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remembered when she called. “Guess what? I’m not one anymore!” The words escaped from her mouth like a secret she’d been waiting to tell me for years. Or like she was telling me she had rid herself of some burden she had been carrying for what seemed like forever. And, in fact, those two things were true. After more than three years of lying and getting by without revealing her secret, Emma*, a 21-year-old college student, had just purged herself of her virginity – that pesky thing that had haunted her throughout her college years. And now, finally, after this 10-minute interaction with a male, she considered herself an adult – a word she never felt fit her until now. I could sense her relief over the phone. And I understood why she was so elated. Since she was 18, Emma had felt like she was “too old” to be a virgin. Somehow, through her slew of serious relationships in high school, when she considered herself “too young” for sex, and her college career, during which she unexpectedly only dated casually, she had gained this unwanted title. And it often brought on feelings of embarrassment and discomfort, especially during drinking games of Never Have I Ever – an experience so fraught with anxiety and careful crafting of words, as to not blow her cover. And it wasn’t like she was waiting for Prince Charming. She just hadn’t met a guy she was comfortable enough with to tell she was virgin. She thought once she did, he’d be “freaked out” and she’d risk social catastrophe. And because of the way her “first time” had been so glorified by the media throughout her life, she also wanted it to be with someone she at least trusted. But as the months drifted by, I saw losing her virginity become something Emma just wanted to have checked off her list. So at 21, she wound up
And what about the dynamic of relationships when people will “hook up” for months before committing? It’s safe to say that for most people, premarital sex has become “the norm.” We know that 20 percent of youth are sexually active by age 13, and that number jumps to about 50 percent by age 15-16, according to Dr. William Stayton, retired executive director of the Center for Sexuality and Religion at Widener and current sociology professor. By age 19, the CDC says 80 percent of men and 75 percent of women will have done the horizontal mambo. And it’s not surprising. We live in a sexsaturated culture; we see sex, mostly in the form of racy young women, everywhere – TV, magazines, newspapers, on the sides of buses. As we all know, sex is used to sell. “We’re constantly being inundated with these sexualized images, these sexualized ideas, so it does become a part of our psyche,” says Amanda Czerniawski, Temple sociology professor specializing in gender and sexuality. “I would say it starts to influence actual behavior where there’s this expectation to become sexual. What we’re seeing is a lot of these young men and women are becoming sexually active too early and there’s a lot of regret associated with virginity loss.” The years commonly tied to virginity loss are often seen as a period of confusion in one’s life – this isn’t new information. Not only are adolescents at a time of intense intrapersonal change, but they are then faced with societal condemnation regarding their choices around sex. Those doing it outside the average age, 17.2 for women and 16.9 for men, are made to feel as if they’re “too young” or “too old.” And this confusion is augmented by America’s own conflicting views on sex. Sexualized images and ideas are all around us. Yet, American traditionalists view sex very negatively. So our youth, those making these sexual decisions, are constantly caught in a tug-of-war about what’s socially acceptable. Should they investigate their curiosities or remain naïve? Ultimately, is it OK to do the deed, or must they hold off? “We negate that as a species, we’re geared to have sex and we have to,” says Tracey Post, sex therapist at TLP Consulting Group in New Jersey. “When we hit puberty, our bodies naturally feel a certain way and want to do a certain thing and that’s normal and natural.” But the years between puberty – those irksome years of hair growth, wet dreams and spiked emotions – and marriage have changed dramatically, making a period of casual sex more dominant in our society. Stayton notes that in 1850, the average age people entered puberty was 16-17 and
the average age people tied the knot was 18-19. Today, children generally hit the emo years between ages 11 and 12, even as young as nine in some cases, and the average age of marriage is 26-27. So, what was once a transitional period has now become a major stage in the whole life cycle, one of sexual freedom and experimentation. “To tell a person who’s at the height of his or her hormonal rush to hold off is only promoting sexual dysfunction later on,” Stayton says. “I think we need to understand what we’re really asking of people if we ask them to be abstinent for 10-15 years, when it was really designed to be two to four years.” TJ CUSACK, SENIOR HUMAN RESOUrces major at Temple, is waiting until marriage to have sex. As he sits in the front row of a lecture hall, half zoning out, his attention is
numbers have increased slightly throughout the last decade. In a recent report released by the CDC, researchers found that between 2006 and 2008, 11.2 percent of men ages 1544 were virgins, up from 10 percent in 2002. And in the same age bracket, 11 percent of women still held their V cards, up from 8.3 percent in 2002. Clearly, staying sex-free is not impossible. But there are definitely tensions in American society surrounding sex and virginity loss; some people identify with the new “hookup” culture, others with the purity movement and some take advantage of the safety net in between. Basically, America has become highly sexualized yet sex-phobic at the same time. And in looking at these approaches toward sex, one thing becomes clear: America puts a high value on virginity – or at least pays a ton of attention to it. Take Natalie Dylan for example. In 2008, the 22-yearold women’s studies graduate from Southern California created an online auction for her virginity. Men placed bids as high as $3.7 million to bump uglies with the virgin. Though the act allegedly never went through, Dylan manipulated the system rather than challenged it. “This really indicates the patriarchal bargain she was making in doing this because she decided to accept the gender roles that place a high value on a woman’s virginity and sexuality,” Czerniawski explains. “Basically, she was willing to get whatever power, and in this case money, out of this sexual exchange.” But as much as the equalization of women has emerged, old school views are still present in contemporary American society. Tracey Post feels men experience the pressure of not being “man enough” if they don’t take part in intercourse at an early enough age, whereas there is still pressure on women to not have sex as early. “I don’t think it’s as deep as it used to be, but it’s still there and valid,” Post says. “And if you wait, you have the opposite pressure that there’s something wrong with you.” This transformation of gender relations also sparks another problem in how America handles the bump and grind – traditionally, sex was for procreation only. “We now have people who have sex for pleasure and we haven’t dealt with that in a creative way,” Stayton expresses. “What would it mean to be teaching our kids about sex for pleasure and being responsible and moral and yet not making it for procreation purposes only?” And Post couldn’t agree more. “Maybe if our culture shifted, we’d realize sex is a life force that gives us beauty and color,” she says. “And if we talk about that and honor that and value that all through our lives, then maybe we’ll stop this all-or-nothing mentality.”
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To tell a person who's at the height of his or her hormonal rush to hold off is only promoting sexual dysfunction later on. caught by his professor’s mention of a topic that resonates with him - contraception. Suddenly, TJ’s all ears. As his professor speaks about the importance of educating the youth about condom use and birth control, a chord is struck inside TJ. And with a rapidity that didn’t seem to allow time for the neurons in his brain to tell his arm to move, his right hand shot up. “Why shouldn’t we teach abstinence in high schools?” he questioned. And then the backlash began: “It’s irresponsible not to educate on safety measures,” “Kids are going to have sex anyway,” “It’s the agenda of the right wing.” TJ’s mind is blown. He’s upset and disappointed by what feels like universal disagreement from his peers and even his professor. The exclusion of abstinence in sexual education is a grave moral mistake, he thinks. To no avail, he tries to defend his viewpoint on why the promotion of contraception in schools is problematic. “We are telling these young people that we know they’re unable to control themselves so they might as well do it safely. Oh, and women, don’t get pregnant, and men, put a condom on.” And though those in the room respect his passion, they still disagree that abstinence trumps contraception. “When you communicate that from authority, it’s a perpetual cycle and adolescents will end up fulfilling the prophecy of what they’re being taught,” TJ explains. “When we’re talking about kids, we damn well have repercussions. I think it’s silly that we think abstinence is so unattainable and unrealistic when we’re forming our young girls and boys into responsible people.” And there are plenty of people in America holding off from knockin’ boots – in fact, the
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As Americans, we obsess over virginity. We try to engrain a this-or-that belief into the minds of our youth and no matter what the decision, it can always be seen as flawed. The result is people like Emma, trapped by society’s ideas of age appropriateness and what their first time should be like, pressured by no one but themselves and society into having sex simply because they can’t stand the thought of being virgins – or that other
people may know or find out they are one. Emma doesn’t stand alone; she represents an experience that thousands of young adults are currently having and shouldn’t be. In a society so dominated by individualization and diversity, these approaches should be supported in sexual decision-making, too. If we fostered open education and guidance about all elements of sex – the good, bad and the ugly – then people
could make whatever informed decision suits them best. After all, this is one of the most personal decisions we make in our lives, so shouldn’t it be founded on our own values and morals? Maybe if America saw sex and virginity this way, I wouldn’t have had to change Emma’s name for this story. 2 *Name changed due to fear of social debacle.
baggage I
Photos and words by Grace Dickinson
s pil l
t’s surprising how many people are willing to empty the contents of their bag at the request of a stranger. From the six neighborhoods I visited, not one person who agreed to pose for a picture denied me a peek inside their bag. Maybe people don’t find their physical baggage to be such an exposing secret. Although there was the half-empty pack of Marlboros that conveniently remained hidden at the bottom of one’s purse, and that one zipper compartment on the backpack I wasn’t allowed to open. Oh, and the brand name on the messenger bag that I was told must be covered up if the bag were to become eye candy. Nearly every person had at least one limitation in sharing his or her baggage with the world. Which poses the question, is our physical baggage a true reflection of who we are? How many secrets do we haul around on our backs and sling over our shoulders?
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ARWEN SPARGO,
South Philly, 35, stylist One word to describe you: “Neurotic”
In her bag: Reese’s Easter candy, lotion, glasses, hairbrush, chapstick, wallet, headphones, cigarettes, bobby pins, post-its, pocket knife, receipts, bandage, nail filer, ring, lip gloss, pen.
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MS. JAY ROWE
North Philly, 59, retired teacher One word to describe you: “Jehovah’s Witness” In her bag: A Metro, a bible, Jehovah’s Witness magazines, tissues, a water bottle, pens.
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STACEY APPELSTEIN, Center City, 38, advertiser, mother of two One word to describe you: “Imperfectly perfect”
In her bag: A kid’s watch, Prada bag, iPhone, Chanel glasses, mints, straw, notes, toothbrush.
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MING WANG,
Chinatown, 52, associate scientific director One word to describe you: “Scientist�
In his bag: A burger, white board eraser and cleaner, glasses, Red Bull, folders, checkbook, notebooks, pen.
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SAM NEUMAN,
Fairmount, 25, chef One word to describe you: “Happy� In his bag: A Wharton umbrella, hat, biking gloves, strength training magazine, deodorant, lottery ticket, bike pump, AAA card, wallet, iPhone, chapstick, elbow brace.
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JOHN VICK,
No. Libs, 29, exhibition assistant One word to describe you: “Resourceful�
In his bag: Cat food, cell phone, tissue paper, writing utensils, notepad, greeting card, work gloves, grip tape, rag, bike tools, Tupperware.
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OTHER
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E
Where you're from may follow you far. By Elise Bowder | Illustrations by Brie Digiovine-Florence
xcuse me, I have a question to ask,” says the lady sitting across from us in Pizza City, nestled in the town square of Strasburg, Pennsylvania. “Yes?” I reply, happy to help. “Are you Amish?” My friend Tiffani and I almost choke on our cheese pizza. “Uh…no…” I respond while trying to hold in my laughter. “Oh,” the lady replies, looking quite perplexed. “I’m visiting from New York with my son,” she adds while gesturing to the toddler sitting next to her. “This is my first time in Lancaster.” Tiffani and I stare at each other unsure of what to say. Sure, we’ve gotten the joke that if you’re from Lancaster County, you must be Amish. But we’ve never encountered someone who was serious. “So you’re not Amish?” she asks again with wide eyes. “No, we have cell phones,” Tiffani states while pointing to ours sitting on the table. “And we’re wearing regular clothes,” I add with a smirk. “Okay,” the lady says, nodding her head. “So do the Amish live in all the houses with the little candles in the windows?” “No, those aren’t real candles. They’re electric,” I explain, which seems to mean nothing to her.
“The Amish don’t use electricity,” Tiffani jumps in. “At all?” the lady exclaims. “Wow, I didn’t know that.” She pauses to process this newfound information. “But you guys do use electricity?” she asks. “Because you’re not Amish, you just live around here, right?” WHEN WE GROW UP IN A PLACE, WE carry a little piece of that place with us wherever we go. Whether we’re from large metropolises or quaint towns, our hometowns shape us – the sites, the food, the people, the culture. And in this world full of stereotypes and preconceived notions, our hometowns also influence how other people view us. “People use where we’re from as a shorthand of who we are,” says Bryant Simon, a professor of American Studies and Culture at Temple University. This makes sense. One of the very first questions people ask when they meet each other is “Where are you from?” “This is because geography is linked to economy, religion, education, class and culture. And all of that is connected to your identity,” states Simon. Since we associate place with identity, more often than not, we automatically make assumptions of people based on their hometowns. “It’s a natural way to judge people,” says
Emily Kate Pope who grew up in Avondale, New Jersey. “Just like how you get first impressions from how people dress or their accents. Where someone is from is an easy way to assess someone.” A Jersey native, Pope is quite used to being mocked. “People always crack jokes about Jersey, saying I’m from the ‘armpit of America’ or that I’m a bad driver,” she explains. With popular shows like Jersey Shore and The Real Housewives of New Jersey, Pope is not surprised when people make generalizations. She’s used to people viewing Jersey as a state full of rich, flashy, Italians and trashy, party-obsessed guidos. Grace Raffensburger grew up in the rural town of Lancaster, Pennsylvania and agrees that a lot of people’s hometown judgments stem from what they see in the media. “People have preconceived notions that I’m Amish, Mennonite or a redneck,” she says. “But I guess working on a farm and driving a pick-up truck doesn’t really help my case.” So while hometown baggage can be annoying, it had to get its roots somewhere. And it doesn’t just travel from state to state. When Raffensburger studied abroad in London, she was often subjected to the typical American stereotypes. “My coworkers at my internship would mock me with a cowboy accent and assumed that I ate fast food all the time,” she explains.
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Keith Beekler, another Lancaster native who is often teasingly called Amish, admits that the easiest way to judge someone is from their background. “If some guy tells me he’s from a rich area, I’m probably going to assume that he’s rich,” he says. “It’s just how humans view other people.” “When people make assumptions based on your hometown, they’re trying to find the box to fit you in,” Simon states. “But I think they’re more so trying to place you, not pigeonhole you.” Yet why is there such a strong correlation between place and identity that leads people to make assumptions? “Popular culture is a powerful thing, especially in America,” Simon says. Hollywood creates images and exemplifies
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stereotypes which shape the way we view others and ourselves. Jillian Wilson, who grew up in Mystic, Connecticut, experienced the power of American pop culture firsthand when she studied abroad in London. “A girl at my internship asked me if my high school was like Laguna Beach, Mean Girls or 10 Things I Hate About You,” she says as if she still can’t believe she was asked such a ridiculous question. Back in the states, Wilson encounters judgment too. “People always think I’m really rich because Connecticut has a lot of rich towns,” she explains. “They see people in movies go to their country homes in New England and think that’s the reality for everyone who lives here.”
“I’m sure everyone wants to think that they’re not a stereotype of where they’re from,” says Beekler. “But when they judge other people, they automatically go to that.” Yet it’s important to keep in mind that place doesn’t make the person. “You can point to Philly on a map and say this is where I’m from, but what does that tell you?” Simon asks. No matter how far we travel away from our hometowns – whether it’s down the street or across the world – we can’t escape our roots. Just like family, where we grew up is a part of us and, in a way, defines who we are. But along the same lines, in a snap judgment, we can easily misuse it to unfairly judge. 2
People have preconceived notions that I'm Amish, Mennonite or a redneck. But I guess working on a farm and driving a pick-up truck doesn't really help my case.
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money matters 22
One broke girl attempts to cope with her student debt By Michele Aweeky | Photo by Grace Dickenson
A
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friends I’ll ever have. I got an incredible education and was even lucky enough to spend a semester studying in London. I had a lot of fun in school, but I also worked really, really hard. I’m graduating with six internships, a bunch of freelance work and credit for mobilizing a significant social movement on campus. I’ve built an impressive network of professional contacts and I am pretty confident in my ability to excel in the media industry. But here I am, standing on the brink of the real world and the only direction I can face is the one leading me back to Old Bridge, New Jersey. I’m about to graduate and it’s taken me this long to realize that it doesn’t matter how packed my resume is or how much I appreciate my education. All that doesn’t change the fact that I am completely fucking broke. I’m not just broke – I owe the federal government more money than my journalism degree will likely earn me in one year of fulltime work. So my only option is to move back in with my parents, find a job wherever possible and start chipping away at one huge balance. Now is the time that we are supposed to be fearless. We’re supposed to get our diplomas, pack our bags and move to Laos to teach English. In the past year, I’ve been given the opportunity to go to Ghana twice and I had to turn down both offers because I knew the airfare alone would put me even deeper in the hole. The terrible, honest truth is that we cannot be fearless because we are too afraid of what’s already weighing us down. My brothers both went straight to technical school after high school and got certified as heating and ventilation technicians. They spent one year of their time and about $20,000 of their money on a very lucrative career. Neither of them really have the adventure bug I do – they’re both pretty content with staying around where we grew up and settling down with the right girl at the right time. I couldn’t be more jealous. In the end, I carry around a burden that may be even bigger than my debt – restlessness. Now I just have to figure out how to detach myself from this financial anchor so I can get moving again. 2
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Thanks to $30,000 in student loans, I'm gearing up to move back home and reinstate my role as the resident guido referee.
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few years ago, when I was 19 and home on break from school, my older brother Paul ran to the window, yanked open the blinds and screamed, “I KNEW IT!” I followed his heated gaze outside to my younger brother, Alex, who was walking up the street, strategically pulling his T-shirt over his head and shoving it into his backpack. The shirt was bright purple and had the silhouette of a man wearing a baker’s hat – Johnny Cupcakes, one of Paul’s favorites. You see, Alex’s daily routine was to wait for Paul to leave for work around 5:30 a.m., take his pick of Paul’s impossibly expensive designer T-shirts, wear it all day at school and take credit for being the coolest. On his walk home from the bus, he would stuff his shirt into his backpack, just in case Paul got home early that afternoon. He’d iron and Febreze the shirt and place it back exactly where he got it before Paul got home around 6 p.m. It was actually pretty ingenious. But this wasn’t Alex’s day. “I’m gonna MURDER you,” Paul screamed at him as he slammed the door open and jumped off our three-step concrete stoop. Alex’s eyes widened and before Paul could get to him he started backing up and pleading, “Yo, I’m sorry!” But Paul wasn’t having it. “You are such a dick! How many times do I have to tell you, don’t wear my shit?!” He was screaming this and simultaneously wrestling Alex down to the ground, punching him as hard as he could. I rolled my eyes and ran outside pleading for them to get off each other. I couldn’t believe they were doing this again. It was now my job to break it up and convince the nosy neighbors that the cops need not be called; it’s just a brother-to-brother altercation – totally normal. And it is. Things like this happen in my parent’s house daily. And thanks to $30,000 in student loans, I’m gearing up to move back home and reinstate my role as the resident guido referee. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t regret any of the choices I’ve made up to this point. I could not have asked for a better college experience. I saw new places and made some of the best
letters
father
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from my
She waited. And waited. And waited. And waited. By Kelsey Doenges 1. I was named after hairclips.
My mother bought them from a boutique on Spruce Street. She couldn’t wait for me to wear them, but my hair is a temperamental thing. It took five years to grow to an appropriate length and even then, it reached to just below my chin. It wasn’t blonde, like the other girls I knew. There weren’t curls, or fancy ribbons dancing from my ponytail. It was this strange auburn color that no one could admire. It was thick and there wasn’t enough spit to keep my cowlick down. During dance recitals, other girls had pristine hairstyles. Sleek and professional, as if they were auditioning for the New York City Ballet at the age of four, and there I was, pushing my bobby pins into this little nub my mother liked to call a bun. I was named after hairclips I never got to wear.
2. You left, before the hairclips. I used to have this reoccurring dream, this type of out of body experience, where I was watching myself waiting for you. The dream went on for hours, I never moved. I just waited and waited and waited for you. Only once did you actually come to get me.
3. My mother lived in a house by the river on Schwink Avenue. Once it rained and the water seeped into the house through the cracks in the walls and under the windowpanes. The water got so high; it hit the keys of her upright piano and tried to play a symphony. So my grandfather built a house on Connell Street out of different colored stones. It wasn’t by a river, still, he made sure there were no cracks in the wall. Still, he made sure the windows sealed shut. They never opened them for fear that water would seep in. During the summer, my mother and her brothers would sweat so much they’d gather it in cups, pots, buckets, and bathtubs. They knew if they let a single bead hit the floor, there would be a flood.
4. When she was 22, she met you.
She moved to Texas and you did too. I don’t know much of that story.
5. Then you fell in love.
You married and had a girl you named after victory. You had another girl, three years later, and she was named after a pair of hairclips from a boutique on Spruce Street. And she would have this reoccurring dream where she would wait for you. She waited and waited and waited for you.
6. But you moved.
You moved to an apartment building that was white with a black door. A one-bedroom apartment on the second floor with no pictures on the wall. You could see the tollbooths from the turnpike outside the bathroom window, and sometimes I’d stand on the sink, my toes gripping the edge, watching the cars pass by. We’d pretend to know where they were going, why they were leaving, who they were seeing. Me, standing on the edge of the sink, you, kneeling on the toilet seat. Nicole and I slept on a pullout sofa in the living room and sometimes, late at night, we’d hear the faint sounds of static from the television set in the unit below. We didn’t mind. In the morning, we’d wake to the smell of your coffee brewing and could hear the waffles popping from the toaster. Our cold feet shuffled across the brown prickly carpet to the kitchen. She would be there, skin and bones and dirty-blonde hair, wearing your Smiths T-shirt which lay just above her knees.
7. She wasn't my mother, still, you told us you loved her.
I was supposed to carry a basket of flowers and throw them into the audience who sat in the backyard of what was to be your new home. My dress was made out of a tablecloth. Maybe it wasn’t really a tablecloth, but it could certainly pass as one. It was white with big bright blue flowers and a blue sash around the waist. You tied it so tight, I could feel my insides. I never wore the dress we both pretended wasn’t a tablecloth. I never carried a basket. I never threw flowers into the audience who sat in the backyard of what was to be your new home.
8. You moved into a house.
9. When I was younger.
I could hear her crying even with her door closed. I would go and get cups and pots and buckets, creep into her room, climb into her queen-sized bed, and start to catch her tears because I worried that if one dropped to the floor, there would be a flood. I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay, she’d say.
10. When you were younger.
You threw lit matches at a boy on the playground. He was wearing a plastic raincoat and when it caught on fire, he slid down the slide to put it out. You laughed. You are still laughing about it.
11. When I got older.
I ran. I ran three miles to the country store and hid behind a picnic table. I waited and waited and waited for you.
12. When you got older.
You would send me cards twice a year. Even in the winter, you’d give me reports on the tomato garden, until I told you I didn’t care. The next time a card was due, it came in a long envelope and when I saw it I got scared. I got so scared because I thought you loved me enough to write me a letter. I thought it would be filled with daily reports of the tomato garden, and hairclips with my name on them, and leaves from the tree by the driveway, and dresses made out of tablecloths, and maps to get to you. I expected it to have the answers to the questions I had for you. I expected pages and pages of apologies, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorries. I expected lines of I miss you’s and empty spaces for the could-have-beens. With shaky hands I opened it. And realized, you don’t love me at all. 2
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You moved to Courtright Drive. It wasn’t like the house on Connell Street made of different colored stones. It had plastic peach siding and I am sure when it rained the water slipped under the windowpanes. But it had a backyard, with a tomato garden and a tire swing and a big tree by the driveway. You told me it was a eucalyptus tree and I believed you. I believed everything and that’s such a silly thing. Because the truth is, the Denver Broncos are not the best football team, and my special edition Barbies will never be valuable, and you never bought me a horse (we didn’t even go for lessons), and a kiss didn’t make it better, and you never came back, even when you said you would.
the rum coke diaries
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Her father wouldn't take the blame for his problems, so she did.
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By Cary Carr
I
hated visiting him. Confined to his hospital bed and tangled in IVs, he looked like a prisoner in his own personal hell. His hair was now stark white and he looked like a man twice his age, although he appeared almost childlike in his cotton gown. After a decade of destroying his body with rum and coke, never quite making it home from the bar or routinely passing out drunk on our living room floor, the alcoholism had finally caught up with him. He had cirrhosis of the liver. “How you doing Dad?” I asked him, breaking the uncomfortable silence. But his complaints about the way the nurses treated him and comments on how the doctor must be mistaken slowly became one with the humming of the television and the nurses’ hush-hush conversations outside. Over the past 10 years in which he lost his wife, his family and his job, my Dad became an expert at pointing the finger at anything other than his addiction, and I became an expert at blaming myself. But we both knew the truth – he would ultimately die from drinking unless he quit. And we both knew he never would. As I sat on the opposite end of the room, sinking into my chair, I half waited for him to ask me how I was doing, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t notice that my clothes hung off of me and my collarbones protruded from my chest. He couldn’t see the bags permanently drawn under my eyes or hear the slowness of my breath. And he certainly couldn’t understand that every night, I sprawled out across my bedroom floor, picking at my flesh and crying until I fell asleep. After trying to decipher for years why he
chose alcohol over us, I only knew how to hold myself responsible. Why else would he forget to call on birthdays or miss dance recitals or pick me up, swerving in and out of lanes, high on pills? I punished myself through starvation, through cutting, through a desperate search for perfection. We were bonded by selfmutilation, but he was too blind to care. “You still love me, right?” he asked me, his voice bringing me back in focus. “Of course I do,” I reassured him, trying to avoid eye contact. But my Dad has these crushing, icy blue eyes that stand out as if someone had specifically designed them to be the focal point on his face, making it easier to overlook the wrinkles, the worry lines and the sadness embedded in his smile. Somehow, they always draw me in, forcing me to sympathize with them, pity them, see myself in them. As I prepared to leave, I reached down to hug him, realizing his fragility was as severe as mine. “You’ll always be my little princess,” he said softly. It was a pet name I could never escape. And four years later, I’m still Daddy’s little princess, just like him in more ways than I’d like to admit. The depression, the self-loathing, the remnants of anorexia - it’s all he’s passed down to me. Every time I take a sip of alcohol, I feel the ability to break off from reality warming my blood, just like he does. But, as I must remind myself like a mantra, there’s one defining factor separating father from daughter: I’m strong enough to put the bottle down. 2
You still love me, right?
Guilt, catholic style
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If you're Irish Catholic, the only vacation you'll ever go on is a guilt trip.
By Colin Saltry | Photo by Angelo Fichera
deadliest weapon in the emotional arsenal. Masters of the trade don’t even need to speak; often a flick of the eyelashes will do the job; destroying your dreams and ensuring that you feel bad for dreaming them. NAN’S BIRTHDAY PARTIES – WHILE awesome - have had the implied tagline “this could be it” for 16 of my last 22 years. More importantly, my cousin John wasn’t going either so I had some precedent. Either way, I was determined to keep my weekend plans intact. After all, nobody could force me into anything, especially the little lady in the backseat.
“I’m sorry, Nan, but I’m supposed to visit my friend that weekend… I haven’t seen her in over a year… so that’s why I came home this weekend instead… so I could spend time with you!” This was a classic amateur move; I admitted guilt before committing the crime. “Ooohh.” Nan said as she rolled her eyes, inhaled and crossed her hands over her lap, “Keep your plans.” She gazed out the window. The implications couldn’t be clearer. Not only did Nan indicate her considerable disappointment, she fired a warning shot: cancel your plans or you’ll be sorry...in hell. An uncomfortable silence descended in the car as we drove up the turnpike. My mother – sympathetic to my situation but ecstatic that the guilt was shifted to me for a change – kept glancing over at me and winking repeatedly. I took this to mean that I had done it; that I had survived the emotional equivalent of a nuclear first-strike. Needless to say, I was pleased. The tension in the car eased as we started discussing Mitt Romney’s hair. Suddenly, out of nowhere, Nan issued her retort. She wasn’t loud, she wasn’t even angry. In fact, she almost mumbled it. “I never missed any of your birthday parties.” She wiped the floor with me. 2
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very Fourth of July, my family throws a joint birthday party for my grandmother (Nan) and for America. Missing the party – for any reason – was considered a cardinal sin punishable by dirty looks, snide remarks and a lifetime of guilt-induced favors. Last year, I thought I could escape this fate by explaining to my 92-year-old grandmother that I “had plans” the weekend of her party and that I “couldn’t make it home.” I was sorely mistaken. For those of you unfamiliar with the concept, Catholic Guilt derives from something you’ve done, not done, said or thought about. The results: believing that you are – without doubt – going to hell. It is often irrational, striking without warning for offences real and imagined. Most importantly, it has nothing to do with remorse; CG has everything to do with fear. Whether you’ve killed someone, not thanked someone for a gift or you skipped your grandmother’s birthday party, your sinful ways will ensure your eternal damnation. It is something you’re born with. If you’re Irish-Catholic (like me), you probably took your first guilt-trip before your first steps. In the battlefield that is a modern Irish-Catholic family, guilt is the
moving out Poem by Kathryn Vallilee
I SAID: I DON'T CARRY THAT WITH ME ANYMORE.
moving away. moving away. 6 t-shirts. toothbrush. alarm clock. closing up shop. easy. clean. but unpacking isn't like that. i brought the photos. crumpled letters no one read.
KIDNEY STONES STICKY BOTTLE CAPS
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fit every bit of home in this bag
the outside cat DISAPPEARING. RUNNING AWAY.
and newness the food still disappears
lost in the space between memory
NEARLY EVERY NIGHT
I said, "I don't carry that with me ANYMORE." I DON'T THINK ABOUT MY FIRST
HOMES, OR THE FIRST PEOPLE I LOVED
AND THEN HATED. CLOSING UP SHOP. EASY. CLEAN.
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