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Mission Statement At The F-Word, we define feminism as the demand for the equality of all people, regardless of gender, sexuality, race, ethnicity, or religion. We firmly believe that feminist art and writing can be a powerful driver of positive social, political, and cultural change. We aim to provide a platform that privileges the voices of women, queer people, people of color, and other ethnic and religious minorities and help them share those voices with the world. In doing so, we hope to foster a dialogue and put a balanced face on feminism to show that this movement is not just for white women.
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Editorial Board Editor-in-Chief Managing Editor Managing Director Poetry Editors Prose Editors
Copy Editors Art Editor Design Editor Blog Editor Blog Staff Social Media Director Internal Finance Director External Communications Director
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Jessica Bao Evie Artis Kennedy Crowder Emily Campbell Esha Mishra Keemia Sarafpour Alysha Ginel-Feliciano Aisha Njie Sheehwa You Minfei Shen Alyssa Sliwa Alyssa Bebenek Emilee Gu Rachel Swym Laura Santos Milgo Bulhan Agatha Advincula Laura Arellano-Velazquez
Letter From the Editor Dear Reader, When I first walked on to Penn’s campus four years ago, I came across a yellowand-purple magazine at the entrance of Kelly Writers House—always open to all—and I scarcely knew that it would go on to change my life. To dominate my time here at Penn. After all, who among us could pinpoint the exact moment when their lives would shift forever, a nexus point dressed in a literary magazine, a quiet wooden house, a general meeting upstairs on a Fall Wednesday night? But now, four years later, I must admit the truth. Perhaps I knew, even back then. For someone fresh out of high school, I was first drawn to the magazine by its name. This might also be one advantage of our unique moniker. The F-Word? We are allowed to swear here, and in print? That desire for youthful, creative transgression—combined with the range of femininity that we have always depicted in our covers, from the Spring 2018 Issue that I saw then, a golden woman haloed in mauve, to the one today—piqued my interest. There is also no doubt that, as our yellow-and-purple cover by Lindsay Zhu this year flares in color and oscillates between gender conventions, it would once again inspire a new generation of curious readers to pick up a copy. Nevertheless, as intriguing as our magazine title is, it was when I opened up the pages and discovered what The F-Word was truly referring to (and that word was not fuck) that I felt like I was on the verge of something different. The f-word might be titillating, but our f-word is dangerous. As much as swearing might have felt like taboo to eighteen-year-old me, the idea of feminism—of not only believing in it, but championing it, screaming for it, rightfully and shamelessly standing by and supporting it—was somehow scarier. Though I have been a feminist all my life, long before I even knew the word in Chinese or English, I have always been hesitant about taking up space in its name, fearful of making it so loud that I would put people off or turn them away. But when I saw The F-Word—so staunchly, III
so unapologetically feminist in the midst of this Ivy League, ivory tower—I knew, suddenly, that I would be able to join this magazine. I would join this magazine, and no matter how hard it might get at times—through all the challenges to come, a bout of cold or a brain injury, a broken printer or a global pandemic—I would stay at this magazine. I would give it what I have and let it push me. I would help grow it and in return, it would help me. I would wear its title and its mission proudly, for so many people have done so before and alongside me, and who am I to not do the same? It was as a part of The F-Word that I attended my first Take Back the Night March in Philly, enfolded by people who would lend me their strength until I could find my own. It was through this community and the connections that I made here that I was able to participate in The Penn Monologues, to share my words on stage. When I was assaulted, The F-Word gave me the power and the courage—through endless care and support—to tell my story anonymously, without which I would have never been able to eventually publish it under my own name in 34th Street Magazine. As a freshman Poetry Editor, I got to work with Ph.D. students and seasoned writers. This year, I had the pleasure of watching our Editorial Board, some of whom are marvelous freshmen themselves, work with graduate students and professors, creators cities away or right here in West Philly. When I first joined The F-Word, our focus was on Penn’s campus. Today, I am so proud to see that we have grown beyond this bubble and connected with people throughout Philadelphia or around the world. Without The F-Word for the past four years, I would not be here today. Over the semesters, working on issues and blogs, launch parties and retreats, I like to think I have interpolated pieces of my soul into this publication. Yet, as I look around the amazing works in this Issue, I realized that it is not I who have brought myself into The F-Word, but this magazine and its tireless supporters who have always had the power to bring out, reflect, and empower parts of me, some of which I never knew existed. In tender odes to their mothers, Lila Dubois and our longstanding Poetry
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Editor Emily Campbell remind me of all the love and support that my family have shown me and our magazine throughout the years. My mother, who already loved all my pieces before going through each one with a dictionary. My father, who takes home a few copies every time I rope him into attending another event at Kelly Writers House. In pieces like “old friends,” I see all the late nights with our members and friends going over layouts, playing board games, or just talking, and I know that we are going to be in each other’s lives for a long time, even if just as a whisper of strength at a moment of truth, or while grabbing a coffee in some different city. Now years older. While effervescent works like “Dump Him” reflect the strength that this community have always lent me during my hardships, the beauty and creativity of pieces like “Anasa Tristis” and “family without the i” capture how The F-Word have always challenged me to think deeper, to fight harder, and to welcome and foster new perspectives. Throughout our Spring 2022 Issue, you will find pieces on motherhood and myth, the nuances of multicultural identities, push-backs against traditional beauty standards, and thoughtful, innovative investigations into demarcations of gender, age, and race. You might encounter art that fills you with vulnerability or strength, and you might be inspired to follow them wherever they lead within yourself or out into the world. At the end of our Issue, the powerful poem “Articulate” by Kimmika WilliamsWitherspoon calls, “I’ve got to tell their story.” Thank you to all of our amazing contributors this spring for trusting us with and allowing us to tell your story. This Issue and our magazine would not be possible without you. Thank you to our dedicated Editorial Board, who have all put so much heart and effort into this publication. I am continuously awestruck by your work. To our readers, thank you so much for reading The F-Word and sharing in our community. Whether you were drawn to pick us up for the first time by our great title—like me four years ago—or you’ve been with us before, I hope these pages can bring you whatever you need in the moment, like they have often done so for me. Though with this issue, I say goodbye to what has given me so much, I cannot wait to come back as a reader. I hope you will, too. — Jessica Bao
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Content Warning Some of the following work describes or touches on themes of sexual assault and other forms of interpersonal and gendered violence, and may be disturbing and/ or triggering for some readers. Because of the nature of this publication and the importance of the process of discovery that occurs within the walls of each text, The F-Word des not provide specific content warnings for individual works. That said, the health and safety of our readers is of the utmost importance to us, and we urge you to explore these pages with discretion, and to read what feels right for you.
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Campus Resources The HELP Line: 215-898-HELP (active 24/7). For members of the Penn community who seek help in navigating Penn’s resources for health and wellness. Counseling and Psychological Services: 215-898-7021 (active 24/7). The counseling center for the University of Pennsylvania. Reach-A-Peer Hotline: 215-573-2727 (9 p.m. to 1 a.m, except holidays). A peer hotline to provide peer support, information, and referrals to Penn students. Student Health Service: 215-746-3535 (active 24/7). SHS can provide medical evaluations and treatment to victims/survivors of sexual and relationship violence regardless of whether they make a report or seek additional resources. Both male and female providers can perform examinations, discuss testing and treatment of sexually transmissible infections, provide emergency contraception if necessary and arrange for referrals and follow up. Penn Women’s Center: 215-898-8611, 3643 Locust Walk. PWC provides education, advocacy, and support groups for survivors of sexual violence. Lesbian Gay Bisexual Transgender Center: 215-898-5044, 3907 Spruce Street. The LGBT Center provides advocacy, education, outreach, and support for and concerning Penn’s lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer communities. African-American Resource Center: 215-898-0104, 3643 Locust Walk. The AARC provides advocacy, counseling, information, referrals, workshops, and informational sessions for all members of the Penn community with a particular focus on those of African descent. Penn Violence Prevention: 215-746-2642, 3611 Locust Walk. PVP is a collaborative program that aims to engage the Penn community in the prevention of sexual violence, relationship violence, stalking, and sexual harassment on campus through educational programming Sexual Trauma Treatment Outreach and Prevention Team: A multidisciplinary team at CAPS dedicated to supporting students who have experienced sexual trauma. Special Services Unit in the Division of Public Safety: 215-898-6600 (active 24/7), 4040 Chestnut Street. Special Services offers comprehensive victim support for any member of the University community who experiences interpersonal violence.
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About the Cover: “Manly Shade of Pink” By Lindsay Zhu Photography This project is a visual representation of my thought process while expanding upon my philosophies of gender. Femininity and masculinity are constructed through ideology. They compete against and transform each other, and become embedded in power dynamics. These power dynamics had a huge influence on me growing up as a queer teenager. I went through a phase from resisting femininity to exploring and embracing femininity in myself. I also came to the realization that there could be a symbolic annihilation of femininity, which had created the hierarchy between gender representations that have more cultural values and the ones that have less. The 16-year-old me wanted to “be feminine but in a boyish way,” now I want to “be feminine but just in my way” or “masculine but just in my way,” before the assumptions of gender and the distinctions of gender representations become false statements, which they definitely will be one day.
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Table of Contents Mission Statement Editorial Board Letter from the Editor Content Warning Campus Resources About the Cover pouch baby Birth of Jaded Venus Nature is Trans Easy Mask Fishing While Her Boobs Gently Weep old friends Tía Frida lipstick smiles n-400: sweaty hotdog yanqui oath Dump Him Anasa Tristis Ye Women of Color
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I II III VI VII VIII Mansi Dahal — 1 Ari Gewirtzman — 2 Ari Gewirtzman — 3 Lila Dubois — 4 Alyssa Sliwa— 7 Lindsay Zhu — 9 Esha Mishra — 11 Mattie Maria SimBarcelo — 12 Emily Campbell —13 Laura Santos — 14 Alyssa Sliwa— 15 Ari Gewirtzman — 16 Maurice Henderson — 17
“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously.” – Prentis Hemphill Africa Is Where My Heart Lies On being greedy Bruised Untitled El Corazón family without the i You Are a Prayer of Your Ancestors Goddess Descending Sexy with a Dash of Dignity (And Other Reflections On Bean Teeth) The Erotic as Power Articulate Acknowledgments Call for Submissions Contact Us
Mattie Maria SimBarcelo — 18 Pamela Blanding-Godbolt — 19 Kennedy Crowder — 20 Anonymous — 21 Alyssa Sliwa— 23 Joanna Luna — 25 Laura Santos — 27 Mattie Maria SimBarcelo — 29 Maurice Henderson — 30 Lila Dubois — 31 Ari Gewirtzman — 34 Kimmika Williams-Witherspoon — 35 38 39 40
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pouch baby By Mansi Dahal ruma didi’s muddy feet clatter in her kitchen. she has a pouch where she slips her fingers to feel the baby. on the black slab she cuts fresh, green chillies into halves. she is scraping the seeds with a spoon. her wrists burn with heat. a patch of bare skin has lost color. she shakes off the thousand seeds and washes her hands. her long dark hair wags. there are giant steel buckets filled with fresh milk. she doesn’t care about the cow dung underneath the bucket. odor like musty eggs. she bends gracefully and laps up the milk. then she picks up the bucket and passes the milk through a rusty netted strainer. a lump of yellow and some bundled hair. she dips the aluminum milk measure in the bucket. a liter in each bowl. one by one she places the bowls on the floor. one by one she covers them with lids. a fly sneaks into one of the bowls. before it stops moving, she uses her index finger and thumb to pull it out and throw it on the side like a useless booger. the few rays of light that enter through the attic have dissolved into darkness. the customers are now waiting outside the door. she pours the milk into their jars tilting the bowls until the last drop of milk falls. they pay forty rupees per liter. for thick milk that has not been mixed with water. she keeps the track of her customers in a notebook tucked in the top shelf next to her baby in the pouch. the papers are moldy and wet. 1
Birth of Jaded Venus By Ari Gewirtzman
Sea foam spit me onto jagged shore. Both newborn and man, I emerge, a scratched pearl from brittle shells. Shivering in twilight, beads of saltwater sting my tender skin. Eyelids lifting for the first time, I gaze toward empty heavens and whisper: I thought there would be more.
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Nature is Trans By Ari Gewirtzman Mixed Media and Acrylic
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Easy By Lila Dubois When it’s hotter to step in the door than to just stay outside but you step in anyway and the air hangs so low you duck your head before realizing you don’t really need to it’s fine, it’s just warm. She offers you tea and you say, okay. and you sit on a chair the kind with the little mosaics which are normally in the garden but it’s up here in her fourth floor apartment. 4
She laughs and says, the air conditioning is broken I’m sure you’ve noticed. which for the record I did notice I felt like a corduroy jacket in a hot tub but she floated I don’t think her feet ever scuffed the linoleum tiled kitchen floor lime and white checkered, and her toes were painted coral.
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She is a song hummed deep and rich without trying not sung she is not sung she is hummed sweetly distractedly by someone who is happy to be doing whatever they are doing like gardening or something. So anyway she laughs and hands you the tea and there’s ice in it and she is an angel because her baby hairs are curling just a little in her sweat and she put ice in it. It’s really very easy to fall in love.
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Mask Fishing By Alyssa Sliwa Red Chalk People always want to see more of you, even when you give them everything. When the pandemic started, I was bothered by the appearance of yet another online trend making women feel insecure. The concept of mask fishing seemed to make so many girls worry about whether the bottom halves of their faces matched the top—whether taking their mask off was a pleasant surprise to others or not. And there seemed to exist a pressure to do so as a means of proving one’s beauty. While completing this piece, I thought about how strange it is to have only your face covered, and how society demands women to show themselves but then judges them for it regardless.
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While Her Boobs Gently Weep By Lindsay Zhu Mixed Media
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Some Math Here: Earth = Phallic Mother = Vaginal Father = My Failing Body = My Soul = Me Be Sexualized < Sexualize Yourself Experiencing Femmephobia < Internalized Femmephobia = Resisting Femininity Erotic =/= Pornography = Born of Chaos, and Personifying of Love in All Aspects, Power and Harmony
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old friends By Esha Mishra
Old friendships are sacred. I see you and you see me from across the room and suddenly we are fourteen again only we are not. We have jobs and lovers and new friends and families; I no longer seek your face in crowded hallways and you don’t wait for me at lunch. But today, we are here, and we’ve talked but we haven’t really spoken in months. I look at you and I see your tears when we were fifteen, your photography when you were sixteen. You look at me and you see my half-written English papers, my meltdown on the bathroom floor. I know you and you know me. The collage you made me still hangs in my room and I’m on your dorm wall. After the years, the expectations vanish. I tell you about my anxiety, my fears. You tell me about yours. We buy each other coffee and hug. We’re both trying our best. We drive in silence. Sometimes nothing needs to be said. I realize that friendship is inherently romantic in the same way lasting love is: I have chosen you for years and I will continue to choose you for years, because of who you are to me and who I am to you.
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Tía Frida
By Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Ink and Acrylic on Paper I look to Tia Frida for self-love inspiration. For much of my life, I was taught that adoring yourself is vain, that self-love is a negative trait that one should not embody. But as a woman of color on this planet, I believe loving yourself is SURVIVAL. It is vital for us to stare into our own eyes, study the stories of our faces and bodies, and try with all of our might to not only embrace, but worship what we see. 12
lipstick smiles By Emily Campbell
i have always been my mother’s daughter, lipstick smiles and gentle soul how could i not love myself when i’m an exact reflection of her
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n-400: sweaty hotdog yanqui oath By Laura Santos
abuela, just did the citizen’s oath. revoke association to all home i’ve known, still wonder why i can’t fit their box. greengos refuse to taste my full name as if laced with bitter quinbombo. what’s a family name when they ripped apart my own? write place of birth, don’t fit? cut it off. choke on the letters of my conquistador-baptized home: Puerto Cortés. proud murder capital of the world, ten years in a row. final last name: somo somoHano. pero ¿quienes somo somos? soy the $20 prepaid calls, dime of minutes hostage by censorphone. i’m the when are you visiting? can’t know. embargo clearance won’t show. became a citizen abjuring allegiance to identity. assimilate at the price of bland food n once-a-year provision visits yet, i yearn for the inciendary scent of poor venezuelan gasolina. anhelo jumping on papi’s 1964 german-soviet moto sidecar anxious to rearrange my spine w the cracking asphalt down zapata or tulipan don’t tell uscis i hanker to drown in flooded tropical potholes n plátanos podridos chicharrón de viento tongue will never swear patria o muerte again, nunca seré como el Ché abuela, n-400 hotdog oath i swore, why can’t i cramp my foreign limbs inside their box?
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Dump Him By Alyssa Sliwa Collage
In my past, I’ve found myself compromising my values when dating in order to feel loved and desired by the men I like. Even though I find it easy to speak about what I believe in, I would struggle to cut someone off if they didn’t share the same values that I hold dear to my heart. I created this piece as a reminder to myself to keep in my life only the people who value what I value in regards to feminism and human rights.
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Anasa Tristis By Ari Gewirtzman
The sun burnt my shoulders redder than the cherry tomatoes In my mother’s vegetable garden I’ve been tending all summer long. The only shade-giving tree blew down in a storm Taking the last few crabapples and a tire swing with it. We talk about planting a new tree, but never do. Inspecting a wilted leaf, Golden as untiring sun, I discovered a squash beetle had destroyed the fat, emerald zucchini Which I should have cooked us for dinner With rosemary sprigs and thickets of thyme I had already picked. The wicked beetle laid its eggs on the underside of another leaf. Nestling its children, as plentiful as the day is long, between the crook of its veins Which hatchlings will pierce into To drain every remaining drop of sap That may have had hope for keeping a blossom alive. I arm myself with the rusted edge of a garden spade Crushing its eggs one by one Until they looked like a rotten blackberry, Chewed up and spit out by a spoiled child. The beetle stopped its crawling and looked me in my eye. “I once loved something, too.” Our wailing shook green bean tendrils As we cried watermelon seed tears.
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Ye Women Of Color By Maurice Henderson Ye Women of Color no longer stooping to be conquered by patriarchal monarchs the nonsense of naysayers Still here in these uneasy of times to be or not to be bewitched, bothered and bewildered fortune seeking the rendering of yourself whole in the company of those who look, act and talk something just like you Ye Women of Color take it slowly in the furious fastlane of once no longer upon a time to be free, accepted, wonderful gracious, gorgeous and gallactic majestically magical as a monumental memorial of mind, body and soul to be said, seen and shown as a happily Her/She Soul Sisters 17
“Boundaries are the distance at which I can love you and me simultaneously.” – Prentis Hemphill By Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Digital Art 18
Africa Is Where My Heart Lies By Pamela Blanding-Godbolt
We Were Dismembered Long Before My Parents’ Birth. Africa: Home Base But Where On The Continent Do I Claim (Truly) For Me? Pilgrimage Awaits Behold First, Alkebulan Robbed Of Exactness Year 2020 Moment Of Perfect Vision What A Conundrum! My Great Nation Under-knee As The World Witnessed — George Floyd. Today’s Goal — Blend In! For Africa’s Erasure. QUESTION For You: Is It Too Late… Do We Dare… For Separate but Equal? White-Man’s Privilege Black-Man’s Misfortune, Seeking A Just Recompense Forgiveness, Revenge For What Should I Ask To Heal World (Reimagined) Its Air, Sunrise, Earth My Heart, Soul, Spirit, Yearning… Africa Restored. 19
On being greedy By Kennedy Crowder
I watch you put on your skin every morning. You’re so pretty when you’re naked. Your bones are transparent. And I wait and watch flesh become skin become clothes become You Outside. I wish to create things duller, to not be reminded every time your hair catches sunlight, or the stray petal of a still-blooming flower, or the hand of some other person that I am witnessing in a moment of forgetting. You are unwinding and eating the cells in the hippocampus that replay the dilation of my pupils. Do you remember my eye color? Yours is lavender, and whether or not that is correct, I’m right. I can imagine in the hazy film of false memory the simple ease of your company. I can almost reach through the inexactness, poke a hole in the gray matter to blur where your body starts, and my cell walls end. There is nothing between us but reality. But for all my infinite faults, I am not greedy. I can be satisfied. I can. I can watch you put on your skin every morning. – —
Have I seen you somewhere before?
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Bruised By Anonymous
I’ve never been bruised. Never intentionally by someone’s hands. I’ve never bled, never broken a bone, never received a black eye. Never been questioned about my state of being. But the questions I asked myself were always the hardest to answer. Is this really happening? Am I really here? How did I end up here? Am I weak? Am I a coward? Am I unable to see through proper eyes and am I absolutely and utterly delusional? Is it, at the end of the day, my fault for not doing more? For not being more? For not being independent enough? For not being self-confident enough? For being trapped. At this point, it’s a blur. Everything. That’s the funny thing about trauma. It only takes a couple of days before it erases everything to protect your mind and soul. It doesn’t want you to remember. And honestly, I suppose I should be grateful. But it can’t erase everything. There are small moments that stand out like red paint splashed across an empty canvas. Arm grabbed. Hit wall. Anger. Pain. Choked. Nails biting in. Not him. Not there. He would never. It didn’t happen. But it did.
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It did. But my mind encourages me to live in a world where it didn’t. During a high tide the day after, I felt myself sink under. Falling into an endless abyss, skipping class, crying myself to sleep. And then, as though being struck by lightning, I was yanked back out and felt normal again. But something was still off. I was like a bouncy ball. Each time a horrid thought materialized, I’d drop, smash into the ground, and feel as though my life were in splinters, before surging upwards and soaring through the air, forgetting everything that had happened. I should be used to this by now, but I never will be. I reach a point of confusion where I’m just far out enough from what happened, just displaced enough that it feels as though I’m speaking to a friend, that I can truly wonder whether there’s room for forgiveness. I’ve forgiven almost everyone in my life. The thought of leaving a bridge broken pains me. Even if it isn’t a cure, it’s a relief. A gasp of air. But this. This. Are there things in this world that are truly unforgivable? That once committed, you can never wash that sin from your hands? The biggest issue is that I don’t feel anger. I don’t want justice. I don’t want retribution. I just feel overwhelming sadness. And I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what is expected of me. I don’t know how to feel. But that’s okay. I’ve never been bruised, but I have been broken. And I will be okay.
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By Alyssa Sliwa Charcoal
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Ever since I began drawing when I was 5, I have always gravitated towards the female form in my work. I very rarely drew men or had the desire to, and until recently I hadn’t questioned it. But I now believe that I’ve always seen women as the epitome of beauty and strength, and I have always been extremely proud to call myself a woman because of this. In this piece, I wanted to highlight female beauty, especially the beauty of those who are growing older and might often be overlooked for their lack of youth—a supposed prerequisite by current beauty standards. 24
El Corazón By Joanna Luna
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I have been drawing for as long as I can remember. It is something I learned to love from my dad. The colorful murals on the drive home from almost anywhere would catch my attention as they each demonstrated a part of my culture. Having grown up playing Lotería, seeing the emergence of games like the Millennial Lotería made me see that the pillars of my culture evolved with me as I grew. Now, there is a Gen-Z Lotería. Wanting to fill my dorm room with art of my own making instead of posters, I began to work. I drew the heart card from the game. Little did I know that it would become this. Scrolling through TikTok and coming across a video about how the anatomical uterus looks like a heart made me think about how parts of my culture have evolved to encompass the ideas of younger generations. Before long, the uterus became the heart, a central piece of this artwork. The piece itself alludes to the intersection between the politically charged world I grew up in and the pillars of my Mexican childhood. The flowers, not typically included in Lotería in this style, were my way of paying homage to another form of art that frames my memories: Mexican folk art. Vaguely reminding me of the embroidery I learned as a child, the flower frame also refers to the dresses I wore as the daughter of proud parents originating from Tamaulipas and Oaxaca, Mexico. This corazón, heart, is a piece of my own beating heart, representing two worlds that have melded together as I—a Mexican-American—have as well. 26
family without the i By Laura Santos famiy without the i #1 s
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family without the i #2 10:23:16am. with is final 27
the fam(i)ly in sections of division judgement in hearing parties and not I petition for natural shortcircuit therfore case #2017-003183-FC-04 rules temporary self-help argues uncl. courtcustody r ape fam (i) ly
family without the i #3 minor jurisdiction: custody-stench of (un)obtained consent for (un)reasonable care shortcircuit fam(i)ly. Istel, securely withholding of psychiatric medicals: do all necessary but care. next best friend to child? burgundy-stained eye. scent of rusting iron leaking nose (un)record mishandling touch (un)welfare enrolled in $57.6/m IRS supplemental for loss tested and failed by Miami-Dade County: 10th of April 2017
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You Are a Prayer of Your Ancestors By Mattie Maria SimBarcelos Acrylic on Canvas
Mattie Maria SimBarcelos (she/her) is an Afro-Brazilian/Black American artist who creates images of imagined ancestors, Orixás, and divine icons to inspire rituals with deep intention and connection. She makes art that invites BIPOC and LGBTQIA ancestors into the room to channel their vision of a balanced, connected, and just world—making it a reality for future generations. She believes that everyone is an artist and capable of becoming a channel for creativity. 29
Goddess Descending By Maurice Henderson
I cried last knight because /I/ just couldn’t help myself no harm/no foul of the womb to tomb and there is that which I know now a goddess descending as the tumult of that which to come forever more beacon and hope the remains of days gone bye the missing of breastfeeding hugs and lap time that still keeps me alive so it is true I cried last Knight just because I can as thine coming inside self too/two/to dwell
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Sexy with a Dash of Dignity (And Other Reflections On Bean Teeth) By Lila Dubois
I’ll keep it simple for you, as I almost never do but it’s how she’d refer to herself so that’s what we’ll call her too for now at least, until I can unjumble the whipping electric static in my head trying to describe someone who’s made my life, which how can you even do that anyway? so, yes, for now, she’s sexy with a dash of dignity.
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That’s not even a bad start too, if you’re lucky enough to know her you’d know it’s true dignity’s overrated when you could interpretive dance in the middle of the street in the near middle of the night, toes pointed in sneakers, moon beaming down at a someone making full shining use of his spotlight. or when you could put beans in your teeth. sexy.
She is though, sexy, pretty, beautiful, reverberating with the glowing heat of a sunset with somewhere to be, pouting in the mirror as Linda Ronstadt floats through soft orangey lamplight and the smell of old roses dried in the sun years ago and saved with delicate hands in that bottle” of Grandma Laurel’s crystallized brownish perfume while two little girls circle about her knees, big eyes looking up at an apparition of love, smiling down at them the smile that would be their home as they all move and grow up until all three share another wider mirror,
peering in through corners of elbows sharing dabs of sparkling oils on noses and pink cheeks that look awfully similar, Ari or “9 to 5” or something made-up bouncing off shower doors and sliding down sinks and ringing happily in heavy freshly coconut oiled humidity three curvy angels glowing confidence because of the one smiled that smile of home curvy angels whose spirits fly with me in my heart wherever I go, fueling, pulsing creativity, and love and laughter and fire sometimes, it almost feels like cheating to have this power.
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There are many names for God but I’m sure momma has to be one of them. I guess that’s what I’m trying to say and so now you understand how hard this task is! you were expecting me to light a candle and have the face of something close to Creator suddenly become clear in the the wick which of course I could not.
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This is just something to keep in your wallet, a quick reflection on shea butter kisses and sunblock reminders and everything that is right in my world, my heart is full in her wake.
Erotic as Power By Ari Gewirtzman Digital Collage Ari is a Jewish, disabled, trans/gender-defiant-fag who believes that art is a powerful tool for imagining paths toward our collective liberation. They explore the crossroads of politics and storytelling to make art about identity, survivorship, natural cycles, and injustice. Ari is a Queer Poet Fellow at Martha’s Vineyard Institute for Creative Writing and a member of the Babel Poetry Collective at Temple University. Their work has been published in Baby Shoot Whiskey Zine and Delicate Friend Literary and Art Magazine. In their free time, Ari can be found on stage at a drag show or covered in dirt at the community garden. 34
Articulate By Kimmika Williams-Witherspoon Tongue tied— Tied tongues Tired Of all the screaming Shouting Poet-tating Honoring all the narratives Without voice Screamed into the void Etched into silence Made-muted Because of age Or race Or sex Or class... Difference. Asinine How power Punctuates “voice” Stymies, stifles Suffocates Each Line, phrase or sentence Before its start. Ecologies & economies Work/want To keep it that way. The mass, marginalized, The multitude, The many Unable to get a word out— Which is not the same things as 35
“lost for words” (I expect, though, Without words Whole communities Can feel lost Get lost Be lost— Like...powerlessness) But, we’ve got the words At our disposal & their proposal To shut us up. Struck dumb Dumbstruck Clear in the will to speak But speechless, Bereft of speech. No more! With Nommo— Word-magic Tying tongues To the language of the ancients We call up Call on Call out Wisdom of the sages--Poets, prophets, Storytellers & griots Of all ages— No longer silent. Tongue-tied, Tongue tired Tongue heavy Agathokakological Neither good nor bad right nor wrong— Black or white— No matter. Refusing to stay silent. I’ve got to tell their story. 36
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Acknowledgements We would like to conclude this edition of The F-Word by thanking all those who supported us this year. Thank you to our advisors and friends at the Student Activities Council. Thank you to Jessica Lowenthal and the Kelly Writers House, Sherisse Laud-Hammond and the Women’s Center, and Melissa Sanchez and the Center for Research in Feminist, Queer, and Transgender Studies (formerly known as the Alice Paul Center). Thank you to our dedicated Board and our general body members, who worked so hard to make this issue a reality. We are also tremendously grateful to everyone who submitted to the publication these past semesters, and encourage others to do so in the future. Finally, thank you to the University of Pennsylvania community for reading this edition of The F-Word and thereby participating in this vital conversation. We would also like to recognize and acknowledge that the University of Pennsylvania stands on the Indigenous territory known as “Lenapehoking,” the traditional homelands of the Lenape, also called Lenni-Lenape or Delaware Indians. These are the people who, during the 1680s, negotiated with William Penn to facilitate the founding of the colony of Pennsylvania. Their descendants today include the Delaware Tribe and Delaware Nation of Oklahoma; the Nanticoke Lenni-Lenape, Ramapough Lenape, and Powhatan Renape of New Jersey; and the Munsee Delaware of Ontario.
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Call for Submissions The F-Word is officially seeking submissions for our Fall 2022 issue. As Penn’s premier feminist arts and literary magazine, we accept submissions from all members of the Penn community (undergraduates, graduates, faculty, staff, and alumni). Send us your poetry, fiction, nonfiction, academic papers, photography, drawings, paintings, and more—we’ve even had music! In other words, if there is a way to put it on a page, we’ll do it! Entries should be no longer than five pages and should explore topics related to feminism, race/ethnic identity, gender and sexuality, and social justice. Multiple submissions are encouraged, and we accept submissions in languages other than English. We accept submissions on a rolling basis at upennfword@gmail.com. All work submitted may also be considered for publication on our blog at upennfword.com. We look forward to working with you!
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Contact Us To learn more, connect with us at upennfword.com facebook.com/upennfword instagram.com/fwordmagazine/ pennclubs.com/club/f-word & issuu.com/fword Email us at upennfword@gmail.com Or meet us in person— Our meetings are open to all Penn community members and are held every week at Kelly Writers House.
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