F-Word Spring 2007

felicity feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female /feémayl/ adj. & n. • adj. 1 of the sex that can bear offspring or produce eggs. 2 (of plants or their parts) fruit-bearing; having a pistil and no stamens. 3 of or consisting of women or female animals. 4 (of screw, socket, ect.) manufactured hollow to receive a corresponding part • n. a female person, animal, or plant. fe•male•ness n. [ME f. OF femelle (n.) f. L femella dimin. of femina a woman, assim. to male] female impersonator feme feminine femininity feminism femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction /fikshen/ n. 1 an invented idea or statement or narrative; an imaginary thing. 2 literature, esp. novels, describing imaginary events and people. 3 a conventionally accepted falsehood (legal fiction; polite fiction). 4 the act or process of inventing imaginary things. fic•tion•al adj. fic•tion•al adj. fic•tion•al•i•ty /-nálitee/ n. fic•tion•al•ize v.tr. [ME f. OF f. L fictio -onis (as FICTILE)] fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs fine-spun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone n. the supposed torments of hell. firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base n.

Baseball 1 the base touched first by a base runner. 2 a the fielder stationed nearest to the first base. b the posistion nearest first base. firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix fixate fixture fizz flab flaccid flack flag flagellate flagellum flagitious flail flair flak flake flambé flambeau flamboyant flame flamen flamenco flamethrower flamingo flammable flan flange flank flannel flap flash flask felicity feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female female impersonator n. a male performer impersonating a woman. feme feminine femininity feminism femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction fictive fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery /fîree/ adj. (fi•er•8•er, fi•er•i•est) 1 a consisting of or flaming with fire. b (of an arrow, ect.) fire-bearing. 2 like fire in appearance; bright red. 3 a hot as fire. b acting like fire; producing a burning sensation. 4 a flashing; ardent (fiery eyes). b eager; pugnacious; spirited; irritable (fiery temper) c (of a horse) mettlesome. 5 (of gas. a mine, ect.) flammable; liable to explode fi•er•i•ly adv. fi•er•i•ness n. fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs finespun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix fixate fixture fizz flab flaccid flack flag flagellate flagellum flagitious flail flair flak flake flambé flambeau flamboyant flame flamen flamenco flamethrower flamingo flammable flan flange flank flannel flap flash flask felicity /felîsitee/ n. (pl. ties) 1 intense happiness; being happy. 2 a cause of happiness. 3 a a capacity for apt expression; appropriateness. b an appropriate or well-chosen phrase. 4 a fortunate trait. [ME f. OF felicité f. L felicitas -tatis f. felix -icis happy] feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female female impersonator feme feminine femininity feminism femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber /fíber/ n. (Brit. fi•bre) 1 Biol. any of the threads or filaments forming animal or vegetable tissue and textile substances. 2 a piece of glass in the form of thread. 3 a a substance formed of fibers. b a substance that can be spun, woven, or felted. 4 the structure, grain, or character of something (lacks moral fiber). 5 dietary material that is resistant to the action of digestive enzymes; roughage. fi•bered adj. (also in comb.). fi•ber•less adj. fi•bri•form /fíbrifawrm/ adj. [ME f. F f. L fibra] fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction fictive fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs fine-spun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix fixate fixture fizz flab flaccid flack flag flagellate flagellum flagitious flail flair flak flake flambé flambeau flamboyant flame flamen flamenco flamethrower flamingo flammable flan flange flank flannel flap flash flask felicity feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female female impersonator feme feminine femininity feminism / féminism/ n. 1 the advocacy of women’s rights on the ground of the equality of the sexes. 2 Med. the development of the female characterisitcs of the male person. fem•i•nist n. (in sense 1). [L femina woman (in sense 1 after F féminisme)] femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction fictive fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure /figyer/ n. & v. • n. 1 a the externa form or shape of a thing b bodily shape (has a model’s figure). 2 a a person as seen in outline but not identified (saw a figure leaning against the door). b a person as contemplated mentally (a public figure) 3 (in full figure of speech) a recognized form of rhetorical expression giving variety, force, ect. esp. metaphor or hyperbole. 4 Gram. a permitted deviation from the usual rules of construction, e.g., ellipsis. fig•ure•less adj. [ME f. OF figure (n.), figurer (v.) f. L figura, figurare, rel. to fingere fashion] figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs fine-spun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix fixate fixture fizz flab flaccid flack flag flagellate flagellum flagitious flail flair flak flake flambé flambeau flamboyant flame flamen flamenco flamethrower flamingo flammable flan flange flank flannel flap flash flask felicity feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female female impersonator feme /fem/ n. Law a woman or wife. feme covert a married woman. feme sole a woman without a husband (esp. if divorced). [ME f. AF & OF f. L femina woman] feminine femininity feminism femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever /feéver/ n. & v. • n. 1 a an abnormally high body temperature, often with delirium, ect. b a disease characterized by this (scarlet fever, typhoid fever). 2 nervous excitement; agitation • v.tr. (esp. as fevered adj.) affect with nervou excitement. [OE fefor & AF fevre, OF fievre f. L febris] few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction fictive fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs fine-spun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife /fîshwîf/ n. (pl. •wives) 1 an ill-mannered or noisy woman. 2 a woman who sells fish fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix fixate fixture fizz flab flaccid flack flag flagellate flagellum flagitious flail flair flak flake flambé flambeau flamboyant flame flamen flamenco flamethrower flamingo flammable flan flange flank flannel flap flash flask felicity feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female female impersonator feme feminine femininity feminism femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish /fétish/ n. 1 Psychol. a thing abnormally stimulating or attracting sexual desire. 2 a an inanimate object worshipped for its supposed inherent magical powers or as being inhabited by a spirit. b a thing evoking irrational devotion or respect. fet•ish•ism n. fet•ish•ist n. fet•ish•is•tic / -shístik/ adj. fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction fictive fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs fine-spun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix fixate fixture fizz flab flaccid flack flag flagellate flagellum flagitious flail flair flak flake flambé flambeau flamboyant flame flamen flamenco flamethrower flamingo flammable flan flange flank flannel flap flash flask felicity feline fell fellah felatio feller felloe fellow fellowship felly felon felonious felony felspar felt felucca female female impersonator feme feminine femininity feminism femininity feminize femme fatal femto femur fen fence fencing fend fenestra fenestrated fenian fennec fennel fenugreek feoffment feral fer de lance ferial fermata ferment fermi fermion fern ferocious ferous ferrate ferret ferri ferriage ferric ferrimagnetism ferris wheel ferrite ferro ferroconcrete ferroelectric ferromagnatissm ferrous ferruginious ferrule ferry fertile /fert’l/ adj. 1 a (of soil) producing abundant vegetation or crops. b fruitiful. 2 a (of a seed, egg, ect.) capable of becoming a new individual. b (of animals and plants) able to conceive young or produce fruit. 3 (of the mind) inventive. 4 (of nuclear material) able to become fissile by the capture of neutrons. fer•til•i•ty / -tîlitee/ n. [ME f. F L fertilis] ferula fervent fervid fervor fescue fess festal fester festival festive festoon festschrift feta fetch féte fetid fetish fetlock fetor fetter fettle fettuccine fetus feud feudal feuilleton fever few fey fez fiacre fiancé fiancheto fiasco fiat fib fiber fibonacci series fibre fibril fibrin fibroid fibroma fiche fichu fickle fictile fiction fictive fid fiddle fiddling fideism fidelity fidget fiducial fiduciary fie fief field field-fare field hockey fiend fierce fieri facias fiery fiesta fife fifteen fifth fifty fig fight figment figural figuration figurative figure figurine figwort filagree filament filaria filariasis filature filbert filch file filefish filet filial filiation filibuster filigree filing filipino fill filler fillet fillip filly film filmy filo fils filter filth filtrable filtrate filmbriated fin finable finagle final finale finality finance finback finch find fin de siécle finding fine fine arts fine-draw fine print finery fines herbs fine-spun finesse finger fingering fingertip finial finical finicking finis finish finishing school n. a private school where girls are prepared for entry into fashionable society. finitism fink finian finnic finnish finny fino fipple fir fire fire and brimstone firearm fireside chat firing firkin firm firmament firmware firry first first base firth fisc fiscal fish fisherman fishwife fisk fissle fission fissiparous fissure fist fistic fistula fit fitch fitful fitter five fix

m a g a z i n e

Fword a collection of feminist voices

Volume 1; Issue 1; Spring 2007

fword: a history

Penn has an active feminist community, from the Alice Paul Center and the Women’s Studies Department to Women’s Week and Penn Consortium of Undergraduate Women. So it comes as no surprise that a publication be added to the array of other women’s organizations.

But F-Word isn’t completely new: it’s a revival of Pandora’s Box, founded at an uncertain date, a decade or so ago, by a group of dedicated students of Women’s Studies, after taking classes by Professors Rita Barnard and Margaret Mills. They were heavily influenced by the works studied in these classes, by Karen Finley, Holly Hughes, Diamanda Galas, and other writers and artists.

Pandora’s Box published the works of Penn women each year and was a publication whose audience was intended to be female. When we at F-word sat down to discuss the changes we wanted with such a publication, we wanted to incorporate a larger, more diverse group of contributors as well as readers.

Our mission is to provide an outlet for writing or art pertaining to feminism (broadly defined as respect for all individuals regardless of gender or sexual affiliation).We realize that feminism has come a long way. But there’s a long way to go and we have a lot to say.

The F-word editorial board would like to thank the Alice Paul Center and Associate Director Shannon Lundeen, as well as the Kelly Writers House and former director Jen Snead.

fword: a history

Penn has an active feminist community, from the Alice Paul Center and the Women’s Studies Department to Women’s Week and Penn Consortium of Undergraduate Women. So it comes as no surprise that a publication be added to the array of other women’s organizations.

But F-Word isn’t completely new: it’s a revival of Pandora’s Box, founded at an uncertain date, a decade or so ago, by a group of dedicated students of Women’s Studies, after taking classes by Professors Rita Barnard and Margaret Mills. They were heavily influenced by the works studied in these classes, by Karen Finley, Holly Hughes, Diamanda Galas, and other writers and artists.

Pandora’s Box published the works of Penn women each year and was a publication whose audience was intended to be female. When we at F-word sat down to discuss the changes we wanted with such a publication, we wanted to incorporate a larger, more diverse group of contributors as well as readers.

Our mission is to provide an outlet for writing or art pertaining to feminism (broadly defined as respect for all individuals regardless of gender or sexual affiliation).We realize that feminism has come a long way. But there’s a long way to go and we have a lot to say.

The F-word editorial board would like to thank the Alice Paul Center and Associate Director Shannon Lundeen, as well as the Kelly Writers House and former director Jen Snead

consumer goods

brookepalmieri

I make no attempt to deny my influences. I write in alignment with a muse; muse being, in italics, a word so lost in poetic antiquity that it scarcely shows its face but we laugh, and say, to hell with that; this is modernity. So my wide-lipped-round-hipped muse will retain her earthly name; I will not abuse her with my poetics, and I will not put her fragile shape before you to be battered and bruised.

The truth is, yesterday lunching, I found myself looking, inspired, at my bottle of Snapple Iced Tea©, and thinking of feminism, and what it is, and why it is.

Let’s analyze the connection. You can’t argue with confidence, and you certainly can’t argue with a glass of tea claiming to hold the best stuff, and you certainly, certainly, can’t argue with Cadbury Schweppes, the owner of Snapple and the third-largest soft drink maker as of 2000 A.D. But you can, and you should argue with the fact that there are women in our world who are treated like Snapple bottles.

There are women who are read like inanimate bottles, breakable and transparent, with words on their caps that say REJECT IF BUTTON IS UP. Isn’t that just the type of thing Feminism ought to address?

And yet Feminism isn’t a consumer product, because nobody buys it. I could say it isn’t a consumer product because it’s not something you consume; it’s something that’s a dimension of you, by virtue of being human, but that argument may be a little too sophisticated for where we are with Feminism today. I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. If Feminism is, very broadly defined, as “advocating the rights of women,” more broadly still, as advocating the rights of human beings, and most broadly, as advocating life, then who is born into life without this belief for life?

If: (a) Philosophically, humans are in command of words, words do not command humans. (b) Phonetically, “Feminism” is filled with lovely, short monothongs and a handful of continuant voiced consonants (other than the “f ”), and not at all unpleasing to murmur.

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(c) Factually, “Feminism” deals with advocating basic rights.

Then: The fault lies not with the word, but its employers.

It’s not feminism everyone’s frowning at, but the people who are using it.

The world today doesn’t treat Feminism logically enough for us to attack this problem, though, yet. No, the world isn’t logical enough to start a straightforward scientific essay on Feminism; it has to use roundabout ways and Snapple bottles to do it because we live in a society that values the material things, the material aspects of words and not the meaningful aspects of them, the habitual urge we have to just say something, without really knowing what we mean. There are four-letter words that fit this description, that make me wonder, does this person really mean that? It all comes down to the wordplay, to the idea that “Feminism” repels, although, the “Feminism is the radical notion that women are people” gimmick is clever enough to attract. Everyone likes clever. Somehow the difference between that word and that word in a clever sentence tricks our minds into deriving one prejudice or another about it. It makes you wonder if clever marketing strategies are just what we need, maybe that if we consulted Cadbury Schweppes we could package and sell a really nice product that comes in a variety of colors and shapes (collect them all!).

Let’s say that we have hypothetically consulted Cadbury Schweppes one rainy November night when the homework was piled but the procrastination sweet, via a well-placed phone call, and spoke with Marsha, the leading Sales Consultant for Cadbury Schweppes and that the conversation was like this: “Hello, this is Marsha speaking, what can I do for you?”

“Uh, hello, Martha. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time—“ “It’s Marsha.” (Oops.)

“Well, I was, you know, wondering if you could help me out with this problem, being a sales consultant and all. Just the other day I was thinking, well, lately, I was thinking, if asked about being feminist, answering ‘yes’ labels you as unapproachable, and answering ‘no,’ as traitorous. And, lately, if you touch feminism, you’re either holding a pole of considerable length, or being held on a pole of considerable length. Isn’t that terrible? Do you ever think about that Marsha?”

“Not particularly,” she might say, for sake of representing the percentage of women who might not think about feminism often, but lead admirable lives enough to make up for it. Marsha is one of those women, I think, the kind who has worked hard to get where she is, hasn’t taken short cuts or allowed the pressure of social Darwinism to inspire any backstabbing, she’s just worked and here she is working again, fated to receive this phone call. To reward her hard work she will take a hot bath or have a hot fudge sundae, and on Sundays she irons her outfits for the work week. She doesn’t think about feminism, she just lives it out in her own way I guess.

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“But you’re a sales consultant, aren’t you? So I’m consulting you on how to sell this big notion about, you know, the whole women are people thing…” (I do not profess to be articulate during phone conversations.)

“I market bottles…not isms,” she’ll say, because she is honest and caught off-guard.

“So how do you do that?”

“Well, do you ever read those little-known facts on Snapple bottles?”

“YES!” “That’s all mine.”

And then we might talk on a bit more. I like Marsha a lot, probably because I’ve created her hypothetically. Hypothetical creations lend themselves to likeability. At the end of the conversation she might say: “…and besides, I can’t help you market your ‘notion’ because, well, women are people…it’s not a notion to be marketed, it’s just a truth.”

And I might say, “Thanks, Marsha, good night.” And the next day, when I sip my Snapple Iced Tea© at lunch I might think about Marsha’s comment more thoroughly, and come to the conclusion that, ah yes, I already said Feminism wasn’t a consumer good, didn’t I? Then there’s no need to market it, right. When it comes down to the core of the problem, it’s not at all a matter of words. The word doesn’t keep women from being treated like REJECT IF BUTTON IS UP. If you put the words to someone who doesn’t understand the English this is written in, then the words mean a little less than nothing to her. If you reduce Feminism, it becomes a jumble of words. So my proposal is to translate the Ism into Action. Maybe call it Feminaction. That’s a pretty clever gimmick, don’t you think? That’s the kind of gimmick that could make you a bundle of money.

Brooke Sylvia Palmieri Class of 2009 College of Arts & Sciences English

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coming of age It was supposed to be like thick August grass caressing tired backs on a lazy afternoon; warm like the sun that wraps itself around the curve of ripe fruit, nested in the dark bitter bark of apple tree wood.

It was supposed to be like deep soft skin, plush hips that come from coconut rice and salty air; hands that smooth down hair unleashed by rains that taste like melon and hemp.

It was supposed to look like deep-rooted irises’ tantalizing color, Bees dancing above the sweet juices of a blossom’s tiny egg, waiting for rebirth.

It was not like the haunting fires that filter in between crisp autumn air.

Like my mother’s pillowed arms holding me close.

My breath is her breath.

It was supposed to feel like hot cinnamon tea running through me on a night darkened by time seeping faster into wooded forest that fall silent.

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karadaddario

Silently dreaming, under red quilted covers, I wait patiently, slowly, engulfed in the longing of what is to come.

In the distance I can hear expectation break against the cold plated glass.

Kara Daddario Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences English:Creative Writing

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shoes as sexual status symbols evangelfung “Never pick shoes with straps that wrap around the ankle,” my youngest aunt admonished as I gazed at myself in the mirror. I was fifteen years old, in the famed shoe department of Neiman Marcus, trying on my first pair of four-inch stilettos. “They cut your legs off and make you look shorter and fatter.” I took her advice to heart. Never in my life have I bought high-heeled shoes with straps that wrap around the ankle. Neither do I question myself often enough why I took this truth to heart, or why I even cared. Why do women even wear high heels? While it is generally accepted that they are “hot,” the reasons go further. By the very nature of their history and what they do to a woman’s body, high-heeled shoes have become a sexual symbol created and reaffirmed by the male gaze in both men and women, as well as a status symbol produced by class issues.

From their very inception, high-heeled shoes have been worn for reasons of vanity, and not practicality. High-heeled shoes were not prevalent until the Renaissance, when Venetian noblemen reputedly introduced heavy wooden chopines to their wives to prevent them from straying (O’Keefe 354). These chopines were a “major symbol of social status and great wealth” (O’Keefe 348). Most say that Leonardo da Vinci created the heel as we know it today (Bossan 35). The first recorded year that this heel was worn for reasons of vanity was 1533, when the diminutive Catherine de Medicis brought heels from Florence to Paris for her upcoming marriage to the Duke d’Orleans (O’Keeffe 74). The ladies of the French court immediately picked up on this style. During this era, both men and women enjoyed wearing high heels, including Louis XIV, who had his heels trimmed in red leather. Generally, high heels were worn by nobility. The French continued wearing high heels into the 18th century and diamond-encrusted heels appropriately named venez-y voir (take a look) illustrate the pinnacle of this era.

Over the years, high heels continued to come in and out of fashion. Highheeled shoes on women became more sexualized when hemlines rose after the First World War (Brooke 106). Focus on women’s legs and shoes magnified, and high heels were especially favored by “sophisticated” women (Brooke 110). “In the late Victorian era, arguably for the first time in the West, those 6

who could afford to eat well began systematically to deny themselves food in pursuit of an aesthetic ideal” (Bordo 185). Being large was no longer in vogue; skinny became the new beautiful. Women began desiring long, lean bodies, and wearing high heels actually helped women achieve lengthened, leaner versions of their own bodies. So since being skinny was equated with being desirable, and wearing high heels made women look more toned and lean, high heels became associated with a body type that was sexy and beautiful.

Even from the beginning, in the seventeenth century, shoes followed the fashion trends of the century, which “envisaged clothing abounding in curves to accompany and enhance the female figure. Heels changed the movement and the very shape of the body, accentuating the breasts and the curvature of the buttocks” (Caovilla 27). In fact, according to Harper’s Index, the average increase in the protrusion of a woman’s buttocks when she wears high heels is 25 percent (O’Keeffe 127). A woman in heels is instantly sexualized; the more erotic parts of her body are emphasized. “Her lower back arches, her spine and legs seem to lengthen and her chest thrusts forward. Her calves and ankles appear shapelier, and her arches seem to heave out of her shoes” (O’Keeffe 73).

A woman in heels is forced to strike a pose because, anatomically, her center of gravity has been displaced forward. In effect, heels put a woman on a pedestal and on display. They bestow upon the wearer the power to seduce and capture the attentions of both men and women, albeit in different ways. However, the seduction cannot be attributed merely to the high heels themselves. First, a woman must be associated with, if not wearing, the shoes. Furthermore, someone must be watching and must meet the high-heeled woman halfway with a specific type of gaze, in order for the shoes to become a sexual or status symbol.

When men look at women, that gaze is tinged with a certain inevitable objectification. The very nature of their gaze as one that “surveys women” (Berger 37) accordingly casts the woman as the object. What’s fascinating is that most of the famous makers of high-heeled shoes over the century are men: Andre Perugia, Salvatore Ferragamo, Roger Vivier, Robert Clergerie, Charles Jourdan, Manolo Blahnik, Christian Louboutin…and the list goes on. Two extreme theories are raised in trying to explain why men are so fascinated by women in high heels, and why women insist on wearing them despite their lack of comfort. First is that “footwear is, by definition, a container, and as such in man evokes the female organ. The introduction of the foot into the shoe would be the substitute for intercourse, rendered more exciting and perverse by the fact that it is the woman herself possessing herself ” (Caovilla 139). The second theory is that the stiletto heel is the unconscious substitute of the penis, “which man reveres on the foot of a woman to disguise his own latent homosexuality: the male transfers this insane aspiration onto a more permissible object, because [it is] linked to the female body” (Caovilla 139).

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To take this objectifying male gaze even further, women are often immobilized when they try to balance their weight on two spindly heels. Even in the beginning, this was an intention of the Venetian noblemen who introduced chopines to their wives: to control them by physically hindering their ability to walk. This feeds into men’s desires to dominate women, the sight of a woman who is essentially unable to escape. Yet this, too, is a paradox, because when women wear high heels, they can also tower over men. This play between domination and subordination could also be part of the appeal of women in high heels.

What women think when they see themselves in heels is more complicated.

On one hand, they do adopt the male gaze. Women constantly watch themselves and everything they do, because how they appear to each other and to men is of crucial importance to what is thought of as their success in life. “Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at” (Berger 38). Even as she watches herself as a woman being looked at, she turns herself into an object.

She is perpetually self-conscious about her appearance as a sexually desirable female.

But even though high-heeled shoes are potent symbols of sexuality, they do not need to be worn and bought with men in mind. Often there is also something else going on. A recent issue of Marie Claire featured a section on heels, with one page headed “Shoes over $400: Intricate details makes fabulous heels totally worth the price” and featuring shoes costing as much as $1280 by Bottega Veneta. That there are women who would pay this much money for shoes reveals that there is something working beyond the male gaze: the class gaze.

Looking at how the shoes are actually made reveals their inherent status symbol quality. “If you are a designer of high-end shoes—the type with smooth leather soles, invisible glue, and lovely hand-stitching—they simply must be made in Italy” (Larocca). So how much does it cost to produce these designer shoes? Truthfully, only a fraction of the $515 price tag: the Italian factory charges the designer around $130. The bulk of the cost goes to the retailer and to getting the shoes halfway around the world. These shoes are about status.

The aura of the designer label, which entails high class and luxury, overshadows even the craftsmanship. Those women who can are “better” because they have the more expensive, more beautiful shoes, which will transform themselves into sleeker, sexier bodies that men will desire. Often, both the male gaze and the class gaze work together to fuel women’s lusting, buying, and wearing highheeled shoes. When a woman is seen wearing the latest pair of designer heels, those who see her will make assumptions about her, regarding her sex appeal as well as her class.

By the very nature of their history and what they do to a woman’s body, high-heeled shoes have become a sexual symbol created and reaffirmed by the 8

male gaze in both men and women, as well as a status symbol produced by a distinct class gaze. Whether it is herself, a man, or another woman, there must be a gaze cast upon the wearer of high heels in order for the heels to achieve impact as a sexual or class symbol.

Works Cited: Barthelemy, Anthony. “Brogans.” Footnotes: On Shoes. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001.

Berger, John. “Ways of Seeing.” The Feminism and Visual Culture Reader. 2003.

Bossan, Marie-Josephe. The Art of the Shoe. New York: Parkstone Press, Ltd, 2004.

Bordo, Susan. Unbearable Weight: Feminism, Western Culture, and the Body. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1993.

Brooke, Iris. Footwear. New York: Theatre Arts Books, 1971.

Caovilla, Paola Buratto. Shoes: Objects of Art and Seduction. Milan: Skira, 1998.

Gamman, Lorraine. “Self-Fashioning, Gender Display, and Sexy Girl Shoes: What’s at Stake— Female Fetishism or Narcissism?” Footnotes: On Shoes. New Brunswick: Rutgers University Press, 2001.

Larocca, Amy. “Spiking Heels.” New York Magazine. April 5, 2005.

O’Keeffe, Linda. Shoes. New York: Workman Publishing Company, Inc., 1996.

Evangel Fung Class of 2007 College of Arts & Sciences English Linguistics

9

violation

barrienussbaum “And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs, (and all in silence,) And the staffs all splinter’d and broken...”

-Walt Whitman

Splintered and broken Inconsolably bent Her body is damaged Her efforts are spent.

Once fully intact Once content, in control Struggling rebellion Has taken its toll.

Scratching for safety A slave for the truth Aggression and testosterone Murdered decades of youth.

Tainted, she trembles In scornful haste.

Impalpable excretions Still fresh to the taste.

Splintered and broken Drained beyond repair Youth drips from every orifice Eyes, nostrils, and hair.

The shadow of a woman She’s a snake, shed her skin The new coat lacks vibrance, It’s wrinkled and dim.

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Splintered and broken Dilapidated and confused She’s been taken advantage of Manipulated and used.

Innocence massacred Fragility maimed X-cheerful, X-trusting, Overwhelmed with disdain.

Turbulent solitude Blanketed in degradation Splintered and broken A dirty violation.

Barrie Nussbaum Class of 2009 College of Arts & Sciences Gender, Culture, & Society Psychology

Poem inspired by Walt Whitman’s line, “And the staffs all splinter’d and broken” (page 282, section 15, “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d”) 11

a feminist reading of alfred hitchcock’s psycho

jaclyneinis

Feminist film theory asserts that women are not represented on screen as real women, but rather defined by a patriarchal society that has been constructed and naturalized through the cinema (Creed 9). Examining Alfred Hitchock’s Psycho (1960) through the lens of feminist film theory can reveal the ways in which films define woman in relation to man, fix feminine identity and fate to female sexuality, and use the “male gaze” to objectify the female sex (Creed 10). This analysis demonstrates how feminist film theory seeks to liberate society by acknowledging its existence as an ideology and questioning its coherence by drawing attention to instances of and inconsistencies in films’ representations of sexuality (Creed 15).

Barbara Creed highlights the way in which patriarchal ideology reduces woman “to her body and her (male-defined) sexual desires” (Creed 10). This is largely achieved by connecting the fate of the female protagonist to her sexual identity as a virgin or a whore; if a woman is sexually active or too sexually desirous, she must be controlled and/or punished (Creed 11). Women’s sexual awareness compromises the stability of patriarchy’s designation of the appropriate role of male as active sexual aggressor and female as passive, coy, and prudent. From a psychoanalytic perspective, female sexuality threatens the male because he is frightened by the unfamiliar sight of a woman’s vagina, and the castration anxiety it provokes (Mulvey 21). One way for the male to relieve this anxiety is through voyeurism: investigating and therefore demystifying woman’s unfamiliar body, and then punishing the guilty object (Mulvey 21). The femme fatale, film noir’s seductive female protagonist, is eventually constrained by man, leaving her ‘sometimes behind bars, sometimes happy in the protection of a lover, often dead, sometimes symbolically rendered impotent’ (Creed 11).

Marion Crane (Janet Leight), Psycho’s central female figure, is defined by and punished for her sexuality. The opening scene of Psycho depicts Marion lying in her underwear on a bed with her lover standing beside her. Most critics assume that we see Marion in post-coital embrace; however some propose that she is what Raymond Durgnat calls a demi-verge (everything but penetration) (28).

Virgin, demi-verge, or whore, Marion is punished by Norman because she is female. He finds Marion attractive, but his inner Mother disapproves of the 12

cheap, erotic thrills Marion will bring. As he watches Marion undress, Norman’s sexual arousal sets off the jealous mother within, and, taking on the persona of his (M)other half, destroys this threat. Just before she is killed, Marion is depicted in the shower as erotic spectacle with head tilted up, eyes shut, “facial expressions conveying intense, perhaps sexual pleasure” (Sterritt 1993: 108).

Women on screen are subjected to what Laura Mulvey refers to as the ‘male gaze’ (Mulvey 1975: 19). They are portrayed as erotic objects for both the males within the narrative and the spectators in the audience, who project their fantasy onto the female figure. Mulvey claims that the imaginary spectator is always male, and women-as-spectators are encouraged either to identify with the woman who is the object of the gaze, or with the look of the male protagonist who subjects the female protagonist to his sadistic and/or fetishistic gaze (Creed 5). Margaret Horowitz uses the Freudian notion of a “substitutive relation between the male organ and the eye” (284) to draw a parallel between the loss of sight to castration, and therefore vision and power. Consequently, positioning man as ‘bearer of the look’ (Mulvey 19) is a way of empowering him, therefore reinforcing sexual imbalance.

Hitchcock frequently disempowers his heroines by subjecting them to the male gaze and depicting their sight as obscured, inferior to man’s perception, or destroyed by a male figure. In the opening scene of Psycho, the camera dives in through the window of a hotel room. The camera’s probing past a set of blinds and into a private moment suggests voyeurism, and a half-clothed Marion is the first focus of this gaze (Durgnat 23). Throughout Marion’s getaway, she is victimized by accusing male stares. As her boss walks by at a stoplight, a subjective camera angle makes the audience feel him looking down at Marion (and at them) suspiciously. When Marion encounters a police officer, she is the subject of an authoritative male gaze, as the officer’s dark sunglasses allow access to Marion’s eyes while denying her the ability to see his. Later, Marion gets caught in a storm, rain blurring her vision. Visually impaired, she decides to seek shelter at the Bates Motel; woman’s inability to see leads, albeit indirectly, to her demise.

In the motel, Marion becomes a spectacle as Norman Bates (Anthony Perkins) spies on her changing. Before removing a picture frame to reveal his peep hole, Norman presses his head against the wall, and the sounds of Marion moving about the room intensifies as if the spectators’ ears are also pressed against the wall. The camera shows Norman staring through the hole, and then switches to a point of view shot from Norman’s position behind the peep hole, so that the spectators watch her undress. Marion is at once the object of Norman’s gaze, the gaze of the camera, and the gaze of the spectator. In the shower, Marion’s vision is obscured by the running water. She is oblivious as the audience watches the bathroom door being pushed slowly open. The assailant and the audience see Marion’s shadow through the curtain, but she 13

remains oblivious with her back turned to the curtain, another object that blocks her from a clear vision of danger. A hand pulls the shower curtain aside, and as Marion turns her face. The hand comes back into the shot with a knife, and Marion’s murder is portrayed through “a montage flurry of actions and reactions” (Durgnat 2002: 111) in which sections of Marion’s body are shown in quick shots. The effect of this is that Marion is represented as a sum of separate parts rather than a whole; a piece of flesh rather than a complete person. When Marion collapses, the audience sees her face pressed against the floor, followed by a shot looking up at the shower head, and then down at the drain. Water swirls into the lifeless whole, which cross-fades into a close-up of Marion’s eye. The rotation of the camera draws a parallel between the lifeless drain and her lifeless eye. Marion has been reduced to a “fixed dead object…a dead gaze, which stares, but can no longer see” (Samuels 143-144).

The haunting image of Marion’s sightless eyes is matched only by that of Mrs. Bates. When Lila Crane (Vera Miles) discovers the body of Mrs. Bates in the fruit cellar, the moving reflection of a swinging light bulb draws the audience’s attention to her hollow eye sockets. Mrs. Bates reappears at the end of the film, the teeth of her smiling skull momentarily appearing in front of Norman’s head. The flash of her skull, the psychologist’s determination that the mother inside Norman has completely taken over his mind, and the voice of Mrs. Bates talking in Norman’s head, all place Mrs. Bates in the room. Once again, a female is trapped beneath the watchful eyes of the Law and of the audience. Unbearably aware that she is under surveillance, Mrs. Bates tries to prove her innocence, that she “wouldn’t even hurt a fly,” by ignoring a fly on her/his hand.

Feminist film theory is a necessary tool in moving towards a genderbalanced society. As in Plato’s proverbial cave, the existence of a patriarchic ideology must be acknowledged in order to be transcended. This examination of women’s “sexualization,” of the male gaze, and the treatment of women as passive (or punished impassive) victims in Psycho illustrates some of the ways in which feminist film theory can uncover and decode the mechanisms by which the cinema constructs and constrains women.

Bibliography: Clover, Carol, 1992, Men, Women and Chainsaws: Gender in the Modern Horror Film, Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey.

Creed, Barabara, 2005 “Feminism”, lecture delivered in Introduction to Cinema Studies 1B, pers. comm. 30/08/05.

Creed, Barbara, 2004, Feminist Film Theory: history and debates, Pandora’s Box, Australian Centre for the Moving Image, Melbourne, 1-33.

Durgnat, Raymond, 2002, A Long Hard Look At Psycho, British Film Institute, London.

Horowitz, Margaret, 1986, The birds : a mother’s love, The Hitchcock Reader, eds, M Deutelbaum and A Poague, 279-288.

Modleski, Tania, 1988, The Women Who Knew Too Much: Hitchcock and feminist theory, 14

Routledge, New York.

Mulvey, Laura, 1989, Introduction, Visual and Other Pleasures, Indiana University Press, Bloomington and Indianapolis, vii-xv.

Mulvey, Laura, 1989,Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema, Visual and Other Pleasures, Indiana University Press, Bloomington and Indianapolis, 14-28.

Samuels, Robert, 1998, Hitchcock’s bi-textuality: Lacan, feminisms, and queer theory, State University of New York Press, Albany, New York.

Stanbury, Sarah, 1993 Feminist Masterplots: The Gaze on the Body of Pearl’s Dead Girl, eds S Stanbury and L Lomperis, University of Pennsylvania Press, Pennsylvania, 96-119.

Sterritt, David, 1993, Psycho, The Films of Alfred Hitchcock, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 100-119.

Sterritt, David, 1993, The Birds, The Films of Alfred Hitchcock, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 119-144.

Wood, Robin, 1962, The Birds’ Hitchcock’s Films Revisited, Columbia University Press, New York, 152-172.

Filmography: The Birds, Alfred Hitchcock, 1963 Psycho, Alfred Hitchock, 1960 Jaclyn Einis Class of 2006 College of Arts & Sciences Communications Political Science

15

the early years

hayleybarton

Samantha and I sit across from each other at Hanami, the restaurant we choose every time we go to dinner together. The waiter, who knows us and gives us free edamame, and free miso soup, comes over to take our order. I ask for a green salad and two Philly rolls. Samantha explains that she wants to start with a green salad with the ginger dressing on the side, and she separates the salad from the dressing in the air. For her main dish she wants chicken and broccoli, with not too much sauce. The waiter laughs and nods as he scribbles Japanese onto his pad. Next, she orders a salmon and avocado roll that I know she will give to me because she will be too full after the chicken and broccoli.

And she wants that roll inside out with brown rice, not white. As the waiter starts to walk towards the kitchen, she says, “Excuse me,” and asks for a new glass of water without lemon. “With a straw, please.”

Samantha turns toward me, leans forward and says “Nice cleavage.” I laugh and tug my shirt up by the neck. She pulls her heavy black leather bag onto her lap, and reaches her hands inside; “I have a surprise.”

My face falls a little bit, because my goodbye gift- a cd of all of the songs that mean Samantha to me- sits in the console of my car in the parking lot.

Her hand is still in the bag as she starts. “Tomorrow we’ll both be going off to college...” I tune out and smile, watching her applying her acting skills to a script that I know she wrote a few nights ago and practiced up until I honked outside her house.

She finishes her speech “…and I hope this conveys all of that.” She lifts out a square package covered in lavender tissue paper. There is a darker purple ribbon tied so that it looks like a gift the way Mrs. Rome, our elementary school art teacher, taught us to draw a gift- a line coming in from each side, meeting in a big bow in the middle. Samantha hands it to me across the glossy goldveneered table. “Thank you,” I say as I tear the paper off. I crinkle the tissue paper in my hand and read “Hayley and Samantha: The Early Years.”

Inside there are photos and mementos that mark every milestone, and every non-milestone, too. “Hayley and Samantha at Hayley’s third birthday party,” “Hayley and Samantha play in the mud,” and “Minnie Mouse and Raggedy Anne (Formerly known as Hayley and Samantha) on Halloween” the captions 16

read. I stop turning the pages when I come to a photo labeled, “Hayley and Samantha and the worst woman EVER.” It is a picture of Samantha and me, each with our hair tied into dirty blonde pigtails, standing on either side of our kindergarten teacher. Mrs. Zuckerbrod’s hands are tucked into the pockets of her grayish green apron dress. With her bright red, thin-lipped half-smile, sunken cheeks, and matted gray hair, she looks like a grandmother a little kid would beg not to kiss. In the photo, my eyes are rolled up to look at anything but the camera, and Samantha’s pudgy face is turned, giggling at me.

“What an awful woman.”

“Ugh.” Samantha moans. Then, with the scratchiest voice in her acting repertoire, she mimics, “There is no asking to go to the bathroom or to get a drink of water while I am doing Day of the Week and Weather.”

One day in our first year of elementary school, when we had finished doing Day of the Week and Weather, all of the five and six year olds in Mrs. Zuckerbrod’s class stood up to hurry to the activity stations to which they had been assigned. Samantha tugged on the spandex of my fluorescent pants, so that I said “Ow!” when the material slapped against my leg. She sat Indian style, as Mrs. Zuckerbrod always demanded, not “squatting like a little frog” or kneeling on the backs of her feet.

“Let’s go,” I said. “We get to play in the kitchen first.” Kitchen time was our favorite. We would cook pink-frosted plastic cupcakes in the Fisher Price oven, make sure our baby dolls had had their fills of tea and cookies, and argue over whose husband Roger, the cute reddish-haired boy, would be. But that day, Samantha shook her head back and forth and pleaded at me with tear-coated eyes. I bent down next to my favorite friend, and she whispered in my ear. “I peed.”

Sure enough as I squatted like a frog at her side, my white leather Keds had found their way into a yellow puddle that was now spreading out from under Samantha’s Indian style slouch.

Now, I ask a five foot eight Samantha how her bladder has been treating her lately. She tells me to shut up and to keep looking at the album.

A few pages later, beneath a photograph of Samantha and me eating potato latkes at a Chanukah party in Hebrew School, Samantha has glued in a picture labeled, “Hayley and Samantha at The Sleepover.” Two seven-year-old girls lie on the purple carpet in Samantha’s room, tucked into matching sleeping bags, pretending to be asleep.

That was the sleepover when we played an unforgettable game of Girl Talk: Truth or Dare Edition. I spun the spinner and landed on a dare: “Go to a neighbor’s house and ask for a roll of toilet paper.” Together we charted a plan of action, and we crept up the stairs from the basement where we had been playing. We tiptoed to prevent Linda, Samantha’s mom, from turning around 17

to see us in the kitchen. As soon as we got to the stairs, out of view from the kitchen, we ran up as fast as possible. Cautious of the creaking of the hardwood floors, we crept into Samantha’s parents’ room. We went into her mother’s closet and found two silk robes and two fur coats. We placed all four pieces on Samantha’s parents’ bed, and searched for Linda’s lingerie drawer. When we located it, we removed two bras, and we each pulled off our nightgowns and modeled the silk garments. Unable to stop giggling, we looked at ourselves in the mirror, two little girls in lacy bras and Disney underwear. After some more foraging in the lingerie drawer, we found a little round disk that appeared to be some strange kind of breast enhancer. Samantha stuck it in the left side of her mother’s green bra. A few years later, sitting in a health class lecture on safe sex, we realized that the little disk had been her mother’s diaphragm. Samantha and I continued dressing and slipped on the silk robes and finally the fur coats.

Samantha instructed me to show a little bit of the bra “to be sexy,” and we set off down the back staircase, which lead us straight into the backyard. We marched down the driveway, trudged really, because Linda’s fur coats, dragging against the asphalt, weighed us down. When we reached porch of the stone house at the end of the cul-de-sac, we argued over who would ring the doorbell.

I won, but when Samantha’s neighbor answered the door, I let Samantha ask, “Do you have a roll of toilet paper?” The brunette woman opened her mouth, not knowing what to say, except, “Sure?” I saw two little boys playing behind her. She told us “one minute,” shut the big wooden door, and we heard, “Go upstairs and get a roll of toilet paper from the bathroom. Quickly.”

When we returned back to Samantha’s house, ready to sneak in the back door to end a flawless operation, we realized that we had locked ourselves out. Heads bowed, we walked around to the front of the house, and rang Samantha’s doorbell. I listened to Linda yell for the first time in her life, and we went upstairs to change into our normal clothes. With Samantha offering her “deep apologies” to her neighbors, we returned the toilet paper.

“I cannot believe we did that,” Samantha shakes her head as our salads arrive at the table.

“I can.” We laugh together.

“Put the album away, so you don’t drip on it.” Samantha knows my eating habits too well.

After dinner, I drop Samantha off at 1 Cherokee Trail, the second address after my own that I memorized in nursery school. We stand in front of my car, and we just look at each other. We have heard so many stories of best friends barely talking after a just few months away from home. And I worry that this might be the last time that it will be Hayley and Samantha, the proper singular noun, the duo that we’ve been since age two. The girls who even have matching middle names, who got their first periods within a week of each other, who 18

were named “Joined At the Hip” in senior yearbook superlatives- even though my hip is a good six inches below hers.

With the back of her hand, Samantha flips her long hair behind her shoulder, and then brings it in front, smoothes it, and then flips it back again. She looks down and starts to cry, but this time it’s not because she wet her pants.

Hayley Barton Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences Psychology

19

political

carlybrush

He tells me he loves me but it’s fucking bunk, like Clinton smoking his joint and not inhaling, but everything seems so clear because we’re high and it’s okay for everything he says to be a lie.

He’s the speaker of the house of sexual politics, in charge, demanding, so I take what he gives me, but I never get my due. Where’s the reciprocity?

I give and get nothing. Fuck reciprocity.

I run his campaign, and tell the lies so much even I start to believe them. Brainwashed, but I know the truth. With pain, I close my eyes, let him pass the joint, wince as I inhale his lies.

No one ever said love and politics would be easy.

Filled with smoke, I’ve never felt so empty.

Carly Brush Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences Psychology

20

women who want to be women

anonymous

In 1978, Beverly LaHaye watched a Barbara Walters television interview with Betty Friedan (Brown 167). Friedan, author of The Feminine Mystique and co-founder of two of the largest feminist organizations in the United States—the National Organization of Women (NOW) and the National Abortion Rights Actions League (NARAL)—presented herself to Walters as a representative for all American women (Betty Friedan). LaHaye was so incensed by Friedan’s claim that she created one of the largest and most powerful conservative organizations in the country: Concerned Women for America (CWA).

By influencing national politics, CWA seeks to preserve traditional gender roles. CWA opposes state-funded childcare (Daycare Dilemma) and easy access to birth control, issues often supported by moderate or slightly conservative women. The organization even goes so far as to imply that violence against women is due to the feminist refusal of the yoke of marriage (Hooks) Interestingly, CWA and NOW boast an equal number of supporters,6 both over 500,000 members (www.now.org/organization.faq.html, www.cwfa. org/history.asp). For a feminist, the success of the CWA seems impossible, even frightening.

In her book, Right Wing Women, Andrea Dworkin catalogs the promises offered by conservatives to women: “The Right offers women a simple, fixed, predetermined social, biological, and sexual order,” (Dworkin 22) The Right, as Dworkin explains, promises to fulfill the four basic needs of every woman: shelter, safety, rules, and love (Dworkin 22). Those who opposed the Equal Rights Amendant (ERA) argued that, if the ERA were ratified, women would be taken out of their homes, and either forced into the workplace or the military. According to Dworkin, this change would take away a woman’s shelter. She would then be forced into the supposedly unsafe realm of the workforce or military, thus diminishing her sense of security. Ultimately, if women and men work side-by-side, the sexes would become equal and the rules that govern only women would become blurred. The woman would not be loved for her “female functions” because these functions, as differentiated from “male functions,” would lose their value and their intrinsic “femaleness.”

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Equality of men and women, conservatives believe, would obliterate the difference between the genders.

Above all else, the CWA values this differentiation between man and woman. It is believed, after all, that God himself had decreed this distinction in the Bible. Man is meant to be the provider and woman is meant to be the nurturer—distinctions perceived as not only natural, but holy. To attack this system, is to attack the family. The CWA (like all other conservative organizations) sees these proscribed gender roles as essential to the family’s— to society’s—survival.

The culture war over same-sex marriage highlights the conservative movement’s fear of the disintegration of the family unit. The idea of two members of the same sex entering into a relationship rocks the concept of gender difference to the core. In fact, “[a]lthough Beverly LaHaye’s Family Voice magazine gives roughly equal time to the abortion and homosexuality issues, her fund-raising letters for [CWA] appeal for money to fight homosexuality twice as often as abortion” (Brown 210). CWA does not just encourage its constituents to hate and fear non-heterosexual or non-gender conforming individuals, but to directly link political gains of the lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender community with a breakdown of the religiously-based gender norms. Moreover, the CWA states that it wants to see “[t]he family restored and preserved as that bedrock institution of society consisting of individuals related by blood, marriage (which is defined as the legal union between one man and one woman), birth, or adoption” (“Concerns and Goals” www.cwfa. org/goals-concerns.asp). Thus, homosexuality, like the breakdown of gender distinctions for men and women, poses a major threat to what conservatives deem the appropriate family unit.

Dworkin’s theory on the success of the Right does not present the full picture. Women do not simply want shelter, safety, rules, and love. They want, most of all, to be women. But what does it mean to be a woman? This is the question that divides CWA and NOW supporters.

The success of the CWA lies in its ability to present a world in which women are women and men are men. Traditionally, feminist organizations have been overly concerned with proving that, through feminism, women can provide for their own shelter, ensure their own safety, make their own rules, and love themselves through self-empowerment. Feminists are often so concerned with defending their stance against conservatives that they forget that they also want the same basic right—to be women. By understanding the underlying ideology of those women who seemingly oppose “women’s rights,” feminists may get closer to understanding all women. It is through mutual understanding and respect that women can begin to communicate, advocate, and organize as one cohesive unit.

22

Works Cited: Brown, Ruth Murray. For a “Christian America”: A History of the Religious Right. Amherst, NY: Prometheus Books, 2002.

Dworkin, Andrea. Right-Wing Women. New York, NY: Perigee Books, 1978.

“Day Care Dilemma.” CWA web. 28 January 1998. 1 November 2005.

Hooks, Kathryn. “The Violent Reality of Lovin’ and Leavin’.” CWA web. 12 June 2003. 1 November 2005. <http://www.beverlylahayeinstitute.org/articledisplay.asp?id=4107&departme nt=BLI&categoryid=dotcommentary> http://www.now.org/organization/faq.html http://www.cwfa.org/history.asp “Concerns and Goals.” CWA web. <http://www.cwfa.or/goals-concerns.asp>

23

us two into the night

carriealexander

We are getting off at the next exit at least I think that is what the directions say. And the night has eclipsed us in perpetual darkness but we will find our way. Amanda is driving at a high speed. I don’t want to arrive too early and I have no say she is in control. Who wrote this out who planned this event? But she can’t fathom it and neither can I. This is it we have been waiting a while if only the roads weren’t so damn dark and all these streets didn’t wind like they were fucking snakes or something like that and he is expecting me so I must get there as soon as I can but these roads are so badly lit and I don’t know the twists like he does. There are deer out here this time of night and the headlights just confuse me. What am I doing, how did I get myself into this one? But Amanda seems to know what we are going to do tonight. We’ll just follow Kensey’s instructions she says. And it will all be good from here on in from here on in it will be swell. The two of us will figure it out we’ll carve out plans together us two gonna have a hell of a time us two together.

But we are rounding a corner and the masses of pine trees are getting thicker and the driveways longer. And I am looking out the window and she is checking the instructions and we are both hysterical cause this rustic little shit of a town is what we must decipher. Out here how do you find a home, how do you find a friend one time he told me he wanted to be mine to be more than a friend but that was before it all ended. And we were driving, driving in his car and the music was playing and my hair was blowing and he was tapping the beat on the steering wheel and I couldn’t look away not even for an instant. I might spot a boy up there past a parked car but I can never be sure. His car is older than this crap of a wagon and he is coming closer maybe it is Brad but how the hell should I know. I can barely make out the dashboard in front of me how can I be expected to insinuate who is there and who is not I’ll be there soon We are dancing in the shadows and the cool fall breeze is blowing the wisps into her face while Brad watches and waits for our next move. So we might walk up the drive if our trio is in agreement but I am never sure enough so this guy leads the way and he grabbed my hand and led me down the wooden staircase but I couldn’t walk well maybe I was dizzy with love he leads me into the woods. And he leans against an old tractor of sorts and pulls my body towards his as we hold each other and whisper he said and now you and he said 24

and now this but I see Kensey and Kati in the window their faces are lit up with excitement Kensey’s eyes are practically popping out of their sockets and they are calling us to come hither. So we move and I sprint and he saunters and she follows me. In reaching the door I jump in and embrace the girls but he holds back, Brad is always so awkward but he wasn’t ever awkward with me but that was his nature he would lead and I would follow always navigating forever following the unexpected turns in the road The house is a maze with its porcelain statues and oil painted mermaids hanging on the walls the pastels are swirling together into one large mass of faint peaceful hues. I can remember the time I waltzed around his home around his own room gazing at the books on the shelves and the blue wardrobe consuming the entire closet and finally you come closer he would say but I can’t find the bathroom and I need to piss like never before. That damn car ride took so long and Amanda didn’t know where to turn and I surely didn’t but he always knew the way, always Follow me and Kati with her newly ironed jet black hair is telling me where to go and Kensey lets me go upstairs because we know each other well. I won’t mess up her little brother’s room or stare at her bed in utter amazement like Brad might like he is now leaning against the counter his eyes moving from girl to girl troubled and anxious. He is incredibly awkward I think he is one of those guys who would stand there and stare like he had never seen her like her eyes were newly formed and her body had been reshaped why are you staring at me but he doesn’t answer and I can see my face in his eyes as we both stare deeply but he penetrates me and he says he loves my eyes but all of those boys last summer said that too. I am not going to see him for quite some time but I will return and he will be waiting I get back downstairs but no one new has arrived. So we continue to prance around the simple pastoral kitchen like graceful deer the guy in front of me killed a deer I say and I am frozen and he holds me and god knows if he believes me but I can’t tell him that it was really me he already thinks I drive like a crazed speed chugging animal but I just want to be the skipper and he urges me to follow and others show up with presents in hand toting gifts to be distributed to all and we mingle and frolic among the pine trees and little kids’ toys that have been flung amuck. We two go out to another girls car and laugh the expanse of time away and we are rolling like balls on the plush leather seats and he moves back and I follow and the seats follow us too still rolling back farther till they lie flat and we lie down and the night is ours and the path keeps turning But I cannot walk back up to the house. Amanda is dizzy but we are trying to stay at the same level and he wants me to follow but Brad is nowhere to be found. What do I care, what do I want out of this a raucous night and a headache tomorrow? Where is the sense in this life where are we going from here just follow just a little farther and I am on a chair and I want it to end. To sleep to sleep it all away and here we are lying alone I am on the white cushion in this 25

spacious room in close quarters as always but not here. Dozing off perchance, forgetting about this all till tomorrow morning but the morning is when it all ends and I will go home and sleep it off again and follow you if I could now the party is over and I’ll navigate us home I said but I’m too tired to drive myself right now why don’t I navigate and you’ll follow and I will be the skipper for now.

Carrie Alexander Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences Cinema Studies

26

bundle of rights

soniapascal

As an out and proud lesbian, I am often asked why I devote so much of my activist time and energy to fighting for reproductive rights. Why, my friends and family query, do you not focus on gay rights—being able to marry your girlfriend, for example, or even the basic right to not face discrimination at work or school? Why worry so much about abortion when you will never need one? Indeed, I concede that abortion will likely not be a personal conflict; even if I was to become pregnant through rape, I imagine that I would give birth and raise the child. I certainly plan to invest a substantial sum in conceiving through artificial means, and I very much want to become a mother. So abortion won’t be a personal struggle, while LGBTQ rights already is. Why then do I ostensibly care more about the former than the latter?

My dear relatives overlook a crucial point, however: LGBTQ rights are not a separate and distinct issue from reproductive rights. They are all part of the same fundamental platform—what goes on between my girlfriend and me in the bedroom, or between my parents or friends or the President and First Lady, for that matter, is not of concern for legislators. Within this body, I have certain rights implicitly endowed by the Constitution; it is not coincidental that the landmark gay rights case, Lawrence vs. Texas, relied on the precedent of Roe vs. Wade or Planned Parenthood vs. Casey. The themes of choice and privacy are paramount; I respect the freedom to make choices about one’s own health (mental or physical) and welfare, includes your freedom to decide when and if you want to bear children, and my freedom to love Angela.

So reproductive and LGBTQ rights are clearly related, but they still present two different political battles. If we won the right to have same-sex marriage legitimized, but abortion was illegal in most states, my life would certainly improve. Access to the more than 1,138 automatic federal and additional state protections, benefits and responsibilities that heterosexual couples take for granted would make a measurable impact on my life. On the other hand, even if I needed an abortion, I could surely attain one—I’m white, wealthy, educated. I could hop a plane to Canada or France, as many women did before Roe, or I could rely on my contacts with physicians from my social 27

circle, including some of my Penn alumni friends. Conversely, if abortion was completely legal, but the state of LGBTQ rights was even worse than it is now—no legal recognition of gay unions, no hate crimes legislation, the impossibility of recourse for discrimination—I, and the family I will eventually raise, will be in dire trouble. Angela and I have already been the victims of a hate crime; we were assaulted by a homeless man for kissing and holding hands in public. We are often harassed as we walk together, hissed at, pointed at, threatened or cat-called. Even if I see the linkage between reproductive and gay rights—or between rights for people of color and rights for women—why invest more in the issue that doesn’t exactly fit my identity category, that isn’t “my problem”?

And therein lies the crux of the matter: the distinctions between identity categories, women vs. Blacks vs. gays vs. the mentally ill, solely lead to what philosopher Judith Butler termed “illimitable et ceteras.”

As she notes, the list of identity categories is endless, but is more often a limiting factor than a force for positive social change. We all fit into a number of these different categories, but I think the intersectionality--how one oppression relates to another--is far more important than the divides.

Why should Black lesbians have to choose whether gender oppression is more significant than racial oppression or sexual oppression? As a lesbian, I cannot allow my society to enshrine inequality as a foremost principle; as a woman, I cannot rest when others forcibly place me and those with similar genitalia in fabricated boxes, ignoring my individuality; as a human being, I cannot fathom the continued slavery of degrading, low-wage work that still falls disproportionately on people of color and immigrants. I refuse to champion one cause to the detriment of another. Progressive activists often lament the fact that conservatives are able to rein in a base all committed to similar ideals, while our side fractures into issue groups and identity politics.

This is a red-herring argument—we are all fighting for a similar dream of a better world, where people aren’t treated as interchangeable digits, where skin color is as irrelevant to personality as eye color, but where ethnic or national origin is a cause for celebration, where gender and sex and sexuality are fluid and flexible. We may spend our days organizing on different projects, throwing our resources into different arenas because the political climate demands such methods, but we cannot forget our commitment to a shared vision.

It is vital that we take interest in the issues that are not as closely related to our personal identity categories. Only then can we perceive the interactions among us that elevate identity politics into a larger progressive movement. I might never have to have an abortion, need emergency contraception, or any other form of contraceptive, and I have excellent access to accurate sexual health information, but that does not mean I don’t understand the importance 28

of the issues at stake. Similarly, I hope heterosexual individuals take interest in LGBTQ rights as a matter of true inequity. In reality, we will never have a choice between same-sex marriage and access to abortion, because the same people that believe in fixed, impenetrable gender roles believe that women are incapable of making decisions about their own bodies. I don’t have to choose between one fight and the other, and neither should any progressive activist.

What is important is that we choose to fight.

Sonia “Sunny” Pascal Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences Gender, Culture, & Society Philosophy, Politics & Economics

29

the slut

carolinerothstein

I used to be easy I used to let the boys be sleazy Please me, mother fucker, please me Tease me, mother fucker, tease me Squeeze my tits Rub my clit Fuck me screaming, “Hit that shit!” … Bitch!

Then I came to my senses Razing female subjugation fences Pretenses that my sexuality is evanescence Evaporating from my claim Effervescing from my labia for heterosexual men To tame Maim my femininity Debauch my virginity Augment your chauvinistic masculinity And we’ll reach sexual divinity Cause that’s how we’ve been taught Caught in oppressive lies between my voluptuous thighs Stare into my eyes and tell me you love me So that you’re guaranteed sex Exploit my defensive reflex and rape me when I’m too drunk to notice you’ve slipped your Dick inside my cunt From the front, oh yeah bitch, from the back You wanna tap my ass?

You wanna harass my gendered class I’m coughing up millennia of male hegemony Administering my body on how it ought to be naughty I need to be lewd, crude, rude And interrupt this broadcast with a blowjob interlude Titty fuck my humanity Make me plead lyrical insanity when I say no I owe you and orgasm to love you long time And deal with being jailed in your superior macho 30

confines Blow lines of cocaine off your penile membrane So I’m fully alert when you squirt semen All over my face Cause I know you dig that baby Fuck me like a whore Cause that’s all women are Co-modified Cuban cigars to smoke Toked like that bubonic chronic blunt that you and Your boys pass around Like bitches Ditch her when she twitches when you find her Glitches, mainly that she won’t fuck on the first date Pass her off to your roommate And fuck over his fate Cause he won’t be getting laid tonight He won’t be getting paid tonight For his job well done in creating male monarchic Kingdom Where freedom is for the citizen men And treason is for the weak and feeble ladies Enslaved to behave like you want, Flaunt and taunt me to I used to be easy I used to let the boys be sleazy Now I’m a queasy feminist Nauseated That my worth has been obliterated By insipid Boys with flaccid toys And a serious inferiority complex Cause they’re afraid of the feminine power That towers like mythical rain showers But the hour nears when you will no longer devour my Sensual powers I’m closing up shop And only the worthy can feel my curvy physique And kindly make love to my sexual mystique.

Caroline Rothstein Class of 2006 College of Arts & Sciences Classical Studies Theater Arts

31

docile bodies in margaret atwood’s the handmaid’s tale michaelmatergia Margaret Atwood’s novel The Handmaid’s Tale depicts the society of Gilead, a totalitarian theocracy which represses the role of the feminine in society. However, in this patriarchal society there is not only a divide between men and women but between different groups of women as well. Handmaids are fertile women who serve as surrogate mothers for high-ranking females and form a separate class from the other women in society. The feminine bodies of the handmaids are stripped of all freedoms, pleasures, and forms of power, such as reading or writing, and are reduced to their biological function as reproducers. Atwood provides a fascinating account of the relationship between the state and the feminine body and how the feminine body can be appropriated by the state for the purpose of social reproduction. Michael Foucault’s Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison provides a basis for looking at Atwood’s world and examining the subtle forms of control and power that Gilead exerts on the individual.

In Discipline and Punish, Foucault examines the history of the modern prison system and how a system of discipline evolved that created “docile bodies.” A docile body is one which “may be subjected, used, transformed and improved;” it is the result of conflict between self and society in which the political is imposed over the personal (Foucault 136). A docile body is a disciplined body; however, Foucault is concerned with more than the obvious forms of discipline such as punishment and torture. He argues that a state disciplines a body by subtly restricting the movements, gestures, distribution, and temporal arrangement of the body in such a manner that the power of the state pervades the body. While in Foucault’s work, power is largely non-gendered, Atwood’s novel examines specifically how the concept of docile bodies relates to the biologically gendered female form. The Handmaid’s Tale explores how the Gileadean regime seeks to reduce the female handmaids to “docile bodies” through political subjugation of the body. The feminine body is the primary focus of disciplinary power and Gilead subtly controls the spatial distribution, temporal rhythms, and 32

positioning of the feminine body in a manner that reinforces the appropriation of the body by the state for the purpose of social reproduction. The distinctive spatial and temporal arrangement of the body in the town, the Commander’s home, and during the sex ceremony is constructed so that even the smallest gestures and arrangements of the handmaid’s body reproduces the coercive practices of the state and links them with their biologically determined role as child bearers.

In order to enforce this concept of biological determinism the state seeks to reconstruct the relationship between the feminine consciousness and the female body by promoting a sharp distinction between the two. Offred, the handmaid who is the narrator of the text, articulates this evolution of the relationship between flesh and mind: I used to think of my body as an instrument, of pleasure…I could use it to run, push buttons of one sort or another, make things happen…Now the flesh arranges itself differently. I’m a cloud, congealed around a central object, the shape of a pear, which is more real than I am (Atwood 73-74) .

Whereas, in the pre-Gileadean society the body and mind were an integrated unit and the body served as an “instrument” of consciousness, in Gilead the body and mind are now compartmentalized and the body, rather than the mind, is the central focus. Offred becomes a “cloud,” an evanescent image suggesting only the partial existence of self. For how real is a cloud? It can be seen and its presence acknowledged but it cannot be touched, shaped, or used for any purpose. Rather the mind has become the hosting ground for the womb, the real object which can transformed, commodified, and controlled by the state.

The previously entwined and integrated unit of mind and body devolves into “I” and “object.” Additionally, Offred’s language suggests a temporal split between the mind and body. Previously, she could “make things happen:” there was an instantaneous connection between what the mind thought and the body expressed. However, in Gilead there is a temporal abstractedness to the body, “which is more real than I.” Gilead purposefully perpetuates a distinction between the mind and body because this compartmentalization allows for disciplinary power to be more easily exerted on the body. This echoes Foucault’s sentiment that power is more effective when a body is isolated in compartmentalized space. In order for Gilead to exploit the object, which is the womb, it must subvert and isolate the mind. Herein lies the meaning of a “docile body” as it applies to Atwood’s text: the handmaid’s body is an exploitable object that is used for the sole purpose of reproduction in the name of the social. Gilead constructs a society in which the spatial distribution, temporal rhythms, and positioning of the handmaids’ bodies maintains an interaction between the individual and society that reinforces this notion that their feminine bodies are 33

nothing more than the site of biological reproduction.

The positioning of the body during the sex ceremony defines the body as the apparatus of (re)production in Gilead society. Offred describes the sex ceremony as one in which two bodies are integrated: “Serena Joy is arranged outspread. Her legs are apart, I lie between them…My arms are raised; she holds my hands, each of mine in each of hers. This is supposed to signify that we are one flesh, one being,” (Atwood 93-94). The mood and the syntax echo the objectification of the body; everything is stated matter-of-factly in a detached manner, “her legs are apart, I lie.” The body is not only objectified, but it is also de-gendered as there is no sense of any of the feminine pleasures that are normally associated with sex. As Offred states, this is “fucking” not “lovemaking” and ironically there is no “Joy.” In addition to the language, the positioning of Offred stresses the objectification of her body as it becomes “one” with Serena’s body. However, this body positioning goes beyond the implications of integrating the flesh of Serena and Offred by positioning Offred’s body as an extension of Serena’s body. As Foucault notes, “disciplinary control…imposes the best relation between gesture and overall position of the body…a well-positioned body forms the operation context of the slightest gesture,”(Foucault 94). Serena Joy is the unfortunate bearer of an unproductive womb and the positioning of Offred’s body as an extension of Serena’s body contextualizes her function. She is an object designed to rectify the inadequacies of Serena Joy and in this sense Offred’s womb is not much different than a prosthetic arm or a pair of eye glasses. Offred has become in her own words “a two-legged womb.” The fact that she is an individual is no more than an accident, as the state superimposes itself on her reproductive body. The actions of Offred’s “well-positioned body” augment this notion, “[she] lie[s] still… arousal and orgasm are no longer thought necessary,”(Atwood 57). Offred is inert; there is no sense of passion or any other attendant emotion that typically accompanies sex. Additionally, there is no protest that typically accompanies rape; rather, to make it bearable Offred simply “detaches” herself. Any sense of personal pleasure is removed from the act of sex. In this sense, Offred has fully realized Foucault’s concept of a “docile body” in that she has resigned herself to accept her situation as natural and realizes that it is in her own best interest to allow for her body to be the staging ground for social reproduction.

In The Handmaid’s Tale, Atwood has created a fictional society which operates based upon a system of control that has marginalized and isolated the handmaids’ bodies in both space and time. As Offred recalls in the time before Gilead, “we lived in the blank white spaces at the edge of print…we lived in the gaps between the stories,”(Atwood 57). This metaphor still applies in Gilead, but in a different way. Offred reflects not only on the empty meaning of her life but also on the position of her body in Gileadean society. Her body is reduced 34

to the margins, “at the edge of print,” and while the handmaids are always visible, they are visible in the sense of only partially being there, floating in the time-less “gaps” with no effect on the society as a whole. The evanescence of the handmaid’s situation is emphasized by their existence in the gaps in the stories which at any time may be easily filled and written over. Offred feels the effects of this marginalization when Serena Joy offers Offred a glimpse of her daughter’s photograph and she realizes, “from the point of future history… [the handmaids] will be invisible…time has not stood still. It has washed over [Offred]… [and she] can’t bear to have been erased like than,”(Atwood 228).

Offred realizes that despite the temporal rhythm of her life which places her in a static world where time is “white noise,” that history has marched on. The thought of being erased drives her to an act of rebellion, the telling of her story.

Offred declares that “I keep on going with this sad and hungry and sordid, this limping and mutilated story, because after all I want you to hear it,”(Atwood 268). Offred is attempting to fill in the white space, remove herself from the margins, and escape the confines that Gilead has placed on her body. By telling her story she may transcend the space and time of Gilead and project herself into the future; she may shed her docile body and yet again regain a sense of self.

Works Cited: Alan Sheridan. New York : Pantheon Books, 1977.

Atwood, Margaret Eleanor. The Handmaid’s Tale. Boston : Houghton Mifflin, 1986.

Foucault, Michel. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. Trans.

Michael Matergia Class of 2006 College of Arts & Sciences History

35

geology

elizabethlovelock

As a female senior majoring in Geology and Environmental Science, interested in pursuing geology in graduate school, I was wondering what role gender would play in my potential future as a geologist. Part of my research regarding various grad schools takes into account the number of female geologists at that institution who could serve as advisors, mentors or role models for me. In beginning of this project, I looked at the ratios of men to women at the different levels in geology, and I was shocked to see what a small percentage of full professors are women. It raises the issue of the coincidence of childbearing years with a crucial period in an academic career, and the inflexibility of a work environment such as a lab. Further research has only left me more doubtful about the compatibility of my aspirations both to have kids before thirty and to pursue an academic career in geology.

Isolation is most obviously a factor in departments that have only one female faculty member. These women may feel increased workloads if they are asked to serve on multiple committees (as the only woman in the department available to do so) and they may also find themselves advising many, if not all, the female students. Having female mentors is crucial for increasing the number of women in geology, but this must be recognized as a time and energy consuming activity. A lone junior faculty woman may herself be lacking a mentor, making achieving tenure more difficult without strong guidance.

Family issues also seem to be a significant factor hindering the advancement of women in academia. If a woman waits to have children until after she has received tenure, she may be forty, and thus faces greater risks associated with pregnancy due to her age. Such risks include an increased rate of miscarriages and Down’s syndrome. On the other hand, by having a child before the job security of a tenure position is reached, a woman risks her career. The intensity of the work required to achieve tenure may itself be enough to deter a woman from even seeking a tenure track position. This was the case with my advisor Yvette Bordeaux whom I interviewed.

Yvette had her two daughters, Alex and Cate, while she was working on her PhD. She said this was a challenging endeavor and she would not advise it. Though when asked at what point during an academic career in geology 36

one should have kids, she had no answer. The problem with the scenario she chose, Yvette explained, was that she could not work on writing her dissertation while at home because of the constant distraction of her girls. She would go into school on the weekends to write when her husband could be at home to look after the kids. After she finished her PhD, Yvette says she chose her family over pursuing a tenure track position. In her current position she is not under pressure to publish, but she says she gets to do what she likes, which is teaching, while still having time for things like coaching soccer (both her girls play soccer).

I asked Yvette about how much field work she was doing at the time she was pregnant, and I also spoke with a graduate student who has a daughter.

Yvette said she was still doing field work while pregnant until the end of her pregnancy, though while pregnant she experienced vertigo while scrambling on rocks in a way she never had before. Her theory was that this was some sort of preservational instinct. Throughout most of her pregnancy though, Yvette still went out in the field to continue her research.

The paleontology grad student, Barbara, whom I spoke with told me that after she had her daughter she could no longer go on month-long field expeditions such as the one I was on out in Wyoming this past summer. Barbara has had an atypical academic career in part because she was forced to abandon her PhD at Princeton (before she had her daughter) because of the unforeseen departure of her advisor. When her daughter was four and in daycare, Barbara was able to get a position as the chief investigator on a dig in New Jersey. Since this was an easy commute, Barbara was still able to be out in the field after she had her daughter. Barbara is currently working on a PhD at Penn since she now can devote more time to work on it as her daughter is in college. Both of these women have not yet taken their academic careers to the highest level because of the time they have invested in their families.

Given the amount of time required to pursue a tenured position, it doesn’t seem like there would be any time leftover to have and raise kids. I believe this is a significant factor in why there are not more women geoscience professors.

There are presumably more women like Yvette who self-select out of tenure track positions to have more time with their families. The struggle to balance family life and the pressures of academia may also account for why more female assistant professors don’t make tenure. My only counter to the argument that science waits for no one is to say that the fossil leaves I am currently studying waited 55 million years before I dug them out of the ground.

Elizabeth Lovelock Class of 2005 College of Arts & Sciences Geology and Environmental Science

37

in the air

jasminefournier

Some nights I wander to embrace nowhere, — that is where I felt his open stare — (although they told me to beware) that under the syrup of drinks delight — when what seems wrong is always right — (for things that happen in the night) that time slid by twothreefourfive — while we both feigned to be alive — (the explanation too much contrived) what occurred perhaps was Haste — to sample, to wonder, or so to taste — (ultimately deciding it was a waste) to ask for more I do not dare — the weight of truth too dense to bare — (all this from just a simple stare).

Jasmine Fournier Class of 2008 College of Art & Sciences Economics Health and Societies

38

thou shalt not lie Is what the bible preaches While Genesis teaches The fundamental fib That Eve came from Adam’s rib.

Religion tells us to accept This utterly inept Theory of creation Straight from man’s imagination.

But if you took a look outside Nature would deride This manufactured claim And put all men to shame For believing they gave birth While in fact it’s Mother Earth Who for nine months in her womb Allows new life to bloom And from the babe’s first cries Wipes tears from tiny eyes Provides food from her breast And open arms for rest.

She is a life-sustaining form Keeping children safe and warm Until their maturation Assuring future generations.

In this natural state Society would operate In a matriarchal scheme.

Submissive men would deem Women gods and to them pray For maintaining life each day.

Yet man’s realization That this configuration Would make their gender meeker And infinitely weaker If man were to endorse The matriarchal course 39

arieltichnor

Created endless spite And man avenged to fight Life’s natural order.

They re-mapped the border Of power and respect With maximum effect By making up a God That called all others frauds.

A God completely male According to man’s tale A God male and supreme That fulfilled man’s dream Of usurping female clout As He brought about Patriarchal domination.

And that’s no fabrication.

Ariel Tichnor Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences History

40

a surprise

alissaweiss

Sometimes when my sister calls me, I am surprised, particularly if she’s calling just to catch up. I ask about her work as a freelance event producer, and she questions me about my housemates, classes and undetermined future.

Together, we chat like old friends. I find myself puzzled by this new phase in our relationship and wonder how and when we got here. Had you asked me three, six, ten years ago if I thought we could be close, I would have laughed – or cried – and replied in the negative.

When “Linds Cell” pops up on my cell-phone screen, unexpected images of my childhood and her adolescence occasionally accompany it. Lindsay with her face contorted into a grimace as she hisses, “I don’t know why I was so nice to you while we were on vacation. Now you’re just as annoying as always.” Hurt, I turn my little body away from her, failing to shield myself from damaging words. Or Lindsay and I arguing over the dirty dishes as she comments in a nonchalant manner, “I was perfectly happy with a family of four. And then you came along.” Angry, I shove a cup into the dishwasher, wishing my parents and brother hadn’t left us in the kitchen again. Or Lindsay stalking into the living room to watch me play piano, only to sneer, “You could use a lot more practice.” Furious, I run out of the room, crying into my mother’s protective arms. (When relaying this latest example of cruelty to her, I conveniently leave out the fact that half an hour prior, I had informed Lindsay that the graph she drew for her math homework looked crooked.) A pleasant conglomeration of images of us playing in her room slips into the mix: she teaches me to play jacks; we separate a bag of M&Ms into intricate, color-coded designs; we shove our faces so close together that her two eyes merge, floating crazily in front of me until we back up, giggling madly. The insistent phone ring wipes away these memories and I pick up.

I grew up attempting to understand why my sister marred my otherwise complete contentment with my family. Hurt by our pattern of rivalry and spite, I couldn’t help but dwell on every put-down, harsh critique and rejection of my friendship. Why didn’t Lindsay and I have the normal sibling antagonism that she enjoyed with Josh, two years her elder? All I got was emotional torture, for she felt no qualms with taking her anger and insecurities out on me. Lindsay 41

– bitter middle child, overweight, angry – was furious with a world that could only offer her nasty high school friends and parents who never seemed to understand her. In cruel contrast, I was the happy, skinny baby of the family.

Parents’ pet. I was also overdramatic and pesky. I never understood why my sister didn’t want to socialize with someone seven years younger than her, and she had little tolerance for my copy-cat ways. I wanted to know why. Why can’t we be friends? Why does she take her anger out on me? How does she know where to poke me where it hurts the most?

It seems that there were no satisfying answers to these questions, especially as Lindsay and I matured, shedding the skin of youth. It wasn’t until Lindsay joined Josh at college – just as I began middle school – that we took our first steps towards reconciliation. The geographic distance between us was a respite, a blessing, and it gave Linds time to change. Buoyed by independence and loving friends, her self-confidence grew. And I was transforming as well. As I aged, I became more than just the baby in her eyes. Parties, illegal substances and romantic relationships slowly infiltrated our conversations, allowing us to relate on a more adult level. Every so often, my concerned mother gently prodded, “Things are better with Linds these days, aren’t they?” Vaguely responding yes, I didn’t tell her that I was wary – always wary – and that it would take a long while before I felt at ease with my sister.

These days, when I think about Lindsay, I have new memories to consider.

Most involve her visiting me while I studied abroad in Rome, and our subsequent trip to Berlin. While living abroad, I rediscovered and redefined my identity on a daily basis. I realized that I view experiences through a “Weiss” lens, which is cynical and perceptive and curious. As my semester progressed, an unexpected feeling crept up on me: I needed to share my ruminations and adventures with my sister. She would understand how I experienced this process, and I was eager to explore Europe with another Weiss. Like me, Lindsay was surprised when I asked her to leave behind her hectic New York life and join me in Europe for a few days. But I didn’t know if she was nervous too. After months of planning, when I finally picked her up at the Termini train station, I couldn’t help but wonder if I had made a mistake. Would we – she – revert to the old ways? Would our fledgling friendship pass the test of five days together?

During our days in Rome I proudly marched Lindsay through the streets, thrilled to share the city’s beauty with her. We ate exquisite dinners (on my parents) over which we laughed about the idiosyncrasies of our family, most of which reside in my father. “Remember Dad’s obsession with the George Chan hot sauce?” “Ugh, yes, that was before the Amora mustard kick…” We cried over the loss of our grandparents, whose deaths affect us sporadically and painfully. We wondered at our commonalities over boys, work and family: “Why is it that when I’m attracted to a guy, I get really sarcastic, and think that 42

that will show him just how much I like him?” “I don’t know, but it hasn’t worked for me…” In Berlin we dashed about the city, inhaling monuments, museums and Weinerschnitzel in three short days. And then, on our last night together, Lindsay leaned across the table to remark, “You’re good to travel with Liss. I don’t get crabby when I’m with you. I do with my friends, but not with you.” Like our entire trip, these words were a gift, unexpected and precious.

This new-found friendship encourages me to allow our past of bitter words and hurtful gestures to slowly slip away. I want to forget what, exactly, she – I – did that was so wrong. As the importance attached to our age difference diminishes, I relish our ability to forge a relationship beyond home and parents and dirty dishes and a tarnished history. We have changed, and are letting go of the once-angry sisters who distorted each other into monsters. And now I can call her from time to time, and tell her that I can’t wait until she comes home, because there is so much I need to tell her.

Alissa Weiss Class of 2006 School of Arts & Sciences History

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a wicked art

barrienussbaum

red screams across her naked body painted with the swift strokes of an artist’s hand this, however, is not the work of a painter not an artist with a canvas and colors an artist with a coldness and corruption his swift strokes are not meant for a viewer’s eyes to linger on they are solely for his own brutal pleasure a tormented body drenched with tears, sweat, semen, and blood this is art to him an art like no other a sensual, secretive scam to destroy her innocence he muffles her shrieks with his dirty palm this nasty artist seeking pleasure at the sight of her squirming silhouette the dark outline of her delicate figure contrasts with the bright white of the cold tile the two bodies; hot with passion and rage writhe vigorously on the frigid ivory floor now this is art. what a way to live, he thinks. her feisty resistance slows to a steady withdrawal of all efforts, all emotion and she thinks what a way to die.

Barrie Nussbaum Class of 2009 College of Arts & Sciences Psychology Gender, Culture, & Society

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last night

anonymous

I. Breakfast, 10am, Saturday morning.

Egg white omelet for me, you get the bacon, egg and cheese.

Now I look like crap, last night’s outfit, fitful sleep the night before, no REM and no makeup remover in your house, and my haste, this morning, picking my way through the boy mess to leave, to bust this smelly frat house joint, and I look like a fun house mirror image of the night before.

All in the vain effort to avoid being paraded around like last night’s catch.

But the fish market is crowded, guilty breakfast with Friday night’s fish and as you go from table to table in your frat boy swagger, so holier than thou because you pay six hundred a semester, just to be involved, I see the pointing, hear the laughing, a mere projection of my own hatred and remorse.

II. I want to stand up and yell “Limpdick over here couldn’t keep it up last night” but I don’t. Won’t. Won’t ever see you asshole again, or your partially erect lack of manhood, for that matter.

Of course, I think it’s my fault but I know it isn’t.

I look to your wandering eyes for a sign of embarrassment, but if you feel any, it doesn’t show.

You are slowly exploiting every last ounce of me.

It is so not okay. I want to leave but I head to the bathroom instead. Your eyes don’t follow like they did last night, when they couldn’t let go of me for an instant.

And when I flush I close my eyes, and for this moment, I try to let go of myself.

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the dual-effects of the vibrator as an ideological apparatus

carlybrush

“Oh look! It’s pink, for girls! I thought it would be all scary looking!”

–Charlotte, Sex and the City, on seeing her first Rabbit vibrator.

As Charlotte discovers on Sex and the City in the famous “rabbit” episode, vibrators have evolved from electrical devices of the medical world to consumer items that encourage female masturbation. To the naked eye, the mainstreaming of female sex toys seems to be a positive move towards freedom for women to enjoy their sexuality without shame. However, the penile shape of most vibrators and dildos is contradictory to the women’s liberation that vibrator usage appears to represent. While male masturbation has long been accepted by western popular culture and the community it represents and influences, female masturbation is often shunned by the public. The vibrator provides an example of how an everyday technology can send an important subliminal message. The message that the dildo vibrator sends is two-fold. The manufacture and popularity of vibrators empowers women by legitimatizing the otherwise tabooed female masturbation. However, the phallic shape of a vibrator often reinforces the idea of a woman’s dependence on a male for sexual pleasure, even when she is only pleasuring herself.

The vibrator does its own job without the need for a literal penis, yet its form is a constant reminder of the phallic organ it has replaced. While the woman is grateful to her vibrator for the sexual pleasure it has so adeptly induced, its shape has inevitably imprinted itself in her mind. She is dependent on the male form, and implicitly on the male’s biology for her sexual satisfaction. The theory of the Ideological State Apparatus (ISA) by Louis Althusser, who believed that power is manifested subtly in everyday objects, is also relevant to the vibrator’s effects on women. The vibrator as an ideological apparatus “serves not only its stated object but an unstated one- that of indoctrinating people into seeing the world a certain way and of accepting certain identities as their own within the world” (Allison 333). In this case, the identity is that of a woman in need of a man for sexual pleasure, and possibly for her livelihood as well.

The vibrator’s purpose makes it a specifically strong means by which to 46

impart subliminal messages to its users. Because of the nature of the activity it promotes, there is an intense physical and emotional response to its use. As Davis-Floyd describes in her study of the ritual of birth, “people are far more likely to remember, and to absorb lessons from, those events that carry an emotional charge.” Masturbation is definitely such an event, one that, like the rituals Davis-Floyd describes, “intensifies toward a climax,” though in this case, the climax is a decidedly physical one. Such intensity of the vibrator’s intended usage is sure to lead toward long-term learning of the underlying symbolism that it carries (Davis-Floyd 456). Also important is how this symbolism ingrains itself into the woman’s knowledge. Because ritual symbols are received in the right hemisphere of the brain, they are felt rather than intellectually interpreted.

Thus, while not obvious, the message that the vibrator’s symbolic shape sends “may [still] be extremely powerful” (Davis-Floyd 451). This message has evolved over time, with the changing shapes and uses of the vibrator.

The vibrator was once a medical tool, and was not considered a sex toy or moral issue until the 1920s. First produced in the late 1800s, the vibrator, which had not yet taken the dildo shape it often does today, was accepted and advertised as an at home medical treatment well into the twentieth century. In the mid-20s the rising erotica industry realized it could be used for another, more controversial purpose and it was first publicly used as a sexual stimulator in early blue movies. In the wake of the publicity of the sexualization of the vibrator, it was taken off the market in stores such as Sears & Roebuck where it had been sold as an at home health device. It did not resurface until the 1970s when Betty Dodson and others decided to reduce the negative stigma that surrounded masturbation, especially for females (Angier). This was a big step in liberating female sexuality. Eventually, the vibrator would become a tool to enhance the female orgasm when a woman takes the non-medical matter of sexual pleasure into her own hands.

Despite the solo role a woman takes during masturbation, the phallic symbol of the vibrator indoctrinates a need for a male sexual presence of some sort into the women who use them. Though not all vibrators are shaped in the male penis mold, the most popular vibrators are. Currently, the most popular vibrator on the market is the “Jack Rabbit,” which was featured on the Sex and the City episode quoted above. The Rabbit comes in a variety of colors, the most common being pink, a stereotypically “feminine” color, and is the exact form of a penis, with an additional clitoral stimulator shaped like bunny ears, which is where the rabbit gets its name (Turtle and the Hare). Each time this and other such vibrators are put to use, the penis is inextricably involved.

The use of the vibrator itself is not purposely to simulate sex, but to reach sexual pleasure via such stimulation. It is the second-order indoctrination of the vibrator’s penis-form that has its influence on the woman. Barthes describes a second-order indoctrination as “a language which has a function people accept 47

as only pragmatic . . . which is taken over by some interest or agenda to serve a different end.” Important is that, while the agenda is covert, it’s “meaning is never lost” (Allison 335). Indeed, this concept of second-order indoctrination carries over into the phenomenon of the vibrator.

Until recently, the popular media that represents and influences the ideas of Western culture has encouraged masturbation only when performed by men.

There are numerous names for the action of male masturbation, including the popular: “being your own best friend,” “sending out the troops,” and, “wanking off.” These terms imply the acceptance and conventionality of the act. In the 1998 film There’s Something about Mary, there is a famous scene in which two men discuss the need for masturbation prior to a date. It is not referred to as a dirty act, but as a necessary one, with one character claiming that the date can only go well if he “calms himself down” before meeting the girl. The film is a comedy, but such insinuations made in the popular media easily carry over into real-life beliefs about sexual behavior. The abundance of films with scenes or messages similar to those presented in There’s Something about Mary influences disparate views on self-pleasure. While Western popular culture supports male masturbation, female masturbation remains a shameful taboo.

In recent years, the stereotype has begun to fade. Increasingly, female masturbation has become a hot topic in media. The Sex and the City “Rabbit” episode aired in Sex and the City’s first season on television, also in 1998. However, at this time, Sex and the City was still highly controversial, and when it was moved to network television in 2003, it was required that more “appropriate” versions of certain scenes of the show be adapted. Thus, while the vibrator and the idea of female masturbation were discussed, the strength of the new message was stifled by media standards. An episode of the British sitcom Coupling that aired on BBC in 2001 more clearly broached the topic of both male and female masturbation. The episode began with a television announcement that males in stable relationships continue to masturbate despite being sexually satisfied by their mates. This leads to a discussion among both the men and women on the show about how this is indeed acceptable, though the man, Steve, prefers not to admit the truth to his girlfriend, Susan. Through a complicated turn of events, Steve inadvertently hands the gift-wrapped vibrator to Susan’s mother, who mistakes it as an attempt to make it up to her for being rude earlier in the evening. In the last bit of the show female masturbation is broached, when Steve receives flowers, and remarks to Susan with a grin that: “I think your mother really enjoyed her present” (Coupling). In this case, it is clear that male masturbation is an easily broached topic, discussed both on television and in conversation among the groups of both men and women. Female masturbation is only referred to abstractly, and only in the context of the vibrator. The vibrator facilitates discussion of female masturbation, but there is still room for more progress in removing the deeply-rooted taboo once and for all.

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The acceptance of male masturbation versus its female counterpart, and the controversial shape of the vibrator suggest a higher value for men’s sexual pleasure over women’s in western society. The vibrator serves as a tool that helps to promote sexual equality, yet does so in a contradictory manner. While the marketing and popularity of the vibrator promotes the acceptability of female masturbation, its shape suggests otherwise. Male masturbation is not reliant on the female form for its completion, yet the only accepted manner of female masturbation in society incorporates a tool that is remarkably reminiscent of the man she is missing. Society is not yet ready to accept the female as an independent sexual being, and only grants her personal sexual pleasure in the form of the vibrator. This vibrator serves as a reminder of the heterosexual intercourse that is the societal norm, reminding a woman that her sexual pleasure is only acknowledged and allowed when it is brought about by the presence of a man.

Works Cited: Allison, Anne. “Japanese Mothers and Obentos: The Lunch-Box as Ideological State Apparatus.”

Gender in Cross-Cultural Perspective. Ed. Caroline B. Brettell and Carolyn F. Sargent. 4th ed.

Upper Saddle River, New Jersey: Pearson Prentice Hall, 2005. 332-347.

Angier, Natalie. “The Technology of Orgasm and the Vibrator.” The New York Times 23 Feb. 1999.

BettyDodson.com. Ed. Betty Dodson. 26 Mar. 2005 <http://bettydodson.com/org-tech.htm>.

Coupling. 2001. Warner Brothers, 2003. DVD-ROM. Burbank, CA. Davis-Floyd, Robbie E. “Gender and Ritual: Givng Birth the American Way.” 1993.

Gender in Cross-Cultural Perspective. Ed. Caroline B. Brettell and Carolyn F. Sargent. Fourth ed.

New Jersey: Pearson Education Inc., 2005. 449-61.

Katz, Jonathon Ned. “The Invention of Heterosexuality.” Race, Class, and Gender in the United States. Ed. Paula S. Rothenberg. 4th ed. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998. 69-81.

There’s Something About Mary. 1998. Fox Home Entertainment, 1998. DVD-ROM. Turtle and the Hare. 1998. HBO Studios, 2000. Sex and the City: the Complete First Season. DVD-ROM. Carly Brush Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences Psychology

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untitled

anonymous

He took his steel pen, the one with a golden circle near the tip, and started writing my name in that stupid frivolous handwriting of his: all swirls and empty loops with no meaning. I gripped the edge of my armrest hard.

The metal dug into my middle finger and I felt my silver ring band press into my skin. His golden ring matched his pen. He saw me sitting, and looked at me. And then I saw the tips of his lips start to crinkle. A fake understanding appeared with that crease along the side of his dark mustache. I smacked his face. I wanted to smack away that hateful false sympathy. Pain made me stop doing things. “STOP SMILING!” I hate excuses. Excuses make me want to puke. Like when a murderer says, “I had to do it. I had no choice. Everyone’s insane. The whole world is insane. It makes me want to twist and puke when people make excuses. That taste reminds me of not so long ago when I found myself waiting and staring at the Cheshire smile that created this green drone in my head. I hate smiles.

My head hurts whenever I see someone smile.

I was wearing my circus-patterned pants; the ones that crunched near the elastic band that made my tummy itch. Sister was wearing the same thing, only hers had green monkeys and mine had blue monkeys. I wanted green.

Fat Lady in blue guarded the pretty candy in a glass bowl. I didn’t get out of my seat. No candy until after. Once, when I first went there, I didn’t know so I reached out one finger, just one finger, my tall man finger, and touched a happy yellow one that crinkled when I pressed down. “No,” Fat Lady said as she grabbed the bowl away. “You should know better. Not until after.” But I didn’t know better since it was my first time there and I felt cheated.

I went back to Mommy but she wasn’t looking. She was reading Better Homes and Gardens and secretly copying down a recipe for pumpkin juice on a paper pad she got for free from the realtors that morning. Sister was holding a pop-up book that helped children with math. Every time you flipped the page, the numbers got bigger and the problems became more difficult I wanted to play with the book. She had green and the pop-up math book. I had blue and I had nothing.

Nurse grabbed me by the arm. “Leave her alone!” he interjected. There 50

were two red finger prints along his jaw line, right where the edge of my hand caught his face. He smoothed his shirt with his left hand, running over a clear, plastic button on his collar. He probably had a wife at home who sewed on the button. No one sewed buttons for me. I didn’t even have buttons. No buttons and no one to sew for me.

I tried to grab the pop-up book from Sister. It wasn’t fair. She had everything. “Chris?” called Fat Lady. Sister followed Fat Lady into the next room. I looked at the pop-up book and turned to the first, thick, card-board page. I hated math. I tossed the book into the pile with all the other silly children’s books and stared at another silly smile. I tried to smile back, that same silly smile, so I squinted my eyes and showed all of my teeth. My front tooth was missing. “An apple a day keeps the doctor away.” I hated apples.

They made me want to puke.

“If you touch me again, I’ll puke on you!” I shouted at Nurse. She sighed and walked out the room, like a little squirrel running away. Actually, she looked more like a horse, a horse with no teeth and just a big ugly mouth, perfect for smiling.

“What do you remember?” he asked, the red finger marks fading away.

“I don’t remember. Remember what?”

Fat Lady opened the door and Chris walked out. I had enough time to think of lots of ugly things to say to the ugly, gaping smiles. “Your math book’s stupid!” I laughed at Chris. She wouldn’t look at me. She wouldn’t look at Mom either when Mom asked her how it went. But Fat Nurse looked at me. “Jack? In there,” she pointed, showing me a room in the back with a high green chair. I didn’t like the room, but I went in because I wanted Fat Lady to give me the yellow candy. Next to the chair was a little table with a row of shiny, sharp metals. I didn’t like sharp things “You feel angry, I know. Are you angry at someone in particular?” he asked. By now, the red mark on his face had faded, and he was moving his golden ring up and down his finger, up and down, up and down, but at least he didn’t smile.

“I just don’t like sharp things,” I responded, staring at his golden ring.

I sat in the green chair and closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at the sharp things on the table. The backs of my eyelids reflected wonderful pictures: a black sky with flowing, white river water, red and purple stars. Fantastic images, kaleidoscopic circles that merged into frogs, four of them, holding each other and moving gracefully around and around. I smelled him first.

Dried spit and hidden intentions. I kept my eyes closed as the frogs faded away into black. He tapped my shoulder three times, each time I felt his smooth nail shake my body until I couldn’t stand it and opened one eye.

“Hello,” he smiled, showing his top eight pearly white teeth all in a row.

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His tortoise-skinned glasses blocked a direct glance from two very tiny eyes. I didn’t like it, so I closed my eye. “Little girls should look at the person speaking to them. If they don’t, they will get punished.” “Good little girl, open your eyes.” I waited for a little bit, the frogs keeping me company, around and around, faster, faster. After a while, I felt something prick my arm, so I opened my left eye. He was using a long silver stick with a little sharp hook at the end to stroke my arm. “Little girl, see what happens when you don’t listen to bigger people?” “Get off the chair.” I didn’t know what else to do, so I slipped off the chair, like when I glide down the big yellow slide during recess.

Behind those glasses, his eyes focused on my blue circus monkeys. “Do you like going to the circus? I love the circus. Especially when there are monkeys.”

He reached out his hand snapped the elastic strand of my pants. Five minutes passed, him staring at my circus monkeys, me closing my eyes and dancing with the frogs. “Hold out your tongue,” he quietly instructed. “I need to check if you have any cavities.”

The frogs calmed me, and I wanted the bright yellow candy from Fat Lady, so I held out my tongue. He was wearing a shiny gold watch. I could hear the ticking as his round perfect nail inched toward me. He stroked my tongue once. I felt a deep scrape, and then I tasted salt. Not the kind of salt left at the bottom of my green plastic cup when Mommy makes me gurgle at night.

Not even the salt I tasted when I accidentally swallowed sand at the beach. It was terrible salt. Tainted salt. And then he stuck his finger in his mouth. He closed his eyes, with his finger still in his mouth. I wondered if he could see the frogs too, and if they were dancing around and around, faster and faster. My tongue burned. I wondered if all adults still sucked on their fingers. Mommy wouldn’t let me suck on my fingers anymore. He sighed and snapped open his eyes. “Good little girls won’t talk about what happens in here. Your sister is a good little girl.” I swirled with all my colors and I don’t know why. When the swirling stopped, I cried. Salty tears made me blink my eyes one at a time, and each time I closed one eye, half of me saw the man in front of me smiling, and the other half saw circles, squares, and flashes of light. “You are a bad little girl. I will leave you here until you stop crying.” He walked towards the door and turned off all the lights. The last thing I saw was a glowing Cheshire smile disappearing behind the door. And it was dark for a long time.

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breakfast with my mother karadaddario In the 10:00 morning light (she never rises before ten) my mother sat at the bay window, and looked out to the street.

Holding her favorite mug With orange cursive that read: “THE ONLY PERSON WHO KNOWS WHAT’S GOING ON” She swirled her coffee and took a long gulp.

Armed with a doctorate and an unripe banana, she told me the day was beautiful and I should stop being cynical Looking against the pane I told her it was a beautiful city And you can’t help it when you fall out of love.

She pressed her hands on the table And rose in one motion (she can never sit still for more than a moment) and told me the next time I try to institutionalize love I should at least make sure he can cook.

Kara Daddario Class of 2008 College of Arts & Sciences English:Creative writing

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Fword Editorial Lexicon fabulosity [fab-yoo-loss-i-tee] noun 1. fabulousness, an incredible or exaggerated story 2.

Ali “Associate Editor” Lapinsky’s favorite f-word fantabulous [fan-ta-bohl-us] adj: 1. when you can’t decide whether something is fantastic or fabulous, or it’s just so wonderful it’s both; f-word is plain and simply fantabulous 2. Ariel “Prose Editor” Tichnor’s favorite f-word fecundity [fi-kuhn-di-tee] noun; 1. the capacity of abundant production 2. Kristin “Managing Editor” Williams’s favorite f-word femme fatale [fem fuh- tal] noun; 1. it is feminist (sort of), Carrie simply adores alliteration and this would win her extra points in Scattergories 2. Carrie “Editor-in-Chief ” Alexander’s favorite f-word fergalicious [fer-guh-li-shus] adj.; 1. make the boys go loco 2. Lauren “Academic Editor” Newman’s favorite f-word flibbertigibbet [fliber-er-tee-jib-it] noun; 1. a chattering or flighty, light-headed person, 2. (archaic) a gossip 3. Jean “Academic Editor” Lee’s favorite f-word folle [fol] noun; 1. femme qui agit très bizarre 2. Nellie “Poetry Editor and Secretary” Berkman’s favorite f-word food [food] noun; 1. what Alissa spends all her time thinking about 2. Alissa “Prose Editor” Weiss’s favorite f-word forte [fohrt] adj.; 1. loud, loudly 2. exceedingly stupendous: bell hooks is so forte 3. Namita “Poetry Editor and Secretary” Thakker’s favorite f-word forthwith [fawrth-with] adv.; 1. immediately; at once; without delay 2. Brooke “Webmistress” Palmieri’s favorite f-word fortnight [fawrt- nayht] noun; 1. the space of fourteen days and nights; two weeks 2. a period exceeding the length of Carly’s longest relationship 3. Carly “Prose Editor” Brush’s favorite f-word fuck [fuhk] noun, verb; 1. the universal f-word. Come on, somebody had to say it. 2.

Jasmine “Design Editor” Fournier’s favorite f-word Fun Dip [fuhn-dip] noun; 1. The best candy Willy Wonka ever made. Really, it’s awesome.

2. Kara “Poetry Editor” Daddario’s favorite f-word 54