just femme & dandy vol. 2: REBIRTH

just femme & dandy

THE REBIRTH ISSUE

ZEYN JOUKHADAR | MECA’AYO COLE | MEGAN VOLPERT | JUBI-ARRIOLA HEADLEY | SARAH SHEPPECK | JAS HUFF THEO CANAVAN | ALEX DIFRANCESCO | THE CYBORG JILLIAN WEISE | DAVID SALAZAR | M.S. DEAN | KB | JESSE SMITH | NNADI SAMUEL | EITAN PERLIN | SARAH BLANKESPOOR | LARA AMEEN | ADDIE TSAI | NOUR KAMEL ELAYNA MAE DARCY | OCHO | DANNY ECHO & HALLIE | JENNIE LIGHTWEIS-GOFF | SAM SPADAFORE | JILLIAN A. FANTIN | JAMELA LAW | KATHERINE MUSSELLAM | BRODY PARRISH CRAIG | ZEFYR LISOWSKI | SELF SABOTEUR SABINE GROHOWSKI | SKY CUBACUB // REBIRTH GARMENTS | RACHEL WILEY | DANI MOHRBACH | KEET GENIZA

founding editor co-editor in chief addie tsai co-editor in chief sarah sheppeck managing editor simone person disability & access organizer sky cubacub editor, the mane attraction simone person editor, the glowup sarah sheppeck editor, sole mates jen st. jude editor, no scrubs jo davis-mcelligatt editor, sew what sarah sheppeck editor, triple thread(s) kirin khan editor, cancel & gretel sky cubacub vol. 02: rebirth winter 2022 copyright just femme & dandy cover illustration by crystal vielula issue layout by keet geniza justfemmeanddandy.com

editor, fat + furious simone person editor, features addie tsai

just femme & dandy is a biannual literary & arts magazine on fashion for and by queer, trans, two-spirit, non-binary, and intersex people. We are an anti-racist, pro-Black publication and aim to centralize and celebrate work from Black and Indigenous people of color. We encourage submissions about fashion and “in”/visible disabilities, fatness, chronic illness and pain, poverty, neurodiversity, mental illness, and other forms of intersectional marginalization.

We believe in equal access to collective joy, so all work in this issue can be found on our website in plain text with image and audio descriptions and captioning. For additional access needs, please contact our disability & access organizer Sky Cubacub.

This project is now funded in part by BIPOC Arts Network and Fund.

letter from the editor // 06 a note on access // 08

features zeyn joukhadar // adorning my trans body // 10 meca’ayo cole // if i change my name, will you still love me? wait. i am doing this for me // 17 megan volpert // gender expansive greenville, june 2021 // 21 jubi-arriola headley // on kilts, or pleasure, whichever // 23

the glowup theo canavan // untitled // 30 jas huff // if i am the phoenix my ashes are retinol all-night skin cream // 32 alex difrancesco // gold glitter and my flamingo masculinity // 33 sarah sheppeck // urban hydration: review // 37

the mane attraction the cyborg jillian weise // emo as i dye my hair, again, after a long while // 42 david salazar // mamá shaves my head // 43 m.s. dean // private viewing // 46

afrodisiac kb // black hair // 48

sew what jesse smith // backstitch // 50 nnadi samuel // praise for the inner lining of my morphing apparel // 52 eitan perlin // the first time i let myself wear pink // 54 sarah blankespoor // seam ripper, or a generative requiem // 56

solemates lara ameen // my shoes aren’t inspirational // 58 addie tsai // i only have eyes for oxfords // 60 nour kamel // highthrow // 64 elayna mae darcy // parable of the boots // 66 ocho // choose they, they ain't just neva // 71

no scrubs danny echo & hallie linnebur // the sweet hereafter (interviewed by jo davis-mcelligatt) // 74 jennie lightweis-goff // untitled // 79 zefyr lisowski //my tattoos & the sea // 83

triple threads sam spadafore // wearing our pride // 88 jillian a. fantin // 2 sonnets of all the fashion that makes me a tommy // 91 jamela law // neo couture: algorithms in nature transform the jing dress in chinese opera // 93 katharine mussellam // when i feel blue (fiction) // 101

cancel & gretel brody parrish craig // mad queer magic // 114 self_saboteur // to sew or not to sew, that is the question // 119 sabine grohowski // hell on wheels design: accessibility practices // 124 sky cubacub / rebirth garments // sky & the rebirth warriors // 126

fat + furious rachel wiley // revenge body // 1129 dani mohrbach // how the pursuit of style made me excited to be fat and queer // 130 keet geniza // the last diet // 135 about the artists // 144 about our team // 151

letter from the editor The common theme? An air of celebration.

We are here, and we are alive, and we are strong in our vulnerability.

When Addie and I decided that the theme for this volume would be “rebirth,” we were thinking both of the timing (the New Year), and of a theme that would resonate with the historically marginalized communities we elevate. As we’ve approached the issue’s release, I’ve reflected on my past and present incarnations, as I have already been birthed and rebirthed many times over.

I am a fire sign, energized by the cleansing power of flame, so it’s no surprise that I’ve always found kinship with the phoenix. I associate the process of rebirth with tribulation, with new trauma and fresh scars, with all that is destroyed in order to make room for something new and necessary. I have emerged from ash with a seemingly correlative frequency as the word “unprecedented” begins to lose its meaning from overuse.

I was rebirthed once in 2017, after a certain presidential election, the car accident that ensured I would never again dance the way I once could, and the miscarriage that redefined my understanding of grief. I was born again in 2019, when I left sunny LA and its disingenuous actor-slash transplants for a literal cabin in the woods in a Maine town so small that the post office doesn’t deliver mail. Again in 2020, after a heartbreak from which I thought I would never recover. Now, in the first days of 2022, I think this life cycle may last a bit longer.

For many of us, last year was merely a continuation of the year prior–more uncertainty, more stress, more incalculable loss.

And yet it was in the midst of shared struggle that I finally began to feel like I am becoming something–someone–great. This is not my first rebirth, but it is the first for which I am grateful.

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I think it is that type of rebirth–the type that brings gratitude, safety, and joy–that is celebrated throughout this issue. There’s “The Last Diet,” a comic by the wonderful Keet Geniza featured in our new fat + furious section, and the feature piece “Adorning My Trans Body” by Zeyn Joukhadar, both about finding pleasure in one’s present body. There are the works of Theo Canavan and Alex DiFrancesco in the glow up, both about masculine gender expression through makeup. David Salazar’s “Mamá Shaves My Head,” about the identity affirmation born from a haircut.

The common theme? An air of celebration.

We are here, and we are alive, and we are strong in our vulnerability.

May your next rebirth bring you certainty and peace. xo Sarah

Sarah Sheppeck Co-Editor in Chief just femme & dandy January 2022

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a note on access

I am Sky Cubacub, the creator of Rebirth Garments, a clothing line for queer and trans disabled folx of all sizes and ages, the writer of “Radical Visibility: A QueerCrip Dress Reform Movement Manifesto” and just femme & dandy's “cancel & gretel” editor! I will share my identities with you all so that you understand where I’m coming from and who is in charge of accessibility for this awesome magazine! I am queer, nonbinary xenogender, and I use they/them/their and xe/xem/xyr pronouns. I’m half FilipinxAmerican and half white, and I am almost 30 years old. I have non-apparent disabilities including lifelong anxiety, panic disorder, depression with a still undiagnosed developed stomach disorder I acquired later in life, CPTSD (I am a survivor of DV), and newly diagnosed Chronic Fatigue Syndrome that developed after having Mono.

For this issue we had all of the contributors make their own image descriptions! Morgan Hill, who works for Rebirth Garments, provided the script for the audio description for Megan Volpert’s “gender expansive greenville, june 2021.” Image descriptions and audio descriptions are always incomplete because you can endlessly describe anything.

If you are interested in learning how to make internet content accessible, follow my friend Alex Chen on Instagram. You can also check out the Alt Text as Poetry project, a collaboration between artists Bojana Coklyat and Shannon Finnegan, supported by Eyebeam and the Disability Visibility Project.

Access can always be improved, so please contact us to request specific accessibility accommodations you need, and I will do my best to make it happen!

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u t r es a e f

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adorning my trans body zeyn joukhadar

I tried to take the picture when I thought my roommate wasn't looking. I raised the grainy camera on my flip phone to the full length mirror, tried to frame the shot to catch my shoes, but not my face. Never my face. My boyfriend might have been in the bathroom down the hall at the time. My roommate, her back turned as she did her makeup in her tabletop mirror, was an east coast white girl who rode horses, found excuses to tell me she weighed less than she looked, and had demanded that I take down the poster of two girls kissing that I'd hung on my wall when we'd first moved in. I'd caved, but our relationship didn't improve. Later that year, when I had the flu, she would ask me to sleep in the common room to avoid infecting her; I would throw up and collapse in the hall before being taken to the hospital.

That afternoon, none of that had yet happened. The Pennsylvania fall was in its first crisp frost. I don't remember what I had on—maybe the chunky camel boots I'd worn to the LGBTQ+ gathering I'd checked out a few weeks before, or my thrifted plaid skirt, or the satin men's button up I'd borrowed from my mom. My idea with the mirror had been to take photos of my outfits. I wanted to figure out what I liked, what made me feel good in my body. It was becoming so rare, then, that I felt like anything other than a ghost. I'd been called a dyke since high school because of my awkwardness and my tendency to wear boys' clothes, but now, in college, I'd gone on fucking people of all genders, which only seemed to confuse the lesbians I befriended. Something lay dormant in me that everyone saw but no one could accurately name. At parties, I would walk into a bathroom and startle when, in the mirror, I didn't recognize my own face. When I was drunk, at least—a tactic I wouldn't figure out until my sophomore year—I could make a game out of it, wear the unknown face like a carnival mask.

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All photos by Addie Tsai

Maybe I just need to find the right way to wear this body, I told myself. I had been called manly and ugly most of my life. I'd been pushed toward femininity by well-meaning friends and family and by the boyfriends who bought me sweater sets and lingerie and charm necklaces, and I was beginning to believe they were right—femininity, for someone like me, was the currency of choice if you wanted to buy affection, friendship, love, approval. Yet while I studied fashion like a science, it was also the best cover I had to explore the extent of my gender monstrousness. When I stepped in front of the mirror, I could ask myself how a certain silhouette might camouflage or highlight my broad shoulders; I could figure out how to roll up the sleeves of women's shirts so my muscular arms didn't rip them; I could begin to figure out whether baggy tees were the only way to survive the crushing sadness I felt about my chest.

It took a great deal of bravery, day after day, to confront the mirror. I wasn't always kind with the person I found. That fall afternoon, when my boyfriend laughed nervously at my outfit as he opened the door, when my roommate glanced over at me and curled her lip in disgust, they were only draping over me the same hurt I regularly inflicted on myself. *** I'd read fashion blogs in secret for a couple of years by then. Sometimes, I'd run my fingers over the sequins and lace in my sister's closet without having any idea how they could make sense on a body like mine. Every time I was attracted to a delicate, form-fitting, or embellished item, I would put it on and be gripped with a sudden wrongness so strong that I'd rip it off, ashamed. I didn't know it was possible for someone like me to be trans.

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The immediate reality was that my hairy, muscular, biracial body already placed me outside the bounds of cis womanhood. I was already too masculine. In fact, I was ashamed of being femme in a too-masculine body.

The confusion was maddening. If I was supposedly a girl—a word that had always felt alien, squirmy—how could being femme make me feel so ashamed? Why was I drawn to the look of a flat chest in lace, or of a leather choker below the first dark curls of facial hair? How could my most intense adolescent relationship have been with a white guy who had since come out as gay?

The fact of his whiteness wasn't neutral. The first time I set foot in a queer gathering in college, in which I was one of the only nonwhite people, I finally saw a modicum of gender nonconformity in the queer women I met. But cutting your hair short and wearing button down shirts seemed to be a thing for white people. Scrolling through fashion blogs and walking around campus, I struggled to find a sartorial lexicon for some fundamental idea I had about myself that I was trying to express, something I wouldn't see embodied for more than a decade, when I met other queer and trans Arabs and SWANA (Southwest Asian and North African) people.

My second semester of college, I let my crush make me over. I wouldn't realize the depth of my feelings for her until after I'd transferred out of that school. One weekend she put me in a pair of purple jeans, a pink baby tee, and a pink headband. Warm with the intimacy of wearing her clothes, I surveyed the mirror and swallowed the lump of despair in my throat. I didn't have the word dysphoria; I only knew I had to escape. She was frustrated and disappointed. Probably I spent the rest of

the weekend skipping meals and holed up in my dorm room—I don't remember. It took so much effort, sometimes, just to get dressed. ***

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I've never had a lot of money to spend on fashion, so I thrifted, repurposed, hemmed and sewed. In grad school I thrifted an emerald boatneck sweater with a plush ribbed neckline from Goodwill, removed the shoulder pads from an oversized tweed blazer, and cut and knotted fabric into soft beads that I strung into a cascading necklace. Eventually, as a postdoc —a wildly underpaid gig, but the most stable money I ever made—I started saving up for statement pieces. I tracked some of them for years, bought them on final sale, and wore them until they fell apart: an airy skirt layered with peach organza, a drapey white tee with sequined stripes, a fluttery red crepe dress with a pleated skirt, black pumps with a four inch heel.

He critiqued my tweets and insisted on reading all my emails and writings before I sent them out. Sometimes, he would make me change my outfit three or four times before we left the house. By the time I saved up my money to buy a magenta wrap dress for our rehearsal dinner, I looked at myself in the mirror as I zipped it up and wondered where that other person was, the version of myself who wore men's cargo pants with a slinky gold top, or an organza skirt with combat boots. (I could never afford Doc Martens; in college my friends and I used to joke that we wore knock-offs, which we lovingly referred to as “knock Docs.”) In spite of my suffering, I'd once been creative and daring. Now I was buried so deep in my fear of being unloved that I couldn't see a way out. The longer I stayed closeted for the sake of my marriage, the longer I stayed on estrogen-based birth control and watched my body shift and settle, the less I recognized myself, and it didn't seem worth it to fight back anymore. I'd been read as trans even as a child, when the people around me lacked language for what I was, but picked up on my difference nonetheless.

Now I felt like a stranger, waking up in someone else's clothes, someone else's life, wondering how I was supposed to decorate this vessel when, every second, I itched to tear my way out of my skin.

Increasingly, though, as I entered my midtwenties, I found I was buying things less because I loved them and more because they allowed me to embody the person I was pressured to become. Back then, I was in a relationship with someone who kept a close eye on my appearance, both on and offline.

Fitting, then, that shortly before my marriage unraveled, we got into fights about my brown lipstick. About my shoes. The day I bought a pair of men's cargo pants, he screamed at me in the parking lot of the Old Navy. Before the month was out, I was gone.

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When I first got divorced and came out as trans, I didn't understand the difference between my gender presentation and how I wanted my body to look and feel. At first I tried to express myself in a masc way. Turned away from transphobic (queer-owned, even!) barber shops and unable to afford pricey salons, I learned to give myself a crisp fade with clippers. Being transient with ridiculously expensive health insurance, I started thrifting again. I found a men's mock neck sweater in navy and gray stripes; a perfectly worn-in pair of dark jeans from the Housing Works thrift shop; even, yes, a series of printed button downs. The cut of everything I wore had to be straight and boxy to accommodate my hips and the fact that I was binding. I stopped wearing makeup and experimenting with accessories, and for a while it was a relief; those things had been compulsory for so long that I needed a break in order to know what I wanted to use of my own free will. There was nothing wrong with what I wore. In truth, I felt better—I became invisible to cis men overnight, and that alone was a relief—but I also felt strange and incomplete. Partly it was other people: I feared that if people knew I wanted to grow my hair out or wear eyeliner, they would take it as a sign that I wasn't really trans, which would add fuel to the fire for the cis people in my life who didn't want me to transition and might cause the trans people in my life to turn their backs on me. Partly—as I figured out when I tried to grow my hair out, and my dysphoria gave me panic attacks—it was myself.

I was also doing my best to retain the love of the few people who had remained close to me after I'd come out, and I had internalized the transphobic message that the only acceptable way to be trans was to try as hard as possible not to be. Transition as last resort. Many of the people I loved, as much as they tried to educate themselves, held on to transmisogynistic beliefs about what testosterone would do to me, imagining it would change my personality, make me violent and dangerous. That made me both infuriated and sad.

It took me a good two to three years to come to terms with going on testosterone. For one thing, I'd long received the message that I was too femme to need it, or deserve it.

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Would it be so bad if I wanted to be trans, wanted to look trans? What could that mean for me, I wondered, beyond the endless scroll of perfect white chests on Instagram, a kind of chest I would never possess? I looked for inspiration from gender nonconforming men and masc people, both cis and trans. I thought about what I had liked about the clothes I'd worn in my twenties, what I'd learned about color coordination, pairing leather and silk, and the power in a smoky eye. I thought about the way I'd felt with that first boyfriend, the one who told me he'd never loved me after five years together, the way he'd once written me into a story as a muscular, effeminate man, long hair whipping my neck aboard a water taxi. Back then, in high school, I'd made bitmap collages of the faces of dark-haired cis women, trying to figure out what other people saw when they looked at me. Now I made secret Pinterest boards of olive-skinned people with angular faces and black hair, adorned with smooth leather harnesses, bright silky fabrics, crop tops and embroidered jackets. I added to it while I waited to start T, each pin a secret wish.

hair grow out; the testosterone made it form spiraling curls as thick as sidewalk chalk, curls I hadn't seen since before I'd gone on the pill, which had made my hair fall out at the temples. I dipped a brush into a pot of kohl for the first time in years. I bought a pair of black boots with a chunky heel and a charcoal jumpsuit decorated with gold lilies.

According to the white supremacist cisgender binary, only two kinds of people ever get to be fully human: white cis men and white cis women. Everyone else has already failed to correctly “do” gender, which means we've failed to be fully human under white supremacy. Understanding the way gender is

*** Something cracked inside me.

Being on testosterone made it clear to me that I had been trying, for years, to achieve something with my gender presentation that had actually been a longing of the body. The minute I grew hair on my thighs, I bought a pair of white cutoffs and wore them all summer, pairing them with tiny cropped tanks in sapphire and citrine to celebrate the whorls of hair I grew on my belly. When the round of fat melted off my cheeks, I let my

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racialized helped me understand why the embodied language of androgyny ever only seemed fully available to white people: no matter what I signified with my gender expression, my physical body had already placed me outside the legibility of the gender binary, whether I used the term nonbinary or not. From other queer and trans Arabs, I learned to express my gender by borrowing from historical embodied lexicons of queer and trans Arabness and began to accept that my gender would most likely never be legible to whiteness. My use of kohl makes a culturally specific reference; painting my hands with henna or wearing gold jewelry speak to cultural practices weighted with meanings that whiteness will never fully understand, and so when I do those things, I do them knowing that I am first and foremost making myself visible to my own community. There, in that space of illegibility to cisness and to whiteness, is where I feel most free.

I used to picture myself as a boy alone in my room, quiet and sensitive and wanting. I didn't consider until later that maybe I was longing to express a femmeness that only transitioning would make possible. In expressing that femme steel and softness, I do take cues from the masculine people of color in my life—from my father's striped thobe to my floral print bomber and colorful high tops, I take lessons from masculinities in which I recognize something of my friends, my cousins, and my own flamboyant self. Above all, though, I look to femmes of color of all genders who are kin to me, blood and chosen. I'm done trying to imitate the white masculinities I grew up eclipsed and often violated by. They are true and beautiful for some, and there is no shame in them, but they are no longer useful to me in my journey toward myself. I'm still a lover of embellishment, ready to twirl in an organza dress with heavy boots and hairy legs or rock a leather harness over a mesh top that shows my scars. Only now I get to adorn a body that belongs to me, and to no one else.

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if i change my name, will you still love me? wait. i am doing this for me. meca’ayo cole

I’ve finally done it. I’ve changed my name. I’ve changed my name, and the name I’ve chosen feels good. I announce my name on social media. Most friends and loved ones are powerfully supportive. This support fills me up. I feel so filled I cannot imagine anyone knocking the wind out of me. This is something I’ve wanted to do since at least the eighth grade, but even before then, I imagined myself wearing other names.

It’s less than two weeks after the launch of my debut book, an identity polyptych, when I announce that I am Meca’Ayo. I haven’t warned anyone. I’ve just decided. I laugh at this move because even to me, it feels like a knee jerk response to the book launch, and in a way, it is. There are some things I want to separate myself from and allow space for proper healing. This book speaks to mostly painful stories about my life I have carried for a very long time. I do not want to carry them anymore. At least, not in the same ways I have in the past.

In my book, I talk about familial estrangement, being in-between things as a mixed-race Black person, abuse, harm, racism, and beginning to heal, forgive, and move towards reconciliation, even if I am not sure if that reconciliation, let alone restoration, can happen in time.

I want joy in my life. I learn the Yoruban word for joy which is Ayo. But I don't want a name that so many of us who feel in-between because of our nonbinary sense of self choose. I can't just be Ayo. I want a name that is mine but also a name that acknowledges where I have been. I also want to acknowledge the struggles of my mothers who despite whatever adversity did the best they could in a society that constantly told them they were never enough. I especially and more specifically mean that I want to acknowledge my mother’s struggles, and the fact that she survived.

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Tameca is a name my mother chose for me, as are the initials TLC. I used to joke that TLC was a gimmick my mother gave me. While I was writing my book, I realized it was a message my mother gave me. “TLC: Tender Loving Care.”

This is a recurrent memory, a joy, that I want to recognize and hold on to. When I see “TLC: Tender Loving Care,” I also see and hear my mother. She says this as a soft magic, and I recognize it as a gift that I have integrated into myself.

TLC is a message that has reminded me to walk one foot in front of the other in service of care.

Tameca feels like a bookmark in the stories of my mother and my father. It also feels like a barrier between who I thought I was and wanted to be, and who anyone who called me by that name thought I was or wanted me to be.

I felt a little trapped inside that name, so I have chosen to open the name up at its head.

The day after I announce my name change, I receive a notebook from Creative Strategies for Change and Palm Wine Collective. These are two Denver Colorado nonprofit organizations that focus on community healing, social justice, and abolition. The front of the book reads, “WRITE. EXPEL. MANIFEST. HEAL.” I feel eye sweats brewing. I tell the person handing me this book that it is perfectly timed, and I already know what I will do with the book. I begin listing who I am as Meca’Ayo.

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Meca’Ayo is full of love, beauty and grace; Meca’Ayo is comfortable in their own skin and in rooms full of people; Meca’Ayo feels gratitude for all forms of abundance coming towards them; Meca’Ayo is part of a strong system of mutual support; Meca’Ayo is an abolitionist; Meca’Ayo is full of health and vitality and art; Meca’Ayo gets shit done; Meca’Ayo is grounded, and their body breathes itself whole.

I write these things in service of reversing every curse against me, those wended towards me by others and those I’ve created and internalized. I write these things because my name is a blank slate in which I can step.

I write these things even after my mother tells me she is heartbroken that I have changed my name. I try to explain to her that while I feel gratitude for the gift of the name she gave me it is like an old sweater that no longer fits. I cannot wear it anymore.

That said, I have kept some part of it because of the memory of the gift my mother gave me, and because I love my mother, and because she has always called me ‘Meca.

Meca is what my family calls me.

For a very long time, I wanted to have a relationship with my father. My relationship with him was cut off abruptly when I was ten years old. There are reasons for this, and of course I did not understand them when I was kid. I worked towards understanding over decades and by what I wrote in an identity polyptych, and via the bits of writing that did not make it into the book. I am still in therapy, sorting a good deal of what is mine and what is not mine as far as anything owed regarding that relationship to a man, that to be honest, I do not at this point know. I don’t mean that to sound cold.

In another room, someone says, “You know, they say when you change your name, you change your destiny.” I respond: “Yes. That is the point. That is the aim.”

I often think of some lines from Saul Williams’ poem “Coded Language” where he says,

Let your children name themselves and claim themselves as the new day for today we are determined to be the channelers of these changing frequencies into songs, paintings, writings, dance, drama, photography, carpentry, crafts, love, and love.

This is just to say that on my legal documents to date (and until I am able to change them), I am carrying his name as a sort of ghost. My ghost surname is Coleman and I have already spoken new names into the ether because I no longer want to carry a name of a man I do not know and who I am supposed to love despite him not being present, and who I do not know how to love.

When people accept our chosen names, we are affirmed. When we are able to choose our names, we gather our power in our hands.

During my time at the Regis University Mile High MFA, I wrote a poem called “Preparation for a Renaming.” This poem became a gift for so many people who were choosing their own names. I read and heard and noticed that many people I know deliberated over when or whether they would be able to change their names. I watched and heard and read about so many people whose friends and loved ones brought up old names. I thought of this when someone I know approached me at an event and asked, “Is it legal?” Three simple words almost knocked the wind out of my sails. I hesitated, and I do not remember if I answered. I was not at the time able to tell them how frustrated this made me feel, and

Meca’Ayo Cole. That is my chosen name until and if I choose to change my name again. I have cut off the man so that I no longer need to hold on to any expectation of him, or his or anyone’s expectations of me, and so that we are all free to do our respective healing. And in the future: come what may.

Someone I know writes: “Every time I see your name, I say it three times.” I am not sure why this strikes me the way it does. My name is not a mantra for others to hold in their mouths. I respond: “My name is a protection and a boundary.”

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that it felt more right for this person to accept that Meca’Ayo is my name. Not ‘Meca. Not Tameca. Not some other variation that one might assume of me. My name is what I’ve chosen, and so call me that. People who have changed their names – call them by their names.

Call us by our names.

And so I say it to myself in the mirror: “I am Meca’Ayo. I am Meca’Ayo. I am Meca’Ayo.” *** I want to end with this poem because it is still a gift that I hope can encourage anyone who is ready to gift themselves with the power of their own naming.

Preparation for a Renaming

My name feels heavy I’m going to take it out into moonlight and hold it against the stars smudge it with holy smoke dig a hole into the earth and cover me til three moons turn black and full again and low plants cover the scar I’m going to build a fire feed it with ghee and seeds and prayers for direction take the name and hand it to the flames stare into the light until it is ash I’ll scrape it all into a deep red urn travel the coasts and find a place upon the water throw it in wash me clean

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gender expansive greenville, june 2021 megan volpert

What exactly is a “gender expansive” fashion show? The good people of Greenville, South Carolina, attempted to answer this question in June of 2021. My wife and I drove up from Atlanta. Like most people who participated, we’d been stuck in our house for ages due to the pandemic. It was our first post-vaccine road-trip and we were thrilled, rebirthing our best and most fashionable selves against the onslaught of coronavirus. But we were also amused and worried. A queer fashion show attempted on this big a scale—in Greenville?

My wife was walking the runway for Sharpe Haus, helmed by designer Leon Wu, a dear friend of ours from Los Angeles. I embedded with the Sharpe folks and generally roamed around behind the scenes, noticing and documenting on the fly with my crap smartphone, inspired in a nineties kind of way by the newbie DIY vibes emanating from all corners of this scene. These Southerners were starving for a loudly queer conversation. They wanted to assert their existence in order to provoke a rebirth of Southern culture itself—where South Carolina is revealed to be inclusive and proud.

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The event sold out. There were 250 guests and over 50 staff, models, designers, vendors, et cetera.

Perhaps the wildest thing was discovering there was zero press coverage, neither local nor national. The event organizers had hired a professional photographer to do the classic head-on posing shots at the end of the runway and that’s it. But anybody who has ever walked at a queer runway show knows it’s not about the fifteen seconds you’re individually up there doing your thing; it’s about the community you make all weekend long to create an experience that has been greater than the sum of its parts. It’s about the crowd, not so much about the clothes.

Whether the event becomes an annual thing or whether it turns out to have been a legendary one-off, this 45-minute video I put together seems to be the only full story about it on record.

I’m glad I was there to catch it, to give it a permanently available second life among people who couldn’t participate in it directly that weekend. Hopefully this event was a spark that can ignite Greenville and the South at large. Only time will tell.

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on kilts, or pleasure, whichever jubi-arriola headley

1.

I suppose this in some ways is my origin story. Though I’ve come to understand that I, like perhaps many or all of you, have more than one.

2.

I bought my first kilt in September 2007, during the Folsom Street Fair. How to describe the Folsom Street Fair? Folsom is an exceptionally well curated event that includes a stunning breadth and depth of BDSM scenes or performances, if you will; booths or stalls selling all sorts of BDSM gear; organizations that promote safe, sane, and consensual BDSM; companies that produce BDSM porn, and porn in general; BDSM-focused or inspired artists and craftsmen; and corporate (of course) entities that might in some way benefit from an association with the folks that frequent such an event. Among so much else.

But this is not a story about the street fair itself. While I have any number of certifiable kinks that might’ve brought me to Folsom, the real driver behind my attendance that first year was, in truth, the simple freedom of it all. The city of San Francisco, once upon a liberated time, didn’t necessarily permit nudity but it didn’t outlaw it either. There’s a local legend (by which I mean the actual person, not the story of them) who used to walk through the Castro naked, regularly (I believe they lived there or nearby) presumably because a) they could and b) they took pleasure from doing so. And though they’ve since outlawed workaday nudity the city still (for however long it lasts) grants a special permit to the Folsom folks to allow full nudity on the fairgrounds (roughly five square blocks of city streets south of Market) for whosoever desires.

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3.

I’m currently reading Pleasure Activism: The Politics of Feeling Good by Adrienne Maree Brown, an exceptionally well curated collection of essays by her and others, and interviews or conversations between her and others, that rather than describe I’ll let you discover for yourself. I mention this primarily to tell you that the reason I’m reading the book is because I wrote a poem, a cento, made up entirely of titles of Sun Ra compositions and albums, that ends with the words pleasure, immeasurable (I’m pleased with the slant rhyme if nothing else) which I’ve been considering placing as the concluding poem in what’s shaping up to be my second poetry collection. Except: I (some I from somewhere inside) had started to question whether a fat Black queer person who wants to be engaged in a movement for catalytic change and true liberation ought to end a poem, much less a full collection of poems, on the notion of immeasurable pleasure? Is this – pleasure – a serious enough endeavor? Is it too trivial? So, like I hate to admit I sometimes do, I began to look for external permission to do what I already knew I wanted to do, to end this collection on the notion of pleasure-seeking as a goal.

And I came across this revelation of a work.

Suffice it to say: permission granted.

5.

When I say I’m currently “reading” Pleasure Activism what I mean is I’ve been listening to Adrienne Marie Brown’s (exceptionally pleasurable) narration of the work on Audible™ which I didn’t want to admit to you, reader, because I’ve got a mountain or five of books I’ve bought whose covers I’ve not cracked and listening to a book doesn’t to my wiring sounds especially literary or academic or poetic or intellectual or whatever other such thing a serious poet ought to be or model or manifest.

6.

A brief description of my baggage: it’s always overpacked and nevertheless manages to be consistently inappropriate, whatever the current climate.

7.

It’s not accurate to say I bought my first kilt at Folsom. For the occasion of my first Folsom Street Fair, I’d bought (months before) a chainmail garment, which, depending on who you ask, would fall somewhere, on the spectrum of unbifurcated garments, between a kilt and a loincloth. (I found this garment at the Leather Rack, a now-defunct Washington, DC store catering to leatherfolk.) I’d planned and saved for this trip for months, and took it, the loincloth/kilt, the trip, from Washington DC to San Francisco, alone. (I didn’t believe my impending liberation could withstand the weight of witnesses. No witnesses I’d have to see ever again, at any rate.) So – I went into one of the port-a-johns at the street fair and changed from my shorts into my chainmail loincloth/kilt (and nothing else but black socks and boots and sunglasses designed to

4.

Perhaps this all reads as obscene to y’all but I already said I’m fat Black and queer so for a goodly percentage of the nation/world I, by virtue of my literal composition, by definition, wallow in the obscene, do I not?

Please understand, I ever aim to embrace the obscene. If you’re still reading, this is no surprise to you.

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hide my eyes) and stepped out into the sunny day. (Folsom always has a clothes check.) And almost immediately, what I felt was free. The sun hitting my skin. The sense of transgression – of not merely being nearly nude but not being technically nude while flouting (flouncing) the conventions of workaday male dress and of presenting my not-nude self in a way where I might as well have been. Y’all, the looks I got. Within this consensual space, the solicitation of the gaze of others. (Is exhibitionism a kink?) I felt – shockingly, to pretty much every part of myself – comfortable. I was enjoying – not merely being seen but being seen how I wanted to be seen. To say I felt pleasure is as close as I can come to describing my state of selfness in that moment.

workaday world maintaining this sense of pleasure for as long as possible. That was the beginning. I’ve since come to understand that donning any unbifurcated garment – a kilt, a sarong, a caftan – brings me that same sense of pleasure, of selfness.

9.

I strive always to be relentlessly honest.

Which is to say: lest y’all think I’m fully saved, liberated, what have you – I am emphatically not. If you only knew the contortions I go through every time I consider donning a kilt, etc. in a non-BDSM or non-queer space. I am, as ever, a work-inprogress. One of my resolutions for the New Year is to wear a kilt on a cross-country airplane trip, because it’ll represent me letting go of what others think, enough to allow myself the selfness/pleasure I don’t need to earn, but rather, that I was born deserving.

(Seriously, if you haven’t read/heard Pleasure Activism, do.) I’m taking baby steps. Just this week I met friend for lunch at a local restaurant. I wore black V-neck tee shirt and a simply wrapped black sarong around my waist, which stopped a couple inches short of my ankles, and black sandals. Yes, my fat Black cisgender “male”-reading ass got some looks as I entered, but none of them melted me. Well, one came close. But that look was from the waiter wearing the tight stretch jeans over his thick, thick thighs, and I read that look as one of appreciation. So I was good.

8.

In a 2019 interview with ColorLines Adrienne Maree Brown defines pleasure as “about happiness, joy, contentment and satisfaction…pure aliveness and actually being present for the world around you.”

That’s how I felt, in that moment, wearing my chainmail loincloth/kilt. And as I luxuriated in that sensibility – which, if I think about it, I had no recollection of having felt, at least with that intensity, at any previous point in my (admittedly, relatively speaking) untroubled life – I came across a vendor at the fair, a white guy with long somewhat matted brown hair who was selling a line of kilts he created called Utilikilts™, which might be thought of as descendants of the traditional Scottish kilt but are nevertheless quite different, and I tried one on and it felt like I’d discovered a hack, as they say, how I could walk through the

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10.

I feel like the important work of my life going forward is to become comfortable, not only in my own skin, but in what I wear over it. And, in a larger sense, in the pursuit of pleasure, as an end. Without needing permission. Which is to say: if you invite me to read or speak or to dinner or to the laundromat, chances are I’ll be wearing a kilt. Or some similarly unbifurcated garment. We good?

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o w l g u e p h t

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untitled theo canavan

rebirth /rēˈbərTH/: noun — the process of being reincarnated or born again.

Realizing I was transgender was a rebirth for me in many ways. I’d always been into makeup, nails, hair. But something always felt different. I liked doing “normal” makeup, but I didn’t want to be pretty in the way girls are pretty, I wanted to be pretty in the way that boys are pretty. Toward the end of high school, I started to become aware of the trans community. I started questioning, but I knew I couldn’t come out in my hometown. It was a dark point in my life.

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The beginning of my transition was freeing—and terrifying. In college, finally surrounded by other trans people, I came out. I started using he/him pronouns, and going by the name Theo.

I felt so at home in myself. But in an effort to have people take me seriously, and to be seen as a “real” man, I stopped doing all of the “feminine” things I loved. And I was miserable.

Today I’m trying to be the queer mentor I needed when I was younger.

Openly gay, openly trans, openly myself. I want to be so completely me that other people feel empowered to live their truths. I’m a man. I am a gay, trans, queer man. I love makeup, and I am no less of a man for that. I am no less of a man because I am everything society tells us men shouldn't be. On a good day, if you ask me, it makes me more of one.

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if i am the phoenix my ashes are retinol all-night skin cream jas huff

over a sink from which I rise face damp dab cream on fire cheeks flushed rushed renewed by a concern for my skin never carried when I thought myself a man but now subcutaneous skeletal salvaging some part of me unruined by testosterone ravaging my resolve to live and love a face thought lost ‘cause of acne and rosacea but now (slowly

imperceptibly

agonizingly)

clearing clearing clearing clouds drifting after the rain of blood and fire blown away by estradiol valerate (blue 2mg tablet daily) spironolactone (100mg tablet twice daily) absorbed by a body too long asleep exhausted of maleness glowing glowing glowing in embers of glycol skin scrub retinol skin cream and nightly hydrating lip mask hoping to glimpse myself in the mirror after thirty-nine long years waiting

waiting

watching that

man mask pretend to be me plucked from the middle of my life learning to put on my real face over this imposter’s skin with a brush and eyeshadow learning to take my first steps to loving myself learning to be a baby phoenix

ancient yet newborn

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gold glitter and my flamingo masculinity alex difrancesco

It wasn’t until 2016, when I was 35 years old and had been on testosterone for a year, that I started to wear makeup. There had been a brief period in my teens when I tried and failed to become a make-up wearer, streaking too-heavy foundation across my skin, wearing neutral lipstick and lip gloss. I hated it, then. I hated the idea that I was creating a version of myself that was just like myself but a little less flawed with makeup. It seemed like a waste of time, money, and effort to do such a thing. What did I care if my skin wasn’t perfect? The eyedrops I used to moisten my contacts (then less disposable than the ones I wear today, and meant to be worn for a whole year) meant I couldn’t wear eyeliner or shadow. What was the point?

That is what I told myself, anyway. I didn’t wear makeup from the time I was a teenager until I was 35. Around age 29, I had another realization as to why, and that was that I wasn’t a woman.

It came as a shock to me to learn that I had been in the closet as a trans person for most of my life.

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My first lipsticks were eyeliners: pink, purple, and blue. I picked them up in a CVS in the small Ohio town I’d moved to after my divorce because they didn’t have anything but reds, mauves, and taupes in the lipstick section. I put the blue one on the day of my best friend’s graduation from college and asked how it looked only to have her grandmother reply, “You look cold.” (My best friend and I still laugh about this.)

Experimentation is part of wearing makeup that I never really went through as a young woman. Now, as a transmasculine nonbinary person, I felt less afraid to make mistakes. I felt more entitled to wear makeup than I had as a young woman. And I felt that if I was going to do it, I was going to do it boldly.

Some transmasculine people, when they first transition, go deep into toxic masculinity.

Surrounded mostly by trans women whose femininity was some of the most gentle and caring I’d ever seen, I knew this would not be my path. I went back and forth for about five years about whether or not I would medically transition. When I finally started taking testosterone, something inside me changed. I was no longer “proving” masculinity from a body that could never be read as anything but feminine by most. As my body hair grew thicker, and I began to be able to grow a goatee, I suddenly embraced makeup, too.

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I toyed around with makeup for two years before I found a brand on Instagram that was everything I wanted–bold, long-lasting colors, metallic powders, sparkles. All of it was perfect for my taste and affordable. The brand was Tattoo Junkie, and while I still don’t know enough about makeup to know whether that’s an embarrassing line to admit having as your favorite, it’s true. I started with some purple and green lipsticks that came with glitter toppers.

In 2020, when the pandemic hit, I started in with glitter. I bought green and silver and gold, I wore it over my eyelids. I found a gold shimmer lip gloss online. I found tubes of iridescent sparkles in many colors in a Walgreens and began to spread them across my eyelids, in the hollows of my orbital sockets, just under my brows. Often, the long dreary days of the shutdown could be made better by something extravagant over my lips and eyes as I walked to the corner store to buy cigarettes. When I did Zoom readings, I went all-out, channeling David Bowie in the ‘70s.

I felt perfect in them. I felt exactly like I wanted to look. At the end of 2019, I was wearing them out to events, and to school, and to parties. Strengthened by what felt like success, I dove into the line and began to buy more.

I bought a bronze metallic powder that I began to put in the corners of my eyes, along the line of my brow. When I went out in Cleveland, douchebag bros would look at me and laugh, but I couldn’t have cared less. It wasn’t like I was trying to fit in with a banker crowd walking around with a goatee and unnatural colors on my lips and eyes.

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It seemed to me, suddenly, that I had become the person I had always wanted to be. I was someone who could wear what I wanted, despite and maybe because of notions of gender. I was a person who was creating a flamingo masculinity for myself, a kind of masculinity I not only embraced but further fostered with clothes I never would’ve worn before, shoes I could barely afford and searched for deals on Ebay. I was walking into the world with a confidence I’d never had before, either. I was no rock star, but I carried myself just like one, and when bros weren’t making fun of me, people were starting conversations with me, attracted to me in ways they never had been. I bleached my hair blonde. I posted selfies. I cared how I looked, now that I had become this sparkling, between-gender, notgiving-a-fuck presence in the world.

Makeup doesn’t change who you are, entirely.

But allowing myself to embrace it as costume and joyful expression has entirely changed my presentation in the world. I walk around in sequined vests and shirts, wearing Fluevog rock star boots, acting like I’m someone worth knowing and speaking to – something I’ve had hard time believing for most of my life. While the real, internal change towards believing those things came from hard work on myself and to dispel a negative self-image I’ve carried before and into my gender transition, one of the first steps towards doing so was embracing that which made me happy to look in the mirror.

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urban hydration: review sarah sheppeck Urban Hydration offers products for the face, hair, and body, but for the purposes of this review I’ll be reviewing the following products:

Note: This review contains affiliate links for products I use and love. If you make a purchase through these links, the earned commission goes into the just femme & dandy cash fund to pay future contributors.

Olive & Rosehip Cleansing Oil ($14.99) Olive & Tea Tree Cleansing Oil ($14.99) Kiwi & Pomegranate Micellar Water ($9.99) Pink Clay Whipped Mud Facial Mask ($9.99) Aloe Vera Leaf Spot Cream ($9.99) Aloe Vera Leaf Daily Gel Moisturizer ($9.99)

Look, I’m not good at skincare. I’m broke, I’m lazy, I have ADHD that’s not exactly under control. But I turned 30 last year, and now I have to, like, make an effort in order to remain devastatingly beautiful.

Enter Urban Hydration, a Black family-owned clean skincare company I became aware of during that phase in 2020 where corporations pretended they cared about Black lives long enough to highlight all the melanated business owners they work with.

Micellar Water Makeup wearers, y’all already know about micellar water. On a particularly lazy day, I go with my good ol’ Neutrogena makeup remover wipes, but in a genuine effort to establish a skincare routine, I usually wet a cotton pad with micellar water to cut through the products on my face. Although I wouldn’t say UH’s offering works any better than my previous brand, this particular type has no fragrance and cuts through makeup like a dream. Also, the bottle is super cute.

Founded by Vontoba and Psyche Terry as a line of natural sugar scrubs, Urban Foundation has expanded to include body lotion, spot treatment, micellar water, and more, all with super gentle natural ingredients. Not sold yet?

For every purchase, the Terrys donate a gallon of clean water in partnership with WATERisLIFE.

RATING:

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Mud Mask

Moisturizer

Twice a week, I follow up my makeup removal with the pink clay mud mask, which feels very gentle on my dry-as-hell-but-also-oily acne-prone skin. I leave it on for an episode of Pen15 and rinse with the cleansing oil.

Y’all. If I could make love to a moisturizer–I wouldn’t, but this stuff is still great. I’ve spent most of my adulthood on a seemingly unending quest for facial cream that neither clogs my pores nor is too light to combat my dryness. I would never have considered that a gel-type moisturizer was the answer, but this is now among my holy grail products. Seriously. No notes.

☆

RATING: ★★★★ Cleansing Oil

RATING: ★★★★★ The olive and rosehip cleansing oil was the first Urban Hydration product I ever purchased, and I’ll admit I wasn’t initially sold on it. I noticed my skin looked a bit brighter after using it, but I’ve had more success with the tea tree iteration. Fellow acne sufferers probably know tea tree oil has long been used as a blemish treatment, and I find this works particularly well either after using a mild exfoliant or after the mud mask. The rosehip works well for fading acne scars–hence the increased brightness. This is an extremely gentle, moisturizing cleanser. I’d recommend it for those with sensitive skin.

Highlights Urban Hydration’s products are extremely gentle.

This is great for those with sensitive skin or those looking to get away from parabens and other additives, but those with cystic acne or other hardto-treat conditions may find that these products aren’t quite up to the job.

Their site offers curated bundles based on ingredient type or skin concern, but my only real quibble is with the website itself, which is just disorganized enough for it to be annoying. The search function is inconsistent, as are its skincare subheadings. The pink clay mask, for example, doesn’t appear under “facial masks,” but does appear after a search for “pink mask.” A search for “spot cream” brings up every product with “cream” in the description.

☆

RATING: ★★★★ Spot Cream

After cleansing, I follow up with the aloe vera spot cream. Because it contains no harsh chemicals, it’s light enough to spread on my entire face. I also use a little on my upper back, where the Shame Wizard cursed my adolescent self with violent bacne. The flip side of having no harsh chemicals, though? This will not shrink your planet-sized zit the night before a major event. Slow and steady is the name of UH’s game.

☆☆

RATING: ★★★

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PROS

Final Thoughts

Black woman-owned Affordable Gentle ingredients No added fragrance Free Shipping over $35

Using cruelty-free and paraben-free ingredients, Urban Hydration has absolutely succeeded in creating quality natural skincare. And with extremely affordable pricing, Urban Hydration makes natural skincare accessible without picking a bitch’s pocket. Times is hard out here, okay?

Urban Hydration is currently available nationwide.

Purchases can be made via their website, as well as at retailers including Ulta, Target, Sally Beauty, Walgreens, and CVS.

CONS Website UI/UX are inconsistent Products may not be effective for cystic acne So, does it work? Here’s a side-by-side of my biggest problem area after one week of use.

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m a n e e h t

a ttr a ti o n c

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emo as I dye my hair, again, after a long while the cyborg jillian weise

Make me ginger. Not younger. I don’t want to go back. There’s no past. Only after. And after-after. And after that. I started dying my hair for a play. I was cast as Aunt March and I convinced another actor—she was eager, naive—to switch parts. It took some begging with the director. Let me play Jo. At eighteen, I dyed my hair red. Now, of course, I know why the director cast me as he did.

I have the curve. I lean. What they call scoliosis. Now, of course, I know why the one I loved before the plague wrote, “I can already see it. Two trees across a meadow. We don’t speak.” She was a Pisces like that. She had what they call a straight back. Why think of her now? I’m red again. I want to play Jo hereafter.

But I’m done, I mean really done, with begging for a role.

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mamá shaves my head david salazar

It had been nearly a month since schools had closed when my mamá helped me shave my head. I was starting my junior year of high school—it didn't take long for me to fall into the habit of school, excited to get what many called the hardest year of schooling over with. I tried to ignore my papá’s paranoia about COVID as it slowly made its way across other countries. Surely it wouldn’t reach us.

The first case in Chile was discovered just north of where I live. It took the government twelve days to suspend classes indefinitely, and we were thrown into online classes without the infrastructure for them— too many children didn’t have internet access, too many teachers didn’t know how to teach online, too many parents were left confused and stressed by the situation. The unprecedented times became more precedented as the months passed.

The sudden isolation made me anxious. It wasn’t that I was a very social person at school—much the opposite—but I needed to see people everyday.

Hear their jokes and watch them while still being isolated on my own terms—not because a pandemic was kicking off into full gear. Being left alone also meant dealing with my gender alone.

I was semi-closeted at school, but still treated like a girl, although almost everyone knew I was weird gender-wise because I made no effort to hide it. On top of that, Spanish constantly required me to misgender myself, and I was exhausted. I still had to use my deadname during online classes, of course, but because the rules around keeping our cameras on were hazy at best, I knew I wouldn’t be seen too much, and I thought about shaving my head more and more.

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I’d had very short hair since mid-2015, when I was eleven going on twelve, and just exploring what being trans and/or nonbinary meant for me.

I’d never dared to shave my head; I have a very round face—something I hope will change once I start testosterone—and I wasn’t ready for such an unmistakably masculine thing while still halfway in the closet. The idea stuck around though, for two reasons: I was curious about how it’d look and about the sensation of a buzz cut’s texture. I’ve had my sides shaved before, and as an autistic person, I always found the fuzziness of it to be absolute sensory heaven. I could touch it all day long. I hoped, if I did shave my head, that I could have that same experience again as it grew out.

Mamá plugged the clippers in to recharge and let me live for a little while, telling me to wait an hour or so before we picked it back up. I told my friends excitedly about shaving my head, how there was some buzz already. The hour passed quickly, and before I knew it, I had my head tilted over the sink again, and Mamá worked through the remnants of my hair. Looking back, the clipper’s guard was too short—instead of leaving me with a nice buzz, I was left as bald as I was born. We laughed at the sight of me, and I took photos, but I was suddenly self-conscious about my ears, which I had never really noticed until then, the way they stuck out a little. I joked about it with my parents and my boyfriend; I went online and sent my friends selfies. Jokes abounded, well-meaning, of course—you look like an egg, or like this meme, and on and on, and even though it got to me a little, I was happy that I finally did what I had been thinking about doing for years now.

I asked my parents about it, and they agreed. I was quite excited, not having expected such acceptance of the idea; my papá even suggested that he should shave his head, too. Mamá took me to her bathroom and used Papá’s clippers to shave my head. My thick hair made it a lengthy process, even though it was short. As she buzzed my head, bits and pieces of hair fell onto the floor, and we laughed and teased each other as she worked.

Halfway through, the clippers shut off—they’d run out of battery. I looked into the mirror for the first time since she’d started, and saw a complete mess —half-shaven, with tufts of hair remaining. It was a rebirth to see myself like that; a little mess of gender expression that wasn’t quite masculine yet.

Like I’d finally made a real choice with my body, one I was happy with. I’d only felt this way one other time—it was my first short haircut six years ago; that awkward pixie cut so many transmasculine people go through.

Papá told me I looked like an actor that shaved his head for a role; he couldn’t remember his name, but it was still wildly euphoric to be compared to a famous cis man by my papá without a hint of sarcasm, of irony, of comedy.

Moments where I was affirmed made me feel safer, more comfortable. Being accepted like that, being told sure, you look like a man, was rewarding after years of half-hearted support.

The work from coming out at twelve has been an uphill climb—like my parents gently making fun of me when I nearly cried over being gendered correctly after my first short haircut.

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For days after Mamá had cut my hair, I watched it grow; it was at the perfect texture three days in.

It had just the right amount of fuzz; the stimming possibilities with it were amazing, and I was sad to see it grow more. I wanted to keep it in that perfect place forever. I did enjoy how I looked as my hair grew—the spiky, fluffy stage a week in was especially sweet. I took photos, sent selfies, and appreciated how much shorter showers were now that I didn’t have to deal with my hair as much.

but being told I looked tough was a turning point for me. I realized I wanted to look tough, yet approachable. A sweet in-between state.

My hair grew out with time, and soon enough, I didn’t have my shaved head anymore. In September, I went to a barber for the first time after my hair had gotten messy enough to warrant it. After years of hairdressers, it was a distinctly masculine experience—the barber only talked about my haircut. Reggaeton blasted from a wall TV at full volume; compared to being forced to socialize every time I got my hair cut before, it was a blessing for my autistic self, even though the music left me overstimulated.

One factor I hadn’t counted on after shaving my head was teachers asking us to turn on our cameras during online classes. I have my bi flag and my trans flag in the background, which I’ve never cared to hide; if someone knew what they meant, well, they’d be a little less shocked when I came out at school, but shaving my head felt different. When our head teacher asked us to turn on our cameras, I decided that it was now or never. I bit the bullet, clicked the camera button, and held my breath.

I’m too self-conscious to get my head shaved again anytime soon, but maybe when I’m on testosterone that will change. My face and body shape will be different, less round—my face, at least; I do plan to be a bear—and then I can rock the look again. But for the time being, shaving my head was a learning experience—a rebirth as I lean into butchness, becoming more and more comfortable in my identities, and learning what I want out of masculinity.

Everyone was staring at me. My head teacher gasped, exclaiming my deadname. My transness is an open secret; everyone is just waiting for me to say it already. But for the time being, I pretend I like my deadname. I’m waiting to get my name legally changed before socially transitioning; I don’t want to deal with my Catholic school’s administration or the bathroom debate.

My head teacher asked why I shaved my head, and I replied that I wanted to try it out. There was a long pause before he said I looked tough. I hadn’t quite recognized that I was butch then; I thought it was a lesbian-exclusive term until I met butch bisexuals like my dear friend, James,

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private viewing m.s. dean

Under my hijab, my hair is hidden.

I love that part of my body gets to escape judgment, even if the rest of me can’t follow.

I know I draw attention; I have never shrunk from it. I decided to wear hijab when I was thirteen, and starting high school. For me, it is a gift, a way to preserve a matrilineal tradition instructed to me by my mother and her mother. It is both a safety net and a target on my back. Here I am, wrapped in chiffon, or cotton, or silk, a vision of terrorism and oppression, a demon from the east.

When I get it cut, I like to be the only person in the room — apart from my hairstylist — and in that room, we can do anything. I’ll take fades, I’ll take mullets, I’ll take asymmetric mess and geometric harshness. My hair is a canvas just for me. It is integral to my queerness, to my gender identity, my faith, my culture, my beauty, my handsomeness.

My queerness is waiting in the wings behind drawn curtains. My queerness is a private viewing, attended only by my friends and found family. I love to fall into their arms and trust them enough to unveil. I love the choice of who to reveal myself to. I love to be a hidden mystery and a vanishing act, something beyond perception, transgressing the performance of outward appearance.

To some, my hijab marks me as monstrous just as much as it marks me as Muslim. Let them believe in illusions. I owe no one my guilt or my apologies, just as I owe no one the hidden truths of me. No one deserves to know me unless I let them.

To me, my hijab is the shade under which I bloomed my queerness.

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When I come out to people, they can be taken aback by the contradictions they see in me. I seem fragmented, pieces of a person that don’t quite fit into a whole. I am religious; I am a scientist. I am queer; I am a hijabi. Is it that I don’t fit into queerness, or does queerness have borders that are ever-expanding, widely encompassing?

My hijab doesn’t hinder my queerness — it informs it, and enriches it. I’m reborn lovelier and stranger every day, and I guard myself jealously.

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AFRODISIAC

Black hair KB

burgeons through my pores bringing its small, itchy sores. Cuts through my hands and stubbles up enough to be visible when fitted skin-tight to a mirror. One day, I was standing so close you could see each pore & I’d pluck until every red-and-Black follicle knew no hair was welcomed here.

Now they sprout and I’m foolish with joy at every conjuring of a bush. Every prick rubbing their way through my patchy happy face. Who will teach me how to shave? YouTube, I guess til my bois get this far. I wonder if every beard grows like this: into a nest made with oil and hope. Into a boi made with oil after they threw away the rope. I guess I’ll put that in the search bar too: did it feel good? To stop running from yourself?

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w h a w e t s

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backstitch jesse smith

We go down and out in one motion.

I remind her I said I wouldn’t stay but She made an extra sausage roll by mistake. She needles down her nose. I pick it up.

She wears the glasses prescribed for her sewing. For her ‘close work’.

I ask if she’s done much today. You don’t think puff pastry takes time?

She scoffs. She takes me by the sleeve of my flannel, brings me out of the doorway and into the kitchen. Don’t be such a stranger.

She laughs. I’ve brought my body in the only part of my wardrobe that came from here.

Preeeetty close. That looks better.

Interesting it wasn’t your sister, wanting to make her own clothes.

The kettle pops. She pours a pink mug. Its ‘gay’ scrawl worn away.

Mind, it was just that quitting dance made her swell. Her chest stretched so many shirts.

If my shirt is caught on the cliff face I don’t touch it.

You’re stick thin. She bends her thumb and index finger round my wrist. I gulp against her press. This is why I want you home. To feed you.

You go right back into the hole you first went to.

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She brings out the old machine. Dusty pink. I thank her and lean down.

A hair of white still caught in the thread cutter. I don’t want to knock it to this floor.

There’s something. There’s something bright and pink in there.

I plant the thought that it’s just the back hem of my t-shirt and pull it down.

She’s proud of me, returning to my roots.

I was such a girly girl. Her sewing fingers reach into my hair the way she unravels the thread from its reel. When are you going to grow this back out?

I flick through answers she might like. She’s been waiting. kind of doing the same stitch on top of each other She reminds me that skirts are the easiest to make. That I should make a couple, a few, let her know. She reminds me she’s always there to teach me. To Always start with a backstitch. That Each stitch needs to be tight-knit, to Clamp the two sides of fabric together. Like you didn’t break the moment of a lovers’ kiss goodbye. I tell her I should really be going. She offers me tea. I tell her I really should be going. She’s making tea anyway for herself. But really she’s watching her sugar. So she shouldn’t.

I tell her I have something I need to cook at home. I don’t tell her I’m hungry. Pop. Your sister misses you. I slip my shoulders into the straps. She’s back later.

Another visit, then? Another visit.

I thank her for the tea. and come out.

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praise for the inner lining of my morphing apparel nnadi samuel

Some countries give new meaning to dress codes, not only dictating what their citizens wear, but also enforcing strict measures with fines and imprisonment— Fashion Police(s).

Satin worn past twelve is buttoned satire. all that glam spent, unstarching uniform grains. low-waist silk & the sagging yarn, both heavy with polymer sweat. mother sow cotton by criminal luck, practise woolgathering in our distraction. her snore: a staunch uprising. what language picks offence at a lady unwillingly to wear her country to numbness? on no occasion has it been me, to purchase a fabric unplagued by grief. even the bugs rock denims to levitation.

I—asphalt glory.

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color riot, in ways that puts coffin out of fashion, snithe the threading to come clean as shorelines.

It's a question of what lingerie affords liberty in a different town, what vows held us back from the sea this long.

I lose sparkle, each time I conceive being sentenced to a bristle sackcloth all my fragile life. my sternum aches for harmful collars, for tough cravats. each knit: a riffraff defying strangling. behold, my exit dress earned with stubborn currency. praise for the inner lining, ribboned as a door. what oath ordained escape to be one way?

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the first time i let myself wear pink eitan perlin

I’d always wanted to.

Raised by attic hand-me-downs And dismissed with “check in the boxes,” I was starved for choice.

In school I wore plain polos and ratty khakis by code, And most offensively a kippah pinned to my jewfro I could not remove for a God I did not ascribe to.

Just coveting vibrancy felt dirty, filled me with guilt.

I didn’t even know the word gay yet, just that it was wrong.

When I found that electric pink button down in one dusty box at the back, I squirreled it away.

It burned a shameful hole in my closet, but I never managed to unrack it.

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Until years later, when I’d run out of running and allowed myself leeway to want.

I buttoned and unbuttoned the damn thing at least three times before I walked outside.

And no one cared.

So, I did it again, and again.

Slowly building courage to accept No one had ever cared except me.

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seam ripper, or a generative requiem sarah blankespoor i don’t remember learning how to sew. the same way i don’t remember learning how to be a girl in love with a girl. but, yeah, that’s true, i learned to do both for real last year. i sewed her into all my new clothes. as i bought an embroidery hoop i told her about it, a day by day narration of a million tiny transformations. i stitched everything with thoughts of her twined into my thread. we bought necklaces together and i tucked mine into every outfit. something celestial, something to be seen. now it dangles in my jewelry box waiting to be uncoupled from eighteen months of memories, waiting to reemerge from the chrysalis as a gift from an old friend, a souvenir from another age.

as this new unmoored self i walk dressed in skin she has touched and sometimes i think i carry her fingerprints like tattoos seared into my flesh. but i do not begrudge my body to have been hers and i do not begrudge her compliments their invisible hand in my art. the same way i would secure a new patch onto an old shirt, i am reworking my feelings into friendship. transformation cannot purge the past but i don’t mind because something that beautiful deserves a place on my sleeve.

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m a e t l e s o s

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my shoes aren't inspirational lara ameen

My shoes aren’t inspirational.

Sure, my Coach sneakers are snazzy as hell, but they’re not inspirational. A bold cherry red snakes around a leopard print design.

Everywhere I roll, weaving through malls and shopping centers in my power wheelchair, people will stop me and say, “Oh, my God! I love your shoes!”

My older sister says I should revel in the compliments.

And sometimes I do. But sometimes I wonder what would happen if I took the story farther.

The truth is: They’re the only shoes I can wear. They’re the only shoes accommodating the braces on my feet. The braces on my feet are due to my cerebral palsy.

My shoes don’t traverse across dirt paths and grocery stores because the wheels of my wheelchair carry me instead. My shoes don’t know the joy of splashing in rain puddles or winding up a trail through a nature park. Instead, my shoes rest on the footplate of my wheelchair.

My shoes shine in the rays of afternoon sunlight; my feet shake inside them when I’m on a date with a woman from the business school. Blonde ringlets frame her oval face and rose-colored blush dots across her cheeks. Her name is Violet. Like her name, she wears a violet-hued suit complemented by black pumps. We talk about our degrees: mine is a Master's in Neuroscience while hers is a Master's in Business Administration.

Steam rises from our coffee cups as we’re nestled in the corner of a cozy café a few blocks from campus. A smile crinkles the corner of her mouth and when she says she has to leave, her black heels clacking against the concrete, I gaze at her wistfully. Wondering if she’ll call me for a second date or if I’m going to end up wallowing in my disappointment.

She doesn’t comment on my shoes. They aren’t inspirational, after all.

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Sometimes I wish my shoes were magical.

Like Dorothy’s ruby red ones or Cinderella’s dainty glass slippers. If my shoes were magical, then they could transport me all over the world.

But, then, I wonder: at what cost? What would it cost to have magical shoes? Is there a price tag on such a unique item?

My shoes are an extension of my disabled body; my shoes help me understand how to perceive the world around me and how others perceive me. I’m just a biromantic asexual woman trying to form lasting friendships, connections, and maybe find love in the process.

However, when people look at my visibly and invisibly disabled body, I want them to look at my leopard print sneakers. Instead of looking at me with pity or condescension, I want them to know that me – and my shoes – aren’t inspirational.

We laugh and exchange stories about our busy week. She’s applying to be a mentor in the business school for incoming business students as this is her final year in her MBA program. She tells me she wants to give back. I tell her about the research I’m conducting in the Neuroscience lab and my ever-growing love for romance novels. Romance novels where I never saw the type of relationship I wanted or people who have bodies like mine. Maybe I should have done a Master’s in English Literature instead.

After dinner, we stroll along the beach boardwalk.

The sun sets over the ocean as the sky turns incredibly bright shades of pink and orange. The scent of salt water penetrates me, and I bask in the closeness of the ocean waves as the sun dips below the horizon.

I turn toward Violet as she leans down and kisses me. My whole-body tingles with nerves and anticipation when she does, serotonin racing through my bloodstream.

When she pulls away, we’re both smiling.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I love your shoes,” she says.

“Thank you,” I reply. “I love them, too.”

Our hands connect, fingers tangling together, as we watch the rest of the sunset. I don’t know what will happen between us next, but I’m anxious to find out.

My shoes aren’t inspirational, but neither am I. I’m just me. A person searching for connections in our vast universe.

Connections like the one I have now. The one I just found.

Violet calls me a few days later. She wants to see me again. I want to see her, too, and we mark a date on the calendar for the following Saturday night.

When the night inevitably comes around, I make sure to dress nicely. I know what to pair with my Coach sneakers. An off-white blouse with black slacks will work and I pull my shoulder-length black hair into a ponytail.

Dinner is served overlooking white-capped ocean waves, the rush of the current going in and out. A heat lamp flickers, casting the cool ocean air in another direction. The waves create shadows along the sand as people walk, dance, and run on the boardwalk below us.

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i only have eyes for oxfords addie tsai

I’m not sure when I first realized my love for men’s oxfords, but I think it had always been there, waiting for me to realize a few things about myself.

A story I often tell, either to myself or others, is that I realized I had a penchant for masculine attire and accessories when I first played (and was inappropriately and severely punished) with my father’s briefcase.

It must have been a weekend, given the fact that it wasn’t on his person on this particular day, one of those Saturdays where he brought home three whoppers with cheese for us and “went to the store” for hours on end. We were given information on a need-to-know-basis, and he never thought we needed to know much. Part Asian immigrant father / part just my father in general.

Baba’s briefcase was a deep brown leather with gold combinations. It was the briefcase my father carried to work every day. I often watched my father get ready to leave for work during the summer when we were expected to stay in the house all day long, reading various encyclopedic like texts to each other (one of these books even showed up on a film once as a means for adolescent Nat (played by Elijah Wood) to help Daniel (played by Mel Gibson) learn about the half century he’d been asleep, frozen in a cryogenic chamber waiting for his love to wake from her coma - Forever Young, and my brother, sister and I had a good laugh). I watched him flatten his necktie against his chest, smoothing out wrinkles. I watched him (on cooler days) button the sleeves of his dress shirt. I watched him clip pens to his front shirt pocket. I watched him clip his security badge to that same pocket.

And then, I watched him tie his men’s oxfords.

Back to the briefcase. I can’t tell you what it was, and no one seemed to study my father’s work aesthetic the way that I did, but I remained infinitely intrigued by its deep leather, its glinting scales. Perhaps it was because my father was a difficult, strict father who remained omnipresent but altogether unknowable. I suppose there was at least a part of me that wanted to play with his briefcase to see what worlds it (and he) contained. But, something else that drew me to the briefcase was very much the masculine edge of the dark leather with the feminine sparkles of the locks. Now, I don’t want to get that gendered about it, but, how one views these types of objects as a child is inherently connected to how one begins to form their understanding of how gender ideologies operate within a traditional society.

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It starts with the briefcase.

***

I didn’t know how briefcases worked, but it says something about how enamored I was with this piece that I risked sneaking into the briefcase. I was a hyper-obedient child who was afraid of any ramification of disobeying my father (which were always met with violence).

I started with feminized oxfords, with a short chunky heel and bright colors. I mostly found them on eBay. I believe that I learned the name of the shoe at some point in my late-twenties, just as I was coming out, finally, to myself and others.

I loved the ritual of tying the shoe. I loved how they dressed up any outfit. I loved that they reminded me of the masculine presentation of my father, who lives in me in complicated ways.

I fucked up the combination. When I realized this, I gingerly placed the briefcase where it belonged, and hid in the bathroom, in the fetal position. I knew I couldn’t hide forever, but I stayed in there as long as possible.

A few years later, I decided to stop fighting the urge within me for dandyism. I began buying ruffled collars and men’s shirts. I began wearing neckties and the occasional bowtie (these days, it’s the reverse).

I often wonder whether that moment is the reason that I suppressed my flair for dandy attire for the first half of my life. What would have happened in my journey towards queerness and my gender identity (which I now call gentlefem – a gentleman with fem stylings) had my first exploration not been met with violence?

And. I began searching, often in vain, for men’s styled oxford shoes with the tiny heel, that fit my “women’s” feet.

Photo credit: Leslie Hernandez

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Photo credit: Leslie Hernandez

I had two pairs of oxfords by 2019. A deep brown with pastel blue laces. A grey suede. One pair were meant for feet like men. The other was meant for AMAB feet, but I wore them anyway, even when I often felt like a kid wearing their dad’s shoes.

And then 2019 happened. I went through the most difficult experience of my life to date, a heinous, petty, soul-sucking divorce from a person I believed was queer and genderfluid (as well as a number of other things), who had presented a deeply crafted persona, cluttered with deceit. At the height of the COVID-19 pandemic.

For the last several years, I’ve been following The Office of Angela Scott’s oxford shoes like a bad habit. They were much, much too expensive for me, worn by the likes of Julia Roberts and featured on Ellen. The ever classic double earth sign, I couldn’t possibly rationalize spending that much money on just a single pair of shoes. I followed their sales, which were more devastating than hopeful.

So, I decided, even though I didn’t know when I’d actually safely be able to wear them out in public, that I deserved a divorce gift, a gift of freedom, a gift of gorgeous, expensive, oxfords that suited me perfectly. A kind of symbol for my new life. Getting divorced also happened to “nicely” dovetail into the start of my 40s. A win win. (A lose lose?)

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The oxfords are red and white, and look made for tapping on a stage or busking on a crate on some street corner in Memphis. Oh, right. And how oxfords look meant for tapping is yet another appeal for me. I laced one shoe with black laces, and the other with white.

A few months prior, I had bought my first tuxedo. An old friend and photographer wanted to take photos of me in a tuxedo as a kind of symbolic ritual of my rebirth. He expected me to rent the tux. But, of course, I was too queer for that. What queer would pass up an opportunity to own a tux tailored to their body?

They sat on a little red step stool in my apartment, what I nickname the grief house, for two years.

I wore the tuxedo jacket, a black bowtie, a short little black top from Chloe Dao (an Asian, Houston born and made designer, and an early winner of Project Runway), some biking shorts from Target, and the shoes. It was the perfect event for their entry into the world, and mine.

And then, my dearest platonic person, Sarah, who I started just femme & dandy with in the height of quarantine, invited me to their 30th birthday party, in an old renovated church turned into an Airbnb. Of course it was Cabaret themed. And I happened to have the perfect shoes for it.

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highthrow nour kamel

Highthrow on smalltown phonelines for leaving town behind where they walked their dogs and had cars we had old shoes that lasted only till the leaving we were both new in a place so damn humid, leaving no less soaked in sweat and loss of each other, of shoes we should have tangled our pairs, us a lover’s tribute to the other, to a small velvet ditch we hated/ loved wore them out, worn where you let go of my hand when someone saw, worn sore thumbs to sorority sisters, worn when I still couldn’t kiss any one any way, yet to leave and never want to return except maybe to look at two pairs of shoes.

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parable of the boots elayna mae darcy Content Warnings: this piece contains reflections on medical trauma, a chronic leg injury, talk of depression, anxiety, suicide ideation, and explores a journey from self loathing to self love. Please protect your heart and read at your own discretion.

For me, boots always meant bold, brilliant confidence.

Strength as my feet struck the floor, my wake making fulgurite form in the concrete, crystals conjured from the power in my stride when my heel was iron when my toes were steel where my laces held who I was together.

It had been so long since I could wear them, because my body became too much to carry as the agony of an accident rendered the front of my left leg with a gnarled injury, where my skin gave up on growing anymore.

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When this happened, I withered.

I stayed inside of both the house & myself, my boots collecting so much dust that after so many months of them haunting me from the foot of my bed, I threw them away, and with them, tossed out all hope that my leg might ever be whole again some day.

Three years I spent in an unendingly dull state of pain, while I regretted the mistake of what not listening to my body led me to.

I put my job over my body, and this felt like the necessary punishment.

This mark on me felt like the price I had to pay because I had hated myself into an accuser, pointing the finger only at my chest, endless taunting refrains of, I am the reason I am broken.

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If only I’d spoken up for myself when I had the chance, I might still know the joys of walking, standing and dance…

But then the whole world ended and I was pushed further inside, unable to stride within six feet of anyone, lest we spread a contagion destroying millions of lives.

But somehow in the walls of that tiny, sad, falling apart apartment, I found a way back to myself.

I met a me that I had always dreamed might exist, but who was too outwardly afraid to choose themself.

That me I kept locked away held out their hand like I, though world-weary, was the child, and she were the wiser one of us.

I spent a summer searching the depths of my soul, until I found the someone I’d been waiting all my life for.

This renewed hope finally led me to a doctor, who led me to med students, who led me to more doctors… no one seemed able to understand just what was wrong with me

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and offered only feeble solutions and empty answers.

And when I feared maybe this was all for nothing, at last, I found a kind doctor who listened, who could see the longing hiding behind my eyes to be back on my feet and to exist in the world again.

My self love summer faded gently like the leaves into a season of healing, where after all these years of falling, now hope was blooming from seeds this doctor planted that promised there might yet be a future for me on my feet again.

Her treatment is working, and there’s a real chance that before the new year, I may finally be able to walk again without bandages, move again without bleeding, with only a scar to remind of the time I almost gave up.

So I bought a new pair of boots, sleek black with silver findings, laces woven of nylon & hope, and rather than ghosts,

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these new boots are like guardians, watching over me until I’m ready.

While I can’t wear them just yet, I’m walking with more confidence each day, seeing those boots at the foot of my bed as a beacon of when I’ll again be able to boldly walk in them confidently for my new era beneath the sun.—

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choose they, they ain't just neva ocho

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r c u s b o s n

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the sweet hereafter: interview with hallie & danny jo davis-mcelligatt

When I first saw photos of Hallie Linnebur and Danny Echo on Facebook, I immediately freaked out. As a former Wichitan and lifelong Midwesterner, their style is a breath of fresh air—exciting, new, invigorating, and energetic. I knew right away that I had to know more about them, so I asked some questions about their style, their business (The Hereafter), and their music so we could all get to know them better.

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JDM: How would you describe your style aesthetic? What’s your style philosophy, if you’ve got one?

HL: Well, I love bold colors and shapes, I’m big into pattern clashing, texture mixing, and throwing together unexpected combos. I think a lot of days to the random observer I probably just come across as tacky and clownish, which is actually fine with me! Most of the time I feel most comfortable in pieces that are visually loud, physically soft, comfy, oversized, lots of layers, lots of accessories. If I’m getting dressed up, I stay bright and clashy, but I’ll go for a more tailored and trim silhouette and more deliberate color palette. I mean, it’s not always bright colors—I definitely have my goth days. Over the years, I’ve dipped my toes into just about every fashion trend, movement, subculture, decade, and aesthetic, but these days I kind of just jumble all that together into a big, fun, contradictory mess.

So, if I have a style philosophy I guess it would to just be keep it loose, free, expressive, and fun!

Ignore gatekeepers. Express yourself through your style, if and when and however you feel like it. Ratty sweats and slides are also fine. Just wear what makes you feel good.

DE: My style aesthetic is kind of hard for me to pin down. I guess eclectic would be the word. I came up in the scene kid era, and even though I wasn't permitted by my parents to really go all out on being "scene" I did what I could in my teens to make it happen. I was also very into Bob Dylan's style in the Blonde on Blonde era, Tim Burton's infamous birds nest, and, after the first Narnia movie came out, Tilda Swinton, who was my gateway drug to androgyny.

As I've gotten older I've been influenced by countless other things, but anymore when I look back, I'm tickled to find that I really gravitate toward dressing myself similarly to how I dressed myself from the ages of 6-11. If I have a philosophy on dressing it's to just wear whatever feels good and to challenge myself from time to time to try new things and step out of my box. I have experienced this to be true: if you are inclined to dress outside of a social norm then it becomes an amazing people filter, and those that aren't very nice make themselves known. But so do the kind people.

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Where do you find your clothing? Do you have a particular philosophy about where you buy and what you buy?

HL: I wear almost exclusively secondhand clothing. I love to also buy handmade or altered pieces straight from artists and indie designers when I can, either local or online, but that’s not always in my budget, so it’s mostly thrift stores and estate sales for me. I’ve been buying and selling vintage clothing for about 15 years now, and naturally I find things for myself while out hunting. Over time, as I acquired more secondhand clothing in my own wardrobe, and at the same time learned more about fashion production and how harmful and exploitative it is to human beings and our environment, the decision to commit to wearing only secondhand or ethically made clothes was a pretty easy one for me. Having said that, I also recognize that not everyone has the same access to cute, fashionable secondhand clothing—body type, budget, time, and location can all make it way more difficult to just up and cut your ties with fast fashion, so I’m not about making anyone feel guilty for how and where they shop. That was actually a big motivation for opening The Hereafter (at 120 N Hillside St Ste B in Wichita, Kansas)—just to give folks around here another option for secondhand clothing - it’s more curated than a thrift store, it’s a “cool” place to shop (we hope), but we also try to keep our prices comparable to fast fashion prices, so we remain accessible to shoppers on a tight budget.

DE: Most of my clothing comes from thrift stores. I have never liked department stores or the mall and their lack of exciting variety, and heavy straight atmosphere. Even thrift stores were getting a little stale for me in my late teens, but in my early twenties I started to timidly cross over into the women's section at thrift stores and that's where the good stuff (for me) is at. I've never bought more than a few items for myself at once, and a lot of the time I will talk myself out of buying things if they're not cooler than what I already have on while I'm shopping. I have varying degrees of good and bad taste, so I enjoy kind of crappy cheap stuff sometimes as much as I like good quality clothing. Costumey stuff and even some dorky mall items have become a staple in my everyday wear much of the time. I buy used clothing more often than not, because there's tons of it out there already and I enjoy not knowing what I'll find next— plus I don't wanna put money into the hands of sweatshop owners.

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How does your clothing relate to or express your gender identity?

HL: I honestly try not to give it a lot of thought these days. Because thinking about it gives me a headache! I am nonbinary, and I’d say I lean more towards masc than femme in my day-to-day presentation—but also clothing has no gender, right? Since my early teen years I’ve been wrestling with my gender identity, presentation, upbringing and how to make all those things fit together in some kind of way that feels true and complete. It’s hard! So when it comes to outward presentation and the clothing I select for myself, I really make an effort to just shut down whatever deeply rooted notions I may have about gendered clothing and wear only what makes me feel happy and comfortable. I remind myself that I don’t owe anyone any degree of masculinity, femininity or androgyny. I have nothing to prove or disprove. I do get into my own head about the gender stuff every now and then, but honestly most of the time getting dressed is easy and fun, because I just really really love fashion, and finally having a job where I can wear anything I want at any time is so bomb!

DE: Gender expression is something I've tried to push out of my thoughts for most of my life, but inevitably has influenced and shaped much of my clothing choices anyhow. I'm getting to a point now where I feel a little more comfortable making more deliberate gender choices, but for most of my life, even when I started experimenting with “women’s” clothing, I was quick to reference manly studs of earlier decades who were andorgynous but got lots of chicks as a way to deflect the gender identity question, as all my closest friends growing up and until recent years have been rather phobic of anything other than cis. I've been trying to mask my gender identity longer than I've allowed myself to think about what my gender identity is. I have been fortunate enough to have gotten into drag culture over the last few years in a time when inclusion and representation of all genders is becoming more and more important, and that has really been empowering to me to be more expressive with my gender identity. In a way, my style doesn't express my gender so much as it expresses simply my tastes, interests, and humor. Mostly what I'd like to say with my clothing with regard to gender is just don't assume and don't call me bro.

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Where is your favorite place to look for clothing? Do you have a favorite shop?

HALLIE: This might be sort of an uncool answer, but … eBay? I am seriously on eBay almost every single day, and that seems to surprise a lot of folks, because I think it’s viewed by many to be kind of outdated, boring, and basically dead. But it’s not! With practice and patience, you can find some absolute gems on there! Don’t get me wrong, spontaneously finding an unexpected treasure at the thrift store is really fun too! But on eBay, it almost feels like you’re playing some kind of long strategy game, and the prize is something like, a pair of rare designer sneakers you’ve been coveting for a decade that you snag for $40 in an auction. It’s exciting and I love it.

DANNY: I guess I prefer DAVs (Disabled American Veterans thrift stores). There's one not too far from my house that's so dense with clothing it can be a little stressful at times, but it's also nice because it feels more like a hunt or something. It could also be that I get harassed less frequently at DAVs for whatever reason, and the one close to my house has some really sweet employees. Honestly, it's still a little stressful to shop for non-masc clothing anywhere in Wichita, KS.

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untitled jennie lightweis-goff

When I enter a new city, I begin a ritual. I try to find a garment made there. The ritual is political, oriented toward history and survival. The wool suits and fur coasts of a not-so-distant past in New Orleans and Baltimore offer vernacular affirmation to the evidence of a changing climate. The “Made in Memphis” and “Made in New York” tags offer ephemeral monuments to the unheralded laborer, migrant and immigrant alike. The scaffolds and cranes around empty buildings—blight or redeveloped condominiums—mirror the dance of the bobbin and the thread.

In the shadow of the Sears factory, now the Crosstown Concourse, once stood Cleveland Flea.

I’ve been in Memphis long enough, thanks to a job that keeps me on the road, to watch a thrift shop fall and an Urgent Care rise in its place. But upon arrival, I haunted the dress stalls and met the woman whose mother made this belted red paisley dress. She’d learned the craft at work for Sears, and smuggled home materials to make dresses for her neighbors on nearby Tutwiler Avenue. Her clients were looking for more options than the department store offered in their sizes. Looking, no doubt, for the privacy, the dignity, and the dressing rooms that Jim Crow did not offer them. The disorienting pattern is a portal to a lost world … not simply its injustices, but also its opportunities. Back then, as older Memphians would tell you, there were jobs in walking distance from home that offered a shot at a middle-class life. I touch their labor when I buy something old. On the occasion I buy something new, I eventually put it back into the secondary market.

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The red dress was made in Memphis, but I am built out of fragments of New Orleans. My two cities bookend the state of Mississippi. I teach there, but mostly I’m a chronicler, a stranger, a flâneuse, and a magpie. Here, I offer a collection of images from New York, my parents’ hometown; from Clarksdale and Southaven, Mississippi; from my home cities, and from Nashville. I perched on the edge of a bathtub at the Dive Motel, the perfect photo backdrop for independent folk and country artists frequently found in the courtyard and at the pool. The garments are a mix. A yellow checkered suit from Moonstruck Flea in Cleveland, Mississippi, where I headed with my traveling companion Dan after tarrying in Nashville. He’d found two of the necklaces I wear here hanging on a gate in Brooklyn, as he hurried to meet me.

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In Duluth, Minnesota, I thrifted a fur made in town, and wear it to the Mississippi River on a cold Mardi Gras. I am a generous lender and an eager borrower; my friend Ashley offered this black and white vintage sweater dress for a weekend in New York. With the Memphis dress, I wear a collage necklace made for me by my partner, Chip. In a few images, you’ll see the fannypacks I began collecting during COVID; they’re just big enough for a mask, keys, phone, and a bottle of Purell.

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When I need to dress up, I wear fancy pajamas—at a thrift shop, they’re a quarter of the price of a dress; no less a figure than Grace Paley urged nightgowns as a solution to stiff dresses. I share these stories and these images—largely from the last year—to honor the immediacy of the thriftspace, and the phenomenology of the cityscape.

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my tattoos & the sea zefyr lisowski

When I entered middle school, I drew on myself with Sharpies. Everyone I knew did. We drew the names and logos of favorite punk bands, expansive landscapes of trees and craggy seaside cliffs up and down arms, sloppy frowny or winky faces in three-color spread. I wrote public messages on my arms and secret messages to myself underneath my shirt or in the crevices below my thighs. (YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL at first, and then a wobbly-inked DON’T KILL YOURSELF for the whole long trudge of high school). When I started hooking up at the end of high school, I kept the sharpies on my arm and spittle-rubbed as many of the more hidden messages off with tongue-slicked fingers before I would let anyone see me.

Since then, the more I’ve gotten tattooed, the less and less I’ve written onto myself. The two are linked, two bodies sharing one bed: the bigger one gets, the less space the other has to claim. It’s like my body can only accommodate one set of secrets, one way of inscribing my ongoing efforts towards life in ink.

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I got my first tattoo when I turned 21. I sketched it out beforehand, which I’ve done for all of my tattoos, bringing a drawing with me as I entered the studio. I inked my sketch over with Sharpie and photocopied the drawing to make it smaller, scaled it down to fit my arm. The artist traced directly over it, and in my bed that night, I ran my finger again and again over the raised, blistering red skin. “I love you,” I whispered. “You’re beautiful.”

Some themes: branches. Sea life. Changes. As a child, I had dreams of giant squid floating alone in the cavernous darkness of the ocean.

(I’m a Pisces.) As an adult, I fell in love with seahorses, who have gender-swapped pregnancies: a more explicit kind of gender transgression. All of my tattoos, I realize now, are about the body in transformation— whether that be a branch bursting into flower or a quiet transfeminine continuum, a further act of love. This is how I’m interested in speaking to the public parts of me: loudly but without a key so it becomes a private language too. There are so many women I love in this same way.

I love the concealability of ink into flesh, the way with the right clothing they just disappear. (Every tattoo I have is large enough that, if I want to obscure them, I have to be geometric with the clothes I drape across my body.) I love the public meaning tattoos can have and how private and sometimes contradictory meanings hide underneath.

Every tattoo I’ve gotten speaks a secret language of love towards my own body and the bodies of those like me. I get tattoos as a way of reminding myself that I’m still alive.

(A tattoo for me is a memory of something there and not there at the same time: a ghost.

It’s a way to access the past but also imaging a larger past than the one I have.)

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Before my mother met my father, she had a tattoo of a flower right about her hip. My father hated this tattoo with the intensity that he hated most things—and so, before I was born, she went to a shop and paid to have it removed. Instead of a tattoo above her hip, she then had a thick white-pink scar.

I developed my own relationship with flowers —the dogwoods blooming throughout North Carolina as I fell in love with my home state for the first time, the bags of lavender passed out by the medic at the protest in 2012 we got kettled by riot cops at—but that first scar remained. It’s no coincidence to me that I got my flower tattoo after my father died, the grief and anger of it all raw and red.

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I’ve stopped writing on myself, but only did so recently: I found other strategies of reminding myself the importance of my own life. But I was still Sharpieing words onto my stomach and the inner parts of me when I started getting tattooed. YOU’RE A WOMAN, my flesh said in 2016 when I brought in the woodcut of the wolf, standing on her hind legs under the moon. YOU’RE BEAUTIFUL, my flesh said, as the wolf wore for all the world what looked like a gaff or possibly just a pair of black panties like I wore, peasant houses thatched in the background and the moon full above and the ground bumping along under the wolf’s feet. I had come into my identities several times over by that point, but the words still seemed wobbly and inchoate to me, unsure of their own certitude.

The tattoos were sure, though; they always were. As the needle pierced my right thigh in the white-brick parlor and blood began daubing itself onto the ink above it, I saw a commitment to thriving, a beauty in myself that before I had only let live through illustration. Thank you, I said to the tattoo artist on the way out, my voice rough and low. I don’t even know if she heard me.

Then, I walked home. That evening, I showered, careful to not let the water touch my leg; the messages I inked onto myself slowly rubbed off. DON’T DIE, it said by my left tit; and then, DON’T; and then, just a watery DO. I watched the water swirl down the drain. I’ll never let my own tattoos be removed, I whispered, but that’s not really the point I’m making here.

I toweled off instead, grabbed the lavender sachet under my pillow, texted my girlfriend.

That summer we had ubered to Dead Horse Bay at sunset, watching the glass bottles lap along the shore as night embraced us. The moon was full. I was twenty-two. I sent her a quick snap of the wolf curling up my leg and flipped my phone over onto my pillow. Fall was already crisping the air, but that summer it had been muggy and miserable, and the brine dampening our legs was a relief . Don’t die, I whispered to myself, so low she couldn’t hear, and together we looked into the tumescent water—tattoos glowing in the moonlight, future unfurling, alive.

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r h e t a e d l ( p s i ) r t

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wearing our pride sam spadafore

This is a brief story about reveling in a queer centered and curated space that brought me centered with my community.

I often look at the closet I chose to curate for myself and wonder if walking out my door and down the street as if it were a runway will feel less like I’m making a “statement” someday. But at the same time, I don’t want it to feel any less than an expression of my rebirth, thriving and flourishing.

On a whim, I decided to submit my measurements and photos to a google form that was posted in a Trans Gender Non-Conforming artists Facebook group. It was for Prometheus Productions, first ever fashion show of six Trans and Queer designers, with over two dozen models.

The themes were of rebirth, thriving and flourishing, and as Queer artists there is plenty of that to go around.

I was ecstatic to be selected. The message said, “Thank you so much for submitting an application to be a model in our Midsummer Fashion Show! We’ve reviewed all of the applications, and are delighted to announce that we would love to have you be a part of the runway!” There were names on the list of models I had never seen before, and some friends I knew well.

The designers shared their inspiration images with us and I was so enamored. Bright colors, statuesque models, energetic, flowing fabrics. It was still months before I would see the final products, but the designers’ inspiration had me daydreaming.

I had never walked a runway before but I felt confident in my stage presence and abilities as a trained musical theatre performer. I’m used to the waiting game. Theatre is always a lot of “hurry up and wait.”

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The time couldn’t approach fast enough. I was ready to be in a space filled with Queer and Trans folks and the expansive creative energy of the Queer fashion world. What was I going to wear?

Who was going to be watching? Gosh, I hope I don’t trip.

The personality is shown through the silhouette and the accessories added to the average, everyday “costume” we dress ourselves in each morning. Queer people just know how to make it look… queer!

Off to the left there was a giant white tent being erected where we would change into costume. The energy was buzzing as organizers fluttered about, hauling racks of clothing, boxes of accessories, and mannequins wrapped in colorful tulle. I had no idea that the splash pad, this community gathering place for families to enjoy, would be the runway.

*** It was a hot day in the park. We were gathered around a small wet pad - a few inches deep pool of water with fountains spitting the cold water straight up into the air - where children splashed and screamed and laughed.

I looked around me as more people gathered in preparation for today's event: the fashion show.

The once energetic and splashing water that was echoing the screams and giggles of small children just a few hours earlier was turning into a calm, reflective work of art. The fountains stilled and the surface of the water held the spots of light peeking through the leaves of the park's tall oak trees.

There were styles of all kinds: alternative, punk, cottage core, shaved heads, waist length hair, extravagant makeup, all black ensembles, fluorescent jumpsuits, anything you could think of. There was even a lovely group of people who decked themselves out in bubblegum pink and baby blue cosplay outfits complete with matching wigs and platform shoes.

The team began decorating the water with the tulle-covered mannequins. The aqua blue, lime green, bright red, and sunset pink was strung through the water, as if someone dipped a paint brush across the surface. They put out candles and pictureless frames along the walkway that surrounded the pool. They were small and strewn about the rocks surrounding the concrete. A few sat in the pool of water, some hung on the mannequins.

The candles were fake, but they fit the vibe nonetheless.

My friend and I exchanged hugs and greetings.

“I didn’t know there would be so many Queer people here,” they said with a surprised grin.

Everywhere you turned you saw Queerness. It’s unmistakably different from the energy you get from the park visitors who weren’t involved in the show. A t-shirt and jeans suddenly becomes a statement when a Queer person puts it on.

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Time was moving quickly. Tables erected.

Makeup starting. Queer artist vendors arrived and set up their tables with handmade jewelry, art, and other offerings. Designers rolled racks of clothes across bumpy grass. Hairspray was blowing in the wind.

“Yes, Sam!” With snaps, hoots and hollers. I couldn’t keep a straight face, I was elated!

There in that moment, literally surrounded by my people, I felt the energy that the Queer community brings like no other. That show, that expression of artistic pursuits, still uplifts my spirits. Every stitch, step, and cheer was a testament to all the Queers who came before us.

Those who used fashion to express their authentic selves. Those who were arrested in the 70s when crossdressing was considered illegal. Those who dared to be different loudly so that I could be different comfortably.

I donned my first of two outfits. Designer Ophelia Charles’s collection Feast of Decay explored the “theme of rebirth as a transformative process of the old being broken down to make way for new.” This outfit had a bright mustard yellow top, and poofy brown pants with a lace-up front and, most importantly, a cape embellished with sequins, in a pattern inspired by a moth.

I, the moth, was transformed into a flashy, desirable creature whose wings reflected in the sun peeking through trees and bouncing off water.

As I made my pose, I felt triumphant and elegant and energetically aligned with the crowd.

The music began to play. I began jumping up and down, shaking the tension from my body and face. I put on a look of determination and made my way toward the stairs.

I rushed back to the tent to put on my next outfit. This included hand dip-dyed, shinlength pants, with an ornate pattern that was highlighted by the maroon wine they were colored with. I threw on the shirt and put on a blue and purple eyeshadow that went across my eyes and over the bridge of my nose.

As I made my way down to begin my strut, I heard the cheers. I hit my first pose: arms spread out and my feet together like I was in a Shakespearean play. My chest puffed out with as much confidence as I could muster. A smirk drew across my face.

Off in the distance, I heard the roar of the crowd cheering on the intermission drag and burlesque show.

Walking the concrete runway I saw my friends cheering me on. Their smiling faces.

I walked the runway for the final time that day.

The praise and the excitement from my fellow Queer models made me feel ecstatic.

I took a bow.

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2 sonnets of all the fashion that makes me a tommy jillian a. fantin

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Sad Clown T-Shirt, bootcut jeans with no boots, Fisherman Sweater with a mocha stain on the right sleeve. Hanes Ultimate ® 3-Pack and panty packing three of dad’s crew socks.

Combat Boots Sans Dissertation Defense, cowboy cotton circle skirts with curtain tassels concave down the chest. Pineapple striped flannel, still smelling of Pineapple leather moto jacket hugs from the girl I kissed at a King Princess concert. Big Dipper arm tattoo, Art Deco Lemon Quartz ring that never fits right. And of course piles of unworn bras and stocking socks tucked in the back of the pajama drawer.

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ii.

Almond nails. Jewels like walnut crusts, beetle brooch beetling bout like a cherry cordial necktie stitched with lace and swamp moss—I still can’t tie without another, another set of hands. Hair gel, hair dye, hair bleach, hair of the dog and my cat on flair trousers.

Homestitched homestyle turtleneck discotheque, a wardrobe dyke for a wardrobed dyke. Net lace. Lady Diana bike-short-crewneckbig-sunglass with a glass of tap water avoiding sunshine mall glass from shining the knockers knocking for my button-up: you’ll never be Bill, Ted, Adam or Steve, just a snakeless, twin-appled patchworked Eve.

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neo couture: algorithms in nature transform the jing dress in chinese opera jamela law

THE CULTURAL BACKDROP Within the conventions of Chinese Opera, Jing characters were traditionally high ranking, mighty male characters wearing grand costumes, and played by men for centuries. Their costumes were made of high grade silk with exquisite, meticulous embroidery. Gold and silver were often used to depict these supernatural characters. These costumes instil the performers with a majestic and stately spirit and complimented their exaggerated facial and bodily expressions.

Due to conservative practices and misogynous mindsets, female performers were not allowed on stage, and males cross-dressing to play female roles was standard practice during the Qing dynasty (from 1644 – 1911) when Chinese Opera was at its apex in China. Women were even prohibited from watching any operatic productions. In present-day Singapore where I am currently based, women performers are often relegated to playing the damsel. Even now, the larger-than-life Jing character, vested with authority and influence, is neither a woman nor played by a woman.

As a fashion artist, feminist and LGBTQIA+ rights activist, I enjoy challenging tradition by envisioning new narratives where a woman can be a being of power. I want an updated Jing character, when played by a woman, to possess a goddess-like presence, emitting an aura of empowerment and grace while embracing the female body form without having to embody any stereotypical masculine traits.

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Left: A futuristic Jing ( ) dress reinterpreted by Baëlf Design mounted on a black mannequin at the Asian Civilisation Museum in Singapore. The dress has a translucent top layer which gives it an ethereal appearance, with intricate 3D printed TPE details mounted on it in rose gold. The dress has a high mandarin collar, bell sleeves, an A-lined silhouette with side slits on both sides.

The rose gold headpiece has a ‘tail’ protruding at the back of each side with structures derived from fractal tendrils.

Right: Rearview of the dress depicts a dynamic yet graceful spine-like structure extending from the nape of the neck down to the small of the back where it connects to a thick golden belt.

The Jing silhouette is updated to give the dress a more modern feel and to give the female wearer a more dignified bearing. For instance, the sleeves were shortened for practicality and colour palette is limited to just two shades, a far cry from some traditional designs that consist of many colours ranging from red, yellow, green, blue, black, purple, etc.

This rose gold Jing dress is a 3D printed, neo-couture wearable art-piece commissioned by the National Museum of Singapore. Baëlf Design, a creative studio that I co-founded with my partner Lionel Wong, was tasked to reinterpret four sets of Chinese Opera costumes by giving each character a futuristic twist with the help of additive manufacturing.

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Above: Digital render of dress and headdress, modelled on Rhinoceros 3D

THE VISION The Circle is considered the most perfect shape in some Chinese cultures, and the spherical volumes and round silhouettes of traditional Jing costumes reflected that belief. As a callout to that inspiration, the silhouette of this dress is likewise composed of a cascading series of curves. I also replaced the repetitive 2D dragon scale embroidery with computer generated 3D fractal patterns that mimicked dynamic flight movements and dragon exoskeletons. This shift – from a focus on what the dragon looks like to how it moves, is symbolic of a shift in our understanding (and representation) of women as well – a shift from what we look like towards what we do and who we are.

Traditional dresses were embellished with many natural found objects, such as seashells, kingfisher feathers, pearls, etc. As part of our journey in designing neo-couture, a big part of it was using data and algorithm to dictate the form of our dresses and elevate our forms into the hyperreal. The textures above were digitally generated by using mathematical formulas derived from nature, such as the those that dictated the logarithmic spiral shells of the ammonites, not unlike Romanesco broccoli. They were my building blocks as much as fabrics, beads and haberdashery were for traditional garment makers. I allowed Data to translate into beauty, and crafting takes on new dimensions, new modes of execution.

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Left: Different textural swatches I generated by playing with different mathematical formulas found in nature

At Baëlf, we usually begin the dress-making process by manipulating small textural swatches on a virtual mannequin that had been 3D scanned. This working method streamlines our build madeto-order business model, enabling us to customise bespoke dresses efficiently to fit our wearers. It is definitely possible for our designs to accommodate clients having physio-divergent characteristics, such as missing limbs or severely warped spines. Measurements could also easily be tweaked in the future if the client undergoes body-changing events.

With digital tools, it is so much easier to defy gravity and play with different placements. One can instantly preview how duplicating/mirroring/scaling affects the overall silhouette. I approach projects with an architectural design approach, treating the digital mannequin as a topological reference for us to position the hundreds of structural elements of the dresses.

Above: A 360 degrees view of a 3D scanned Bunka mannequin

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THE MANIFESTATION Fabricating 3D printed garments is very different from producing fabric-based clothing using conventional 2D pattern drafting methods. This is mainly due to the physical characteristics of 3D printed TPE materials as they are still not as pliable or foldable as textile.

This means I have to carefully consider how a garment is designed to be worn on a human body, much akin to how rigid suits of armour were designed. Fasteners such as zips, snap buttons or strings can be incorporated onto such garments, being attached through sewing, adhesives, or other mechanical means.

Printed garments tend to be heavier than fabric clothing too, which makes it necessary to incorporate additional support such as cushioning shoulder pads and straps.

This dress was conceived early in the pandemic, when it was extremely difficult to do a designer’s work due to disruptions in logistics, finances and my own mental wellbeing. With the unpredictable shipping situation at the early stages of making, I decided to take manufacturing into our own hands and invested in an in-house Fused Filament Fabrication (FFF) 3D printer instead. However, FFF printers usually came with very small printing volume (approximately 15cm X 20cm X 15cm), which meant I had to slice up the digital dress into smaller pieces to fit into the printer’s boundaries. In addition, complex parts with many of their areas hanging over empty space require ‘support structures’ to hold these areas up during printing. These supports are lightweight, temporary structures that can be removed after printing.

In our case, the increased complexity of our parts require heavy use of supports, and manually removing them is a timeconsuming process.

Once the design was finalized digitally, I sent it for 3D printing. Before Covid-19 disrupted the supply chain/international delivery, I usually outsourced for my works to be produced via Selective Laser Sintering (SLS), where lasers are used to fuse nylon/elastomeric powder together to create sturdy yet flexible, complex forms. This method gave me the liberty to bring forth mathematically derived shapes that previously could only exist in digital space, as I need not print specialized supports to hold up the print structures. The loose, un-sintered powder inside the build chamber already served that purpose.

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Above: A sliced 3D part with neon green support structures placed within a FFF printer’s boundaries

Nevertheless, FFF printing is very affordable and accessible. What started off as a labour intensive compromise given the external situation, drove me to innovate further: in order to use the FFF printer, I had to design in a modular manner, so components could be easily replaced if they are damaged.

embroidery playing hide and seek throughout the dress, and the various sub-assemblies of the dress held together with stitching. I also use adhesives such as E6000 glue, which dries flexible and clear and accommodates the stresses faced during wear.

3D printing comes with its own quirks. As material is built up in layers from bottom to top during printing, how a part in the printer is arranged will affect the appearance of ‘grainlines’ on its surface. Having two parts which are meant to attach to each other be printed in drastically different orientations meant that light will reflect differently on both of them when they are assembled.

As a Future Craftsperson, I work with my hands as much as I worked with technology, in both physical and digital realms. This project was not all about computers and printers. There is something really beautiful and resonant about doing embroidery by hand, as people have for centuries before us.

Hence you will find embedded 3D thread

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Differences in glossiness, texture, and colour… these aesthetic discrepancies have to be resolved. One could try to colour the whole dress after assembly or add some embroidery or crystals to divert attention. In the end, I printed all the dress parts in a clear flexible, TPE material and sprayed them in metallic rose gold.

THE CONCLUSION Every dress was a series of lessons in craftmaking, digital design, resource management and cultural anthropology. Even though we may have found ways to automate aspects of our production through machinery, these technologies did not make our task easier, for we still must focus on other aspects such as balance, presence and visual impact. These cannot be easily measured nor worked with by machines. We as human creators still have that responsibility to look to the higher aspects of design.

When working with 3D printing, we were more concerned with architecture and structure rather than folds and drape. When confronted with new technologies and new mediums, we were required to be inventive.

For instance, we envisioned a row of fractal spines snaking their way down the length of both sleeves. By using strips of corset boning to serve as sturdy bases of these spines, what was for constraining a woman’s body in the past was now used to uplift her silhouette and transcend gravity.

What we have done through this dress making process is to show that Fashion can be democratised, not bound to the whims of narration of a selected elite, but we the people can (and have the right) to tell our own stories through our creation of dress.

Above: A dozen of attached spikey elements flaring out along a corset boning

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For Baëlf Design, we sought to highlight the power dynamics between genders that were widespread in the past, and persist in the present as well. The Jing character can be a he, a she or a they; by actively defying gender norms and cultural traditions for the sake of inclusivity, this powerful role belongs to all of us.

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The Jing ( ) dress is on display in the Contemporary Gallery at the Asian Civilisations Museum, Singapore until 9th January 2022.

Above: Soft 3D embroidery made with mesh fabric and pink polyester threads embedded amongst the intricate, hardlooking 3D printed TPE structures

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fiction

when i feel blue katharine mussellam Fall, 1957 I sang along to the radio, car windows rolled down, and tapped my fingers on the steering wheel.

“Well, that’ll be the day when you say goodbye ye-e-es that’ll be the day when you make me cry-y...”

It was a while yet before I had to leave the highway to get to campus, so I was letting myself indulge in this one thing on my drive.

On my own like this, I could do what I wanted.

I had to admit I was a little anxious about starting university, but mostly I was just excited; there would be new places, new people, and new things to learn. I’d never had that many new things at once in my whole life! It wasn’t a very long journey from Granby, but it was far enough to be unfamiliar and for me to feel truly left to my own devices.

The radio DJ followed Buddy’s song with a song I didn’t like, so I turned down the car radio and started to pay closer attention to my surroundings as I caught a glimpse of my upcoming exit. I handled the turn-off with

ease, doing my dad proud with my smooth maneuver, and followed the road until I got to the building where I would be living for the next eight months.

I took a few seconds to fix my short hair – something else new – in the rearview mirror before I got out of the car. I dragged my meager belongings up the stairs of the residence and down the hall to my room. My roommate, another woman my age, was hanging up her clothes. She was dressed fairly normally for moving in on a warm day – capri pants and a loose blouse – except for the fact that her top was a bright, royal blue.

“Oh, hello,” I said, setting my suitcase down on the floor. “You must be Ellen.”

“How do you do?” she said, nodding.

“I’m Judith,” I replied, extending my hand to shake hers. “How do you do?”

“Fine, thank you,” she replied. “Do you need some help with unpacking?” She gestured towards my suitcase.

“Oh,” I said with a shrug. “Sure. Thanks.”

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Ellen helped me to organize my clothes in the closet arrangement, then we chose beds, with mine the closest to the door. After that, it took us half an hour just to arrange my records on my shelf. I couldn’t stop myself from telling Ellen what I liked about each of them – especially the Buddy Holly ones – as I placed them. By the time all of that was finished, we were ready for dinner. Before we headed out, Ellen changed into a whirl skirt and a big hat that matched her top, elevating it into an ensemble that you’d expect only to see at a fancy shindig. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of admiration at how grand she looked. Just from what she wore, she seemed to embrace a confidence that I’d never seen someone have through clothes before, certainly never experienced myself. Suddenly this ordinary world seemed extraordinary, filled with more possibilities than I had ever known. Once dressed, she headed for the door, but instead of walking out to the hallway she pushed the door aside to reveal a full-length mirror leaning against the wall.

“Did you bring that?” I asked as she looked at her reflection and adjusted her hat.

“I sure did!” Ellen replied.

“How did you fit it in your car?”

“Believe me, it wasn’t easy,” she said, “but I’ve got to have it. The world’s a stage, right?

This is my dressing room.”

I nodded, intrigued by what she meant, but unsure if I really understood.

Once ready, we left campus and walked around town until we found a diner. We sat down in a booth and ordered some comfort food – greasy burgers and fries. While we waited, we exchanged the typical new school questions about what we were studying and where we were from.

When the food arrived, Ellen raised her glass of water.

“To new beginnings!” Clink. *** Ellen and I weren’t in any of the same classes, but we spent a lot of time together. We started acquiring things from each other by osmosis. For me, it was a stronger interest in bold fashion. I borrowed her hat from our first dinner and wore it to class one day, an accent of bright colour in an otherwise neutral outfit I’d put together. It was fun to learn to balance the hat on my head, and wearing it I felt delightfully removed from how an ordinary student usually looked. Definitely not my ordinary self. Josephine, who sat next to me in one of my classes, had asked, “Going to Ascot?”

From me, Ellen gained a love of Buddy Holly. Whenever his songs came on the radio in the car we would sing along, and in our room, we would dance to my records like schoolgirls. Ellen’s favourite dance move was to flap her hands on her chest, miming heart beats while puckering her lips, singing “pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty Peggy Sue.” Ellen was involved in the drama department’s productions, so she loved playing up the theatricality of her movements. I wasn’t so good at it myself, but with her I felt free to try.

We were hanging around the costume shop at the theater, looking through the old costumes for something to wear to a Halloween party when we got the idea. Ellen had found a dress from a production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream and decided to go as a fairy queen. She was now idly looking

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through a collection of glasses, most of them without lenses, while I tried – so far unsuccessfully – to come up with something for myself.

“Get a load of these!” she exclaimed all of a sudden. She was looking at a pair of black horn-rimmed frames. She held them out to me and said excitedly, “Put them on! Put them on!”

“There’s no guarantee they’ll fit, but let’s see,” I said as I took them. But they did fit; they weren’t too tight, nor did they slip when I moved my head. “Well, do I look silly?”

Ellen didn’t answer my question. Instead, she turned to look around the room with a gearchurning expression. “I wonder where they keep suit jackets…”

She went over to a rack and started looking through it. She eyeballed me before pulling a few jackets. I tried on a black one with absurdly long sleeves, then a blue one that fit too long everywhere, but when I got to the last one, a grey one, I found a match. Ellen led me to a mirror so I could take a look.

When I saw my reflection, I couldn’t stop myself from grinning. It was as if all my life I had been sitting in darkness and someone had finally turned on a light.

“I think we’ve found your costume for the party,” Ellen said.

“Buddy Holly,” I said, still beaming.

I was in a cloud of happiness as Ellen and I scoured the costume shop for a pair of pants, a shirt, and a good necktie.

“I hope they have a green one,” Ellen said as we looked. “I think green is your colour.”

We didn’t find one, which annoyed Ellen, so we went with a nice rich navy, and soon we were heading back to our room with our costumes and anticipation for a party that was still over a week away.

*** “I think it’s good enough, now,” I said to Ellen, reaching one hand up between my head and the comb Ellen was brandishing. “You still haven’t started on your own costume.”

“I want to get it just right,” she insisted, gently pushing my hand away.

“Last time I checked, I don’t have the same haircut as Buddy, so it’s never going to be just right. Besides, I think it already looks good.”

We had spent the last twenty minutes putting grease in my hair and trying to arrange it on my head to more closely resemble Buddy Holly’s. The fact that I had natural curls like his, cut fairly short, was enough for me, but Ellen wanted to perfect my look. I was appreciative of her help, but it was time to give up and accept that we had done all we could.

“Oh, all right,” Ellen said, checking my head quickly one more time before going to the closet to get her dress. While she did that, I went over to my bed, where I had laid out my suit. As I got to the end of the process of putting it on, I was giddy to finally see how the full ensemble looked.

“You look so good, Judith!” Ellen exclaimed when she got a glimpse of me.

“You do, too!” I replied, admiring the colourful, flowing dress she had on.

“Enchanting!” Ellen waved her hands as if she were casting a spell.

When I was fully dressed, I grabbed the glasses and walked over to the mirror behind the door. That same feeling from before came back. I was so glad we had come up with this idea, and for Ellen’s assistance with the comb. I turned to see myself from all sides and adjusted my tie. After a moment, Ellen appeared behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

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“Look at us,” I exclaimed through my grin.

“Happy?” she asked. I simply nodded. I took one more moment to look in the mirror and then we were off.

The sun was already going down and I couldn’t help but wonder if, in the dwindling light and from a distance, anyone would think Buddy Holly was in town. Not on Halloween night, maybe, but still I wondered. I hoped I’d cast my usual image off and looked like a convincing man.

When we arrived at the house, Ellen knocked on the door and looked at me excitedly.

“Showtime!” she exclaimed.

A man Ellen knew from the drama department answered the door dressed as Elvis Presley, complete with pink shirt.

Who have we here?” he asked, trying to mimic Elvis’s accent as he checked out our costumes. “A fairy queen…And Buddy Holly himself! Wonderful!”

He led us in and we were met by a living room crowded with ghosts, vampires, and other colourful characters. I was hungry after all of our preparations, so I immediately made my way to the snack table where the hosts had set out hors d’oeuvres, cake, and candy.

“Hi, Buddy Holly,” someone next to me said. It was Josephine.

“Howdy, partner,” I said, noticing her cowgirl costume. She didn’t seem to realize who I was.

“What do you study here, Buddy?” she asked, then chuckled. “I doubt you need a music degree!”

“Liberal arts,” I replied.

“Me, too,” she said. “Who would have thought?”

“Well, you never know what might come in handy down the line,” I joked. “If my music career doesn’t work out, I can teach philosophy.”“Maybe I’ll see you in class.”

“I think you will,” I said, taking off my glasses. Her surprise was priceless.

“Judith!”

I nodded, pleased.

“I didn’t recognize you!”

“Yes, I noticed. I’m glad. I knew I wouldn’t be able to tell until I came here how convincing I look.” I put the glasses back on to free my hands for eating. “Now I’ve got my answer.”

“Well, it’s a great costume! Very different from the big green hat and matching blouse you wore to class the other day,” Josephine said, referring to what I had borrowed from Ellen. “Strangely, it suits you.”

Her words made my heart beat a little faster.

“Thank you,” I said. “Let’s go see who else I can fool.”

Everyone exclaimed “Buddy Holly!” as they saw me. I stayed at the party much longer than I ever intended, having fun pretending I had transformed and really was Buddy. Someone produced a guitar and convinced me to sing a few bars of “Peggy Sue,” though I couldn’t make my voice sound much like his. When we left, I ended up practically carrying tipsy Ellen back to our room.

“What a gentleman,” she said drowsily as I carefully lay her down on her bed and helped her out of her shoes.

I felt a little sad that the night was over as I took my costume off and put it away, but I was glad it had gone over so well. It had been absolutely electric.

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Getting dressed the next morning felt like a disappointment after Halloween, especially since it was a Friday and I had to go to class, too. I put on my favourite pair of plaid slacks, but the sweater I paired with it didn’t seem to fit as well as I recalled. I fiddled with it in front of the mirror, trying to get it to hang right, but it just looked wrong on my body. And something was missing.

“You look fine, that sweater’s so nice on you,” Ellen said, waving her hand before stifling a yawn. “We’ve got to get to the dining hall, now, or I’m going to be late.”

She had a point. I grabbed my things and we rushed out the door.

At my own class later that morning, we were all talking about the fun we had had on Halloween. But everyone seemed much less disappointed to be getting back to normal life, whereas I felt as if I had discovered my favourite food and then been forbidden it after only one bite.

December the first, Buddy Holly appeared on the Ed Sullivan Show. The guys who threw the Halloween party had a TV and let Ellen and me come over to watch with them.

They teased me afterwards that my eyes were glued to the screen the whole time Buddy and the Crickets performed. And I believed them. I was captivated by him; he wasn’t showy in an over-the-top way, but all the same there was an amazing energy to him that kept me from looking away for even a moment. The way he looked on screen, I could feel that he was behind every word and strum of the guitar, that there was nothing else he would rather do in that moment. He was so free and full of joy. From that night on, I pictured him just as he appeared on T.V. whenever I listened to his records.

But there was something else on my mind, too, that had excited me just as much even though I couldn’t tell them. It was that same thing I felt when we first got the idea in the costume shop over a month earlier. Looking at Buddy, I saw how I wanted to look and dress and be. Not just pretend, but for real.

I knew that if I went out dressed like Buddy, I would be wearing what everyone else I knew saw as a costume. That was how I’d worn that outfit before: not as myself, but as a disguise, though I no longer wanted it to be. I would stare at the record sleeve depicting Buddy and his band in matching grey suits, resembling what I had worn as a costume and wanted to wear again. I had picked up the French term for a suit, “costume d’homme,” in one of my elective courses. It had been a costume for me; perhaps, in a sense, it was for men, too. So why shouldn’t I be able to wear it, like they do?

*** Early November became late November and the weather got colder. Ellen had returned her fairy queen dress to the costume shop long ago, but I had kept my costume, lying that I had already brought it back. Instead, it was sitting neatly in a garment bag under my bed.

I knew it was not really mine, but I froze every time I’d tried to get it out. I didn’t think anyone noticed. The costume shop was full of so many other things.

That month had been busy school-wise and exciting otherwise, with the release of the album The “Chirping” Crickets, which soon played on the turntable in our room more days than it didn’t. This all culminated when, on

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For the entire month of November, the suit’s presence weighed on my mind as I kept it in its hiding place, and so on the Monday after the Ed Sullivan Show, I finally decided to do what I had been thinking about for so long.

After coming back from breakfast at the dining hall that morning, I threw off my usual garments and pulled the suit out from under my bed. I hid the glasses under the socks in my dresser drawer and set to work. I left my hair as it already was, for any modification to it had been part of my costume, but I put on the suit exactly as I had before. When that was done, I took a quick look in the mirror. I was a little nervous, but the joy at seeing my reflection was stronger than my apprehension.

I got to class when I usually did, not very early but not late. There were a few students who had arrived already talking amongst themselves, but there were still more to come.

I tried not to look anyone’s way as I entered the classroom, but I could hear their conversations halt, followed by a few whispers – whispers they assumed I couldn’t hear. Or perhaps they had wanted me to hear them. I could picture them with forked tongues. One thing I knew for a fact was that many of them were at the party and had paid me compliments that night. I caught one flash of a stare, but I looked away as quickly as I could. I was not surprised by their reactions, so I tried not to mind it.

“Halloween’s over,” someone finally said, projecting their voice across the room, announcing what I had feared. I didn’t dare let my head turn in their direction. I only moved when I saw someone coming in the door.

“Hello, Josephine!” I said with my usual cheer, relieved to finally see a friend and wanting to seem as though I didn’t care about the comment.

“Hi, Judith,” she said, just as she normally did, shrugging off her grey wool coat and taking the seat next to mine. “What’s the occasion?” She looked at my clothes with uncomplicated curiosity. It was true, most students didn’t come to class in a full suit and tie. I felt a little lighter.

“Life,” I replied, “is the occasion.”

“A very worthy one, indeed,” Josephine said with a smile.

Our professor got the class to be quiet when he arrived. His eyes seemed to catch on me as he surveyed the room, but he made no remark. Things went so usually that I was reassured my idea had been a success after all.

“See you later, gator,” Josephine said as she rushed off to her next class. I didn’t move at her pace since my next class wasn’t as far away as hers. As I packed up my things, I noticed a couple guys in the class watching me. I had glimpsed them at the Halloween party, but they didn’t speak in class much so I couldn’t remember their names. I didn’t acknowledge them, even when they got up from their seats at the same time as I did.

I lost track of them when I got to the hallway, noisy with students’ chatter. But I had only walked a few paces when I suddenly heard the squeaking of shoes against the floor rapidly approaching me. In a moment, two hands came around from behind me and landed squarely on my chest. Then there was laughter.

He took his hands away and ran past me with his friend.

“Just wanted to see if you really were a girl!” he called out to me before the two of them disappeared down the hallway, their laughter echoing off the walls as they went.

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It was over in a few seconds, but like a drop of water in a pond I could still feel its ripples like a shockwave inside of me. I walked slowly, not wanting to risk catching up to them, and becoming even more shattered than I already felt. Once my next class started, I took notes unthinkingly, an airplane on automatic pilot. My mind was busy reeling, replaying the pain of what had happened in the hallway over and over again. I tried to figure out how I could have changed this and prevented it from happening. But it was all so fast. I then jumped back to when Ellen and I came up with everything. I wondered whether this all had been a mistake from the beginning, but I couldn’t completely convince myself that it was. Until now, it had made me so happy.

When class was finished, I hurried home, not stopping until I was inside, and collapsed on my bed. I wanted to cry after holding back the tears for hours, but they didn’t come, so I just lay there with my face buried in the pillow until Ellen came home.

“Judith? What’s going on? What are you wear –” I rolled over, knowing I had just revealed to her that I never returned the suit to the costume shop. I worried about that for a moment, but Ellen didn’t dwell on it.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, kneeling down by the bed. I tried to find the words, but I couldn’t. That was when I finally cried. Ellen stroked my hair until I could manage to speak.

“Some people were whispering before class,” I said between sobs. “One of them told me it wasn’t Halloween, as if I didn’t already know.”

Ellen didn’t say anything. She just watched me as I kept explaining.

“Two guys,” I continued, getting angry, “followed me as I was leaving class. Then,

when I was walking down the hallway... one of them came up behind me, touched my br... said he wanted to check to see if I’m a girl.”

“I see,” Ellen said calmly. “So that’s it.”

“I love wearing this suit. I was feeling pretty good until all of that. Even the whispering wasn’t so bad until... after.”

Ellen sighed deeply and shook her head.

“I don’t know what you were expecting to happen, going out like that,” she said. “You must have known you wouldn’t be able to do it unnoticed, that you would get attention and that it wouldn’t all be good. It’s just not how girls dress.” She gestured at me to further prove her point.

“What are you saying?” I asked angrily, sitting up. Of all the people I knew, Ellen was the last person I expected to say such things.

“Are you saying I asked for this? This was your idea, as I recall.”

“It wasn’t my idea for you to wear a Halloween costume to class! You thought of that half-baked notion on your own.”

“Only because the idea of me wearing this suit was such a good one: too good to relegate to a single night in the whole year. Just look at how well it fits me!”

I got up from the bed to show her – no, to remind her. I did a turn so that she could see it from all angles.

“And just so you know,” I added, “it wasn’t half-baked. I thought about it for weeks before I built up the nerve to wear it to class.”

“It was a waste of nerve.”

“Some would say the same thing about most of the clothes you wear,” I said, gesturing to what she had on that day: a bright blue tailored dress we had picked out together at a shop in town. “They would say it’s not worth wearing such nice things to class. And such a bold colour!”

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“That’s hardly the same thing,” Ellen retorted. “And you know it.”

“Isn’t it?”

I felt just a little victorious when Ellen said nothing and could only stand there. But only for a moment.

I padded over the few steps to my dresser and took out a folded-up pair of slacks and a top. I laid them out on the bed before I began to unbutton my jacket and shirt.

“What are you doing?” Ellen asked.

“What does it look like?” I answered dryly.

Ellen didn’t say any more as I changed out of the suit into more acceptable clothes. When that was done, I dug the horn-rimmed glasses out of my sock drawer, tucked them inside the jacket pocket, folded the suit up, and placed everything in a bag. I grabbed my room keys from my bedside table, threw on my coat, and headed for the door.

“If you’re going to the costume shop,” Ellen said, “let me come with you.”

“You’ve done quite enough, already,” I replied, pushing Ellen aside. I closed the door behind me and walked determinedly down the hall, out the front door, and towards the theatre. I should have known that this would happen, eventually. This was how it was supposed to be.

It was evening, but I knew the costume shop would still be open. There was a play opening in a week and things were always busy before a production. Then again, there was always a production on the way, so it was always busy.

Two students were working on a costume fitting when I walked in and they looked a little startled when I barged in.

“Hi,” I said. “I’m just returning this. I should have done it a long time ago.”

I took the suit out of the bag and placed it on some free space on one of the tables strewn with fabric.

“Thank you for letting me borrow this,” I said sadly, avoiding eye contact, afraid I would embarrass myself if I did. “I loved it.”

I left the theatre without another word. I heard someone mutter they’d been looking for that navy tie, but I cast my gaze towards my feet as I walked the familiar path back towards home. How could I have been so silly? Ellen was right. It was unreasonable of me to think I could do what I had done. That wasn’t how the world worked. My eyes burned as the thoughts repeated again and again.

I was wrenched from them when a pair of arms pulled me from behind into a tight hug.

“What-cha up to, Judith?”

I recognized the voice and the wool coat sleeves wrapped around me.

“Hi, Josephine,” I sighed, gently prying myself from her arms and turning around to face her. “I was at the costume shop returning that suit.”

“Really?” Josephine asked in concern.

“Why?” “It wasn’t ever mine to begin with,” I said.

“I had to give it back. I should have done it before; it would have saved me a lot of grief.”

“All that whispering?” she asked.

“That and more,” I said. I explained to her everything that had happened after she left the classroom.

“I see,” she said solemnly. I expected her to ask me questions or make accusations like Ellen did – I was convinced that would have been the logical response – but all she added was, “I’ll walk you home.”

She linked her arm with mine and we continued down the path. As we reached the

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residence building, white flakes began to float down from the sky. We both looked up to watch them fall.

“The first snow,” I said, letting myself cheer up just a little bit. “It means a new season is coming.”

“Yes, I guess it does,” Josephine said, but it seemed as though part of her mind was elsewhere until she lowered her head back down to me. “Will you be alright if I leave you here?”

I nodded and got out the key to unlock the outer door of the building. Josephine said goodbye and then started going back in the same direction. I stood in the doorway and watched her go. At first, she stood out, but then her grey coat seemed to disappear into the pavement and the snow. When she was gone, I turned to walk down the hall to my room. Back to the grim reality.

knock on the door. I groggily got up and opened it. It was Josephine. I figured it must have been an especially cold day, because she had her coat buttoned tightly up to her neck.

She was also carrying a bag with something wrapped in paper inside of it.

“Good morning, Judith!” she said cheerily.

“I brought you something.”

“Why?” I asked, already taking the bag as she placed it in my hand.

“Just open it,” Josephine said.

I turned and placed the bag on the bed, then took the parcel out. When I unwrapped it, I had to blink a few times to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.

Neatly folded inside the paper was a grey suit and crisp white shirt, a tie threaded under the collar.

“Consider it an early Christmas present,” she said. “Come on, let’s see it on you.”

“Is this the suit from the costume shop?” I asked.

“Nope! This one is all yours,” she explained, sounding quite proud of herself and excited for me to know all the details. “In between things for the upcoming production, I worked with some other people at the costume shop. We took all the measurements of the original and made this suit just for you.

Rush order.”

I was in disbelief, but I felt an instant magnetism with the gift in my hands. I started unfolding the suit and putting it on straight away. When I felt the familiar fabric against my skin, it was like eating a good meal after days of starvation.

As I finished dressing, I noticed Josephine had unbuttoned her coat. She was wearing one of the suits from the costume shop, one that had been too big for me. Josephine herself was

*** As the week passed, I forced myself to go to my classes. I put together outfits in the mornings without much thought. I knew I looked all right, in fact these were things I used to wear very happily, but hardly found it in me to care one way or another. I figured that, perhaps, the way to deal with the disappointments of life was to try not to care.

It’s best not to dwell on what you will never have.

The next Monday morning, instead of having breakfast promptly with Ellen before her early class, I decided to stay in bed. What was the point of rushing around? It was the last week before final exams, anyway.

When she was gone, I tried my best to get some more sleep, but I was interrupted by a

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swimming in it, but it didn’t seem to bother her. She was busy looking at my record collection. She held up the Crickets album, smiling at me.

“You look just like them!” she said before putting the record down to help me straighten my tie.

“Why’d you get a suit for yourself?” I asked. “I know it’s not really your thing.”

“Well, I hadn’t considered it before,” she said. “But I can’t say I don’t like it, now that I’ve tried it for myself.”

Dressed, I turned and looked at the two of us in the mirror. I was scared to be seen again, but I still got that good feeling from the first day. The feeling that said this was the right thing for me to do.

“Have you had breakfast?” Josephine asked as we went out the door.

“No,” I said, my stomach gurgling as if it had heard her and wanted to answer her question itself. As we walked along, she produced from her book bag two fresh bagels from the dining hall, already toasted and slathered in peanut butter.

“How did you keep them from making a mess all over everything in there?” I asked.

“A lady never reveals her secrets.”

I laughed as we walked along and ate our breakfast.

As soon as we entered the classroom, I could feel the eyes on us as the whispers crashed into my ears like a tidal wave. I kept my gaze trained on the floor. The whispers were starting again. I tried to walk, but my legs froze.

Then I felt Josephine’s hand on my back, between my shoulder blades. I turned to her.

She was looking straight ahead. I lifted my head and walked on. The first person I made

eye contact with shifted his gaze and looked away when I caught him staring. As I walked to my seat, I looked at somebody else, who stopped whispering to her friend when I noticed her. As I glanced around, another person looked away, and then another, and another. The room was much quieter when Josephine and I finally sat down.

The lecture was uneventful. When it was time to leave, one of the guys in the class stood near us and watched, then walked behind us when we started to leave. As we made our way down the hall, I kept looking behind me to see if he was still following us, but he stayed at a distance, focused on a conversation with a friend.

Josephine and I had to go separate ways to our respective classes, but I didn’t feel so scared anymore. I knew, then, why she had done all of this.

Josephine and I met at the dining hall for dinner, after I had spent the day purposefully avoiding going anywhere else I might run into Ellen. But even as I avoided Ellen, I still wished for something to happen so that she would see me. I knew Ellen wouldn’t be back for a while, so I brought Josephine back to our room.

I fired up the turntable and put on my “Peggy Sue” record. I grabbed Josephine’s hands and started to dance. She smiled, just managing to keep up with me. She had good rhythm, but her movements were plain. I wasn’t sure she was enjoying it, but I just tried to be glad it was happening at all. Gradually, the song whisked me away. When it got to “pretty, pretty Peggy Sue,” I puckered my lips and patted my chest, but instead of joining in, Josephine started to laugh. I forgot where I was in the song and stopped. It’s true, it was

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silly, but I had forgotten that Josephine wouldn’t know the routine. She had done so much for me today, but she wasn’t my best friend. She wasn’t Ellen.

As if my thoughts conjured her presence, Ellen appeared in the doorway. She clutched the textbook she had been studying for her first exam, but was dressed like she was about to go to a society party, her red coat matching her dress. A sight for sore eyes, even though she looked surprised and said nothing.

Josephine asked me if I wanted her to stay, but I told her to go.

“I thought you’d returned it,” Ellen finally said when we were alone, placing her book on her desk and sitting down.

“I did,” I said, only making brief eye contact as I walked over to my desk to start my own studying.

“Ha ha,” she said sarcastically. “You did return it. But then you took it again. I get it.”

“No, you don’t,” I explained. “It’s still at the theatre. This isn’t it.”

“You’d never find another suit that fits you like that one did.”

“I didn’t have to find it.”

“And how is that?” I turned away from my desk to face Ellen. She was glaring at me.

“A lady never reveals her secrets.”

Ellen snorted. “Some lady you are!”

“Well, I believe you did once call me a gentleman.”

I thought I caught a glimpse of a grin on Ellen’s face as she went back to her reading. I turned back around and opened up my notes.

The next morning, Ellen was watching me as I dressed.

“Now, that’s more normal,” she commented as I put on one of my sweaters over my slacks. I smirked at her as I threw on the suit jacket on top of it.

"We both know neither of us wants to dress normally,” I said, referring to her brightly-patterned dress and hat before I walked out the door. *** I did my best to avoid Ellen as exams passed by, not wanting to put up with her judgement. But even though I tried to focus on studying, I found myself feeling increasingly lonely. I missed the trips into town. I missed dancing. Still, I continued my avoidance, but Ellen didn’t respond in kind.

“Want to review with me?” she asked one day.

“No, thanks,” I replied, grabbing my books before heading to the library by myself.

Another day, she tried another tactic. “I need a break from all these books. Let’s go to that boutique in town. We haven’t been in a long time.”

I really did want to go. Her hostility seemed to be fading; she said she wanted to be with me, which I wanted. But I wasn’t going to give that hostility a chance to come back, especially somewhere where clothes were concerned, so I declined and kept staying out of our room as much as possible.

When I came back from an exam the next day, I was greeted by the sound of Buddy Holly’s voice singing out of the turntable.

“One lonely night... at this drive-in... Now I know... what a fool I’ve been.”

It was strange; Ellen usually made sure to turn off everything – record player, lights – before she left the room. I barely finished that thought when Ellen appeared from around the corner. She was holding a red parcel in her hand.

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I thought you’d left for Christmas break,” I said.

“I don’t leave until tomorrow,” she replied.

“Besides, I have to give you this.”

She placed the parcel in my hands. I just stared at it for a moment. She watched me expectantly. I tore the paper, revealing a note.

I’m sorry I didn’t understand before. I never wanted to hurt you. I still think green is your colour. Merry Christmas. Love, Ellen.

Inside the parcel was a vivid green tie. The material felt soft between my fingers. As I looked at the tie and felt it in my hands, I pictured Ellen meticulously browsing the selection at a store in town to pick out just the right one, like she did that day back in October at the costume shop.

“May I?” she asked, reaching out her hand.

I passed her the tie and she threaded it under my shirt collar, looping it around into a knot and adjusting it under my chin.

“How do I look?” I asked.

“Perfect,” she said.

When she finished with the tie, she started adjusting my jacket, feeling where the material hung loose in relation to my body.

“Too bad I’ve already packed my sewing kit,” she said. “The jacket needs to be taken in here.”

“They made this suit for me, just like the one I had on before that fit me so well.”

“It fits you well, but it still needs adjusting,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’ll have to do that after Christmas. You deserve a suit that fits perfectly.”

“I look forward to it,” I said. “I wouldn’t trust the tailoring with anyone but you.” The world’s balance had been restored, being with Ellen properly again, finally getting back to what we loved doing together. It felt natural,

and without needing to think I walked over to her closet and pulled out the green blouse I’d once borrowed that was a similar shade as the tie. “And then we’ll march across campus, me in my suit and you in this, daring anyone to look away. We won’t care if they don’t. And after that we’ll head into town arm in arm, belting Buddy Holly at the top of our lungs.”

Ellen laughed, the warm laugh from when we listened to records.

“How silly!” she exclaimed. “How grand! I love that idea.”

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g & r l e e c t e n l a c

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mad queer magic brody parrish craig

At my friend's fifth birthday, they gather the girls to give them make-overs in full blown ballgowns, lipsticks, and the works. As we walk the “runway,” I carry the train of an oversized skirt as parents gaze in awe—I'm expected to be happy, to feel beautiful, to walk with pride—and instead, I find myself fighting tears, telling myself to keep walking, keep walking, then hiding in the bathroom. There’s a photograph: a woman with curly brown hair pulled half-back in a grey vest and business trousers, her hand outstretched with lipstick to apply red to my baby lips. She is smiling yet focused; I am told to hold still. Moments before the frame.

As a child, I was placed in some kind of behavioral care that I rarely remember. Around this time I spent my summers learning how to properly hold a pencil, how to walk appropriately, how to talk without a stutter or lisp, how to become someone my parents believed in. When I asked my mother about it recently, she casually explained that the clinic was for children with sensory processing disorder. You were always different, you know, your teachers had trouble with you too. I never could sit still—I’d tear up paper at my seat and, despite hiding my fidgeting in the desk, since Mrs. Harrison called it a “distraction,” I still was berated by her time and time again.

Once, hiccupping in class without control, she claimed I was doing it for attention. She chastised me angrily in front of my classmates before sending me to complete my test in a separate, empty room.

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Looking back, I’m not sure if I hated the dress because of my hatred for being watched by strangers, my budding understanding of “girl-code” rooted in misogyny, or because the sleeves itched. I don't know. Either way, I think back on this moment often when reflecting on my transition—the first moment in which gender norms were imposed on me so explicitly and my body became spectaclized as the ideal “woman,” the first time that my social world betrayed me and I had no option to talk back. I feel for the girl in the dress; I feel for the boy in the photo. I feel for the child who couldn’t have beauty, who thought this was what it meant to be beautiful. If beauty was meant for this moment, who was I to cry in discomfort at being made so beautiful?

Over the years, my choice in clothes oscillated. One year I was band tees over button downs and men jeans; the next leggings and short denim skirts. One year I was leg hair and tie-dye t-shirt dresses; another I was full blown goth. I'll never forget the moment in high school where an older man commented on my legs for their shape—how they’re wide, like men’s legs, like boys’ legs, like nothing that should be in dresses. I was sitting in a café stoned; I could’ve killed him then & there. Those were the days of close shaves, before I found the revelry of my own smirk at the stubble, the beauty in the moment that a stranger gawked at my leg hair and walked away. My appearance was like a social experiment: I had just begun a deep journey into feminism and rejection of social norms.

Much like the moment years later when I shaved my head after reading Beauvoir, it was “for science,” it was for god, it was for glory. It was for me.

I’ve always been rebellious in my own deep curiosity. I like to turn heads; be it for fun or for beauty or for the sake of a good-ass velvet dress. In 2015, when I began to openly explore transgender possibility, I got locked in on the fact that I was a man. I knew, I just knew, that I would dress in button ups and bowties and skater punk boy clothes for the rest of my life.

That was it: the dresses were all behind me; they didn’t feel right, they didn’t fit right, and at that time in my life, they weren’t right. But after top surgery, something magic happened:

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I came to love myself again. Not so much again, but so much more deeply for the very first time. I had quit drugs, I had found myself, and I had let myself be free. I didn’t look in the mirror and wonder what others thought of what I was wearing or looked like. For the first time, I looked in the mirror with self-love and newfound wonder: in this moment, what feels beautiful to me?

Fashion became an extension of my own creative expression. It was my playground, my protest, my joy, and my art. It was, and is, my own creative way of making meaning and making mad queer magic. At times, I dress up in faux-fur hoods and babydoll dresses. At other times, I revel in the basic white Hanes tee and jeans. But the best is when I can combine these things & flip gender on its head. To wear a trucker hat with stilettos is my own concept of sacred.

To watch the balance and the beauty overflow.

That beauty looked a lot like dresses. And bowties. And buying the checkered Vans I never had as a teenager. And trying out black lipstick with a denim vest. And cowboy boots. And belt buckles bigger than god. And rhinestoned patterns glued by hand. And sharpie on a t-shirt. And flannel.

And miniskirts. And leather pants. And, really, everything.

This week, an acquaintance I barely speak to found me on Instagram. They DM’d me a screenshot: me in a blue medical mask, a light brown plaid dress, and brown boots, in my psychiatrist’s waiting room. The caption reads: This is what you see in society now.

Waiting in a doctors office a femine “guy” I guess, wearing a dress with hairy legs. I’d seriously rather watch a cow take a dumb in a field. At least that’s natural. The post reads [Name Redacted], 1 hour ago, with a laughing emoji reaction underneath, and has given viewers the option to click like or comment below. After days of deliberation, the acquaintance reaches out to me despite our distance to let me know this showed up in their feed. They’re devastated, they’re upset, they say they wanted to let me know. They report the post upon my request; I share it on my story, asking others to do the same, only to find it’s private. I reach out to a friend to dig up dirt—name, phone numbers, workplace, address…not to do anything, but to know I’ve taken power back. I call a friend.

I call another friend. I text someone. I go to Target.

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What’s a boy to do once they become a transphobic shitpost on the internet?

Why, buy a new dress for the occasion, clearly. The irony that my T is literally in the mirror selfie is gorgeous to me. & yes, god bless me on my mirror always, I caption hours later. In the photograph: a sleeveless copper glitter dress, high waisted, flowing short skirt held in my right hand to kick my leg out. My T-gel on the counter, the mirror engraved in green expo with a heart that reads god bless me in the center from weeks back. I take my life back one dress at a time. I keep on moving forward.

To be genderqueer in public is a battle I have lost and won. The years of fear in reactions and harassment at the hands of strangers is enough to hold back many I know from a nonconforming presentation, and I 100% understand why that’s their truth. But it makes me sorry. Sorry that we have to make that kind of choice—at the doctor’s office, at the movie theater, at the courthouse, at the hospital. Every day I choose to dress for beauty is a day of radical acts. Every day I smile in the mirror and mean it is another day closer to god. It is like a ritual: of love, of joy, of resistance. I will never make myself small in a world that held me back from loving myself so long. To fashion myself in the eye of myself is a joy I defend with my life.

At the psychiatrist’s office, minutes before this photo was taken, [Name Redacted]’s partner was rushing in the waiting room. “I've been waiting over an hour and a half! I have cancer! I’m going to miss my appointment! I can’t do this like this! My medicine is out of refills; I don’t have a choice!”

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“It sounds like you’re unhappy here,” the woman at the reception desk replies. “If you’re unhappy at this clinic, I’d suggest finding a new one.” I look up at [Name Redacted] in empathy, in shared knowledge of our broken healthcare, as he walks over to his partner to support her if she needs to leave. I look over at [Name Redacted] several times after she returns behind the shut door, in a gesture of quiet solidarity, as he looks directly back at me.

What does it mean that in this moment he looked back, not out of understanding, but of violence? What does in mean in this moment that he took the picture, I was staring him in the eye with a gaze of genuine concern and understanding?

It means that we are troubled. It means that we are threatened. It means that, instead of understanding or sharing a commonality of this clinic’s constant fuckery, we are more concerned about the distance of my dress and his perception. I’ve been stepping back from queer spaces lately after becoming attuned with my disabilities. To hold space for my lived experience as a psychiatric prisoner, a victim of the courts and the medical industrial complex, much less the stigma of madness in our community means that I have felt less at home. In queer spaces, I’m too crazy. In the madhouse, I’m an anomaly. In the psychiatric office, I am tokenized, wrong pronouns, wrong body-mind, wrong everything. To be doubly booked in queerness and in madness is a journey. While nothing here is new, the journey to learn my history and my own story is. What does it mean to be doxxed at a clinic that is harmful but I must attend? What does it mean that in the waiting room [Name Redacted] can’t see we are the same?

Like my dresses, my madness is sacred. A space I am learning to hold and carve. To carry the weight of my history, of the violence, of the world between. I am navigating my mad magic in a copper glitter gown. I am holding every gender in the mirror.

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to sew, or not to sew, that is the question self_saboteur

As a young kid, the Bratz doll quote “fashion is my passion” was what I strived for. The ability to transform strips of fabric into fashion that could make me feel like someone else when worn, felt like magic in my young 10-year old’s eyes. But unfortunately, life always got in the way.

In 2004, my family picked up their limited belongings and immigrated to Canada (the story goes that we came here for my education, but in reality it was because my parents couldn’t afford living back home). And so, I arrived in a country that was new, frightening and surprising.

Snowflakes fell from the sky, everything was in English and everyone, I mean everyone, wore the dullest clothing imaginable. Blacks, blues and reds dotted the horizon, every store was filled with the same standard uniform that rarely changed season to season. When all I dreamed of was a kaleidoscope of magentas, deep purples and turquoise. Pungent smells of sandalwood and turmeric fills my memories as people rushed in with red cotton sarees, dupattas of green and silver, gold bangles clinked as they walked. The world so vibrant, colourful and familiar began fading further and further away as the years passed.

We never could afford to travel back home as a whole family, as much as I missed the vibrancy.

So instead my father would leave on his own and return with a treasure trove of gifts. I remember always getting excited as he would open his big black suitcase, while we anticipated with weighted breath. He would pull out a new shalwar kameez of the trendiest style that year or a new saree. Despite the excitement it would bring, over the years those clothes would barely be worn, the cold climate made it impossible. So they rotted inside suitcases in the basement, only worn once or twice at social functions, then given away when we got bigger. Over the years, traditional desi clothing felt like a time capsule of a begone era, a memory of what could have been but never materialized.

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A fashion magazine I drew back in 2007, I dreamed with my grubby little fingers.

but maybe I could wear them digitally. I remember vividly, running home from school and begging my parents to use the computer so I could play the latest iteration of girls dress up games. My early internet history was filled with dressing princesses, pirates, divas and rock stars. I would dress up Barbie, Bratz, MySense dolls, Trollz and cute girls in the most lavish outfits I could imagine. Boas, leather pants and scarves of multiple colors spread across my screen, my young eyes mesmerized by the blue light.

The World Wide Spindling Web During my formative years, I would ask my parents to buy new clothes from Walmart but we couldn’t afford them so we bought second-hand sweaters from local thrift shops or got hand-me-downs from relatives.

Scavenging clothes that had no holes on them so we could pretend that we were middle class. It hit me very quickly that I could never afford new clothing or a new wardrobe, it should have upset me more, until I discovered the world wide web.

My fashion design dreams heightened even more when I came across the website girlssense.com. The website was a fashion designing marketplace, where you designed your own clothes through their Photoshopesque platform and then try to make money by selling it to others online. It was a thrilling adventure where my creativity blossomed,

It was 2009, my father’s 1995 HP desktop sat in the living room. It was a big hulk of a thing that I would use to make my first email address and an eventual discovery of a whole new realm; gogirlsgames.com. It was a whole new world of flash games, an alternate reality; maybe I couldn’t afford to buy clothes

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exploring what colors went well together, what prints looked daring and how to make the perfect wardrobe.

The Pursuit By that time I was a grown teenager, I had witnessed my mom once again sewing a blouse to match her saree at the dinner table.

I watched as her sewing needle pinned in and out in a rhythmic motion into stitches that were barely visible. I sat in awe and asked if I could learn too. That possibly my small hands had the potential to turn an old bed cloth into a magical dress. She shrugged, “You’ll only

When girlssense.com died, it felt like my dreams of being a fashion designer died. If I couldn’t be a fashion designer in the digital web…could it be that fashion couldn’t be a passion? The question pressed against my mind, but I had always been a stubborn little girl, I couldn’t simply give up. Never.

I made this top with a Cambodian fabric someone gave me as a gift and I look so fab!

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get in the way and mess it up. Besides I don’t have time. Did you do your homework?”

There was never a right answer for that question, so I would shrug off disappointed as she continued sewing.

Eventually, I did what every teen was doing at the time, getting a job. I got my first job in a food truck that was so bad, it left me with physical burns on my skin (it’s a long story).

Despite that, I raised enough money to take sewing classes at the local community center.

Learning to sew was like breathing fresh air, the teacher was kind and considerate, even let me borrow their sewing machine for practice. The other classmates were all older women in their 50s who’ve sewn all their lives but were eager to learn more. Through them I learned to make my first tote and enough skills to make the dress of my dreams.

I felt like I could change the world, with a swish of a needle at my fingertips.

I ran home, excited and thrilled. “This was it,” I thought, “I’ve never felt more alive, more consumed by something than when I made fashion. This is what I was meant to do.” I raised my glass to ambition and finally confessed to my parents my dreams. They looked at me in a state of disappointment, you know the one, the one that makes you realize that they would never support you in that endeavor. They didn’t necessarily disagree with me outright, instead they argued that I was smarter than that. I eventually succumbed to their whims, and I applied to a completely different degree in order to survive.

The green jumper dress I completed last year, just in time for the winter season!

An epiphany in a button It would take me years to realize why my parents never fully supported my artistic pursuits. They were not my enemy, a monster against my individualistic pursuit.

A hulking figure casting a shadow at our young hero’s pursuit of glory. Rather their intentions were made out of fear, they were terrified of poverty.

In Bangladesh, only the poorest of the poor worked in squalor working conditions in the garment industry. Poverty for generations had meant a death sentence and the garment industry reeked of it. In the last 100 years,

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it was my ancestors who had witnessed millions of their family, friends and neighbors die in the streets when the British East India Company ruled. I wish I could say, “That happened 100 years ago, it doesn't matter now!” But that would be a misnomer.

Poverty was and is an intergenerational trauma that sits unsettling in my blood.

The images and stories of Bengalis who look just like me stand uncomfortably in my peripheral vision. If I were to compete in the fashion industry, I would need to be extraordinary to compete with European American elitist system. Could I possibly be that noteworthy? Could I take part in an industry that continues to exploit my people and destroy the environment of my homeland? Could I watch as I take part in an industry that denies human rights to its most important workers?

I eventually came to a compromise of sorts. I would make clothes out of thrifted secondhand fabrics (usually curtains and bedsheets) for myself and anyone I know who needs a cheap Halloween costume. Occasionally I would use the fabrics from an old shalwar kameez that sat in the basement and make something that I needed (without my parents’ blessing like the one in the photo above, haha). With that, I’m not taking part in the destructive nature of fast fashion and I get to enjoy my limited skills in finishing a garment.

I made this pink top and skirt with an old dhoti, Mom is gonna kill me!

I wish I could say that I’ve made a final decision, that fashion is just a hobby. There will always be a pull inside me to face those fears, and do fashion as a career anyway, but I’m not that brave yet. “Fashion is my passion,” but I don’t think it should define how I make money, it will instead define how I find joy in my life. And for now, that’s good enough.

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hell on wheels design: accessibility practices sabine grohowski

My name is Sabine Grohowski. I’m a queertrans Disabled punk and I own and create everything for Hell On Wheels Design, a tiny shop where I modify mobility aids with spikes, studs, chains, and more for people who are tired of the hospital grey and silver option.

After launching on October 1 2021, the shop kind of blew up all over social media but especially Facebook and Tiktok. I learned really quickly where I was doing well and what I could do better.

Early on, I got some excellent feedback asking for a wider range of weight maximums on the canes and crutches I offered. So now the highest maximum is 600 lbs instead of the non-inclusive 250 lbs that it was before. I also received a helpful DM from someone in the community requesting that I not use #cripplepunk on Instagram since it was for a business and not a personal/community post. I think that’s completely reasonable and I actually don’t use any tags anymore because, even though I am just one Disabled person, I don’t want people to feel like I’m encroaching or taking advantage of a space meant for the community.

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It’s really important to me that the website, packing materials, and social media accounts are all as accessible as possible. I add image descriptions to all my social media posts, offer large print options for packaging material, and I’m continuously working on making the website as screen readable as possible (which is a little harder because of how often it’s updated).

Right from the first day, Hell On Wheels Design has had a sponsorship program to make things more monetarily accessible. People can donate money to partially or fully cover the item, materials, labor, and shipping costs for a low-income, Disabled person’s modified mobility aid. No one gets turned down for sponsorship so long as they’re Disabled, low-income, 18 or older, and live in the US so it functions more as a waitlist.

In the coming months I’m hoping to include fragrance free options for orders. I consulted with a member of the community with severe Multiple Chemical Sensitivity. Since I use industrial glue and live with other people who are not completely scentfree, they told me about what they do to neutralize something that has fragrances in or on it.

Owning a business that I want to be truly as accessible to as many people as possible is a practice in thinking of as many perspectives as I can and then listening to people when they say I’ve messed up, sometimes in not-so-kind words. But access is more important than my feelings and I can’t wait to see what the shop looks like a year from now.

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sky & the rebirth warriors sky cubacub / rebirth garments Childhood is a crucial time for learning; so many of us have to constantly work on unlearning harmful ableist, racist, transphobic, queerphobic, fatphobic, saneist things taught to us early on, but wouldn’t it be better if we learn caring habits right off the bat? Most people are afraid of discussing disability (and queerness), let alone with children, however, children need the language to be able to describe themselves and deserve to see themselves through media portrayals made for and by queer disabled artists. Focusing on these topics with an artistic lens creates a space for intersectional self exploration/expression. Lately I have been dreaming up “Sky and the Rebirth Warriors,” an upcoming online show focusing on the topics of accessibility, queerness, gender, disability, race, size and intersections of these identities, all while making and crafting projects with accessible materials. For this “Rebirth” themed issue of just femme & dandy, I am sharing the teaser trailer for the show!

Targeted towards ages 6-11, but enjoyable for all ages, every episode will focus on an overall lesson or aspect of the Disability Justice movement. So far the idea is like a queer disabled Mr Rogers vibe mixed with the crafts and fun of shows like “Out of the Box” and “Zoom” (the TV show, not the thing we are all on all day) with some “Pee Wee’s Playhouse” camp aesthetics with a Disability Justice twist and definitely puppets and animated shorts sprinkled throughout. I’ve always been told I look like a children’s TV show host so 2 years ago I decided I should just go for it. I am passionate about helping youth feel empowered to create their own change and make the world more accessible to queer, disabled, POC, fat, intersex, trans and nonbinary folks. The show will feature child participants, guest artists, puppets, resident sidekick puppy, and myselfSky Cubacub. Episode themes include accessibility for Blind/low vision people with audio descriptions, stimming and neurodivergence, dealing with chronic fatigue (common now with COVID), interdependence and why it is great to be fragrance free for people with multiple chemical sensitivity. In my work, I give people the knowledge and resources to not only learn how to create, but to think critically about the ways in which design can hinder, and alternatively, the ways in which design can create access and joy. The show will take place in a clubhouse - the Rebirth Garments studio, where guest artists, Rebirth models, and children will be learning and creating together (digital guests when necessary due to COVID).

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My experiences I had as a youth directly informs my desire to connect and share with young creatives. I found my passion in life at an extremely young age, and have always been perceived to be much younger than I am, which led to frustration, invalidation, and the spark to never replicate those behaviors. I have experienced the adultism and complete lack of faith and trust in youth to own their individual experience and creativity.

about being an open source garment making resources so that the garment makers of the future can easily make their clothing more accessible to disabled, POC, fat, superfat, infinifat, trans and nonbinary folx.

The work I do with Rebirth Garments, The Radical Visibility Zine and my openness to resource sharing led to the Chicago Public Library teen program, YOUmedia, asking me to create a queer DIY fashion curriculum for teens with them in 2020. I created their program “Radical Fit,” an online fashionbased program series that embraces craft, making and DIY while providing a safe space for teens to discuss gender equity and to dream and create through personal expressions of style. We currently have 75 videos for the first year of Radical Fit up on their YOUmedia Chicago youtube channel and are getting ready for our second year which will be focusing more on how to make DIY gender affirming garments and accessories. My ideology resonates with teens easily so I want to push outside my comfort zone in order to bring my messaging to a younger audience with “Sky and the Rebirth Warriors.”

I first dreamed of designing my clothing line, Rebirth Garments, when I couldn’t find a place where I could buy a chest binder as a minor who didn't have access to digital money. Additionally, I was unsatisfied with the boring color options that were white, black or beige. When I was 21 years old, my stomach mysteriously stopped working properly and I couldn’t wear what I now call “hard pants” (jeans or non stretch pants) due to pain. This experience of not being able to find clothing that fulfilled physical and aesthetic needs was echoed by my queer and disabled family. I wanted to create something that was comfortable, functional and celebrated all of our identities. I get most of my inspiration from the interviews I conduct with each of my models. Coming up with cute solutions to address their specific needs is my favorite part of my practice and it is not just limited to creating clothing, but also creating community! I originally intended on going into the fashion department at The School of the Art Institute, but was met with extreme fatphobia, classism, ableism, and racism. On top of that, the teachers reflected the fashion industry’s obsession with trade secrets and exclusivity, so I am passionate

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Radical Fit Playlist: http://bit.ly/RadicalFitPlaylist Sky and the Rebirth Warriors will be hosted on the Rebirth Garments Vimeo: https://vimeo.com/rebirthgarments

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fat + furious revenge body rachel wiley And what if the rumor is true and there is a skinny woman imprisoned inside my body begging to get out and what if I swallow my toothbrush one morning and she were to sharpen it against my spine and shivv her way free leaving this fat hull behind, a cicada shell.

Will you call her a thief when she comes to collect everything denied her for the sake of fatness the racks upon racks of clothes, the unsettled for love, the unashamed sex, the glorious visibility, the basic fucking decency I am not at all saying that this fat makes me any kind of saint I am entirely capable of vengeance and pettiness in this very large body but I am saying that I have never known this thin woman and I cannot but imagine that she has fermented inside me, a bitter concentration of withholding, that she is so very hungry and so very tired of food, that she would certainly come for what is owed her that the same fat you sneer at now the same fat sneered at without consequence might be your one and only advantage might be a gift might be the only barrier between you and a pinless grenade who would wear your wedding dress better than you ever could while politely fucking your betrothed standing up on the very altar where you were meant to say your t to vows, leaving you alone with only the cake for comfort.

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how the pursuit of style made me excited to be fat and queer dani mohrbach

It all started when I dyed my hair green.

I had never dyed my hair before, aside from some tame and ill-advised highlights in high school. I didn’t have any tattoos; I didn’t even have my ears pierced, thanks to an infection in both ears when I was a kid. My hair—light brown, untameable, curly underneath but infuriatingly straight on top—was as unremarkable as the rest of me. Plain. Mousy.

Maybe it was my self-esteem that had gone from low to non-existent after an earth-shatteringly bad breakup. Maybe it was just boredom. I’ll never know. Either way, one night, my friend ushered me into his bathroom, draped a beach towel around my shoulders, and dyed half of my head emerald green.

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The effect was instantaneous: I looked in the mirror, at the green-splattered towel, at my damp mess of hair, at my friend wide-eyed and grinning knowingly behind me, and I was changed. *** When I was a kid, my mom worked at a department store, so, naturally, all my (heavily discounted) clothes came from there. I looked like how I felt: straightlaced and exceedingly Catholic. My moral compass pointed unfailingly north, and try as I might to shake it, I failed every time. I was a Good Girl, a rule-following girl, a straight girl. Even in college, I was carefully curated, cautiously cute. I was freckled and skinny with a bad haircut and a huge smile.

Easily digestible.

After I graduated, I began to feel like a different person, largely because I realized I wasn’t straight. I should have known earlier—as a child, I stared far too long at the ingenue’s corseted bosom in movie musicals. But in my early 20s, I tragically fell in love with a female friend, and then sloppily ended our friendship instead of confessing my feelings. She had a boyfriend. I had only cowardice.

But when my depression began to explode like a dying star, and my body began to change, I didn’t know who I was anymore. Everyone else seemed to have a sense of self, an idea of which choices were best for them, and reflected their values, and brought them joy. I had none of that. I had a handful of antidepressants, a confusing interest in women, and the unshakable knowledge that I didn’t know a goddamn thing about myself. About the world.

About anything at all.

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When I saw myself in the mirror with green hair, something shifted. I was 27. The worst of my depression had mercifully passed, but only after years of soul-crushing torment. I had been fired from jobs, been dumped, lost friendships, fumbled so many opportunities.

But I’d also been in recovery for my mental illness. I was medicated and in therapy. I had found people who loved me.

Maybe, I reasoned as I checked myself out in the mirror, I could try to love myself, too.

It wasn’t easy, mostly because I wasn’t thin anymore. That was a privilege I had carried for most of my life. When I started to gain weight, I was unsurprised, but I still panicked.

I didn’t realize how much of my self-worth was tied into my thinness until I was no longer thin. And I certainly didn’t realize how emotional I would become, how much it felt like I was grieving the loss of my smaller self.

I felt a shockingly pure hatred for my body, and, unfortunately, it wasn’t the last.

I didn’t expect fashion to shepherd me towards an acceptance of my body. I had always admired queer fashion, how it encouraged the wearer to be as unapologetically themselves externally as they were on the inside. But, on the streets of Chicago and on social media, I began to notice fat fashion—especially the holy combination of both, fat queer fashion. These bodies didn’t shrink: they flaunted and flirted, paraded and proclaimed, strutted and sassed.

Soon, my social media feeds were cleansed of gaunt models and fitness influencers and were gloriously filled with queer and fat people.

With these people to model myself after, I didn’t feel ashamed—I felt a thrill of inspiration.

Once upon a time, it seemed like the simplest way to love myself was to thank my body for being small. But it wasn’t, not anymore. I took up more space now. I kept growing out of my clothes. Stretch marks spiderwebbed across my hips and lower stomach. People in my life noticed and commented, and I wished I could drink a potion and shrink, fall back down into the rabbit hole of thinness.

It didn’t help that I went to school for theatre and was working as an actor in the city. In school, I struggled to get cast in shows, and often felt like I didn’t have any talent at all.

Existing in a larger body shook my confidence even more. What kind of roles would I get cast as now? Was I still castable when there was so much more of me to watch, to analyze, to criticize?

After all, I had green hair. Like a neon beacon on the top of my head, it invited the attention I had been too afraid to ask for. I didn’t want to shrink anymore and disappear: I was practically demanding that my hair be noticed.

And if that were the case, why wouldn’t I want the rest of me to be looked at, too?

Years ago, I was in rehearsal when the director paraded out dozens of beautiful ball gowns. My castmates giggled and squealed, tripping over themselves to try on all of the dresses. I smiled and kept to the sidelines as I felt my heart melt into my stomach. Only one of the dresses was anywhere near my size. In that moment, I despised myself: my round face, my awful hair, and especially my body, all protruding tummy and thick thighs and wide hips. It was one of the first times

When I went to the club one summer night, I wore all black. Black pleather mini skirt, black tank top, black boots, fishnets. Black eyeliner.

Black lipstick.

***

I was with two of my best friends–one of them the friend who had dyed my hair. With my green hair, I felt powerful, even when I saw my ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend in the crowd, even when I clambered onto the platform full of much smaller dancing people.

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And when a beautiful girl asked to dance with me, and then to kiss me—my first kiss with another woman—I felt invincible. My past self felt like a ghost leaving my body. It was no longer a curse that I didn’t look like “the old me” anymore: it was a blessing. An opportunity. An emergence.

When I remembered how powerful I felt in my all-black that night, how complete I felt when I dyed my hair green, how confident the fat queer people on my social media feeds looked, I began to wonder how my outward expression could reflect my inner self. I started buying clothes in a variety of colors, first, challenging myself to stick only to an all-black outfit when it felt purposeful. I had fallen into wearing dark colors to camouflage my curves, but I wasn’t hiding anymore.

The Good Girl had finally died, allowing me to be reborn into whoever the hell I wanted to be.

I posted an outfit to my Instagram story for the first time without much thought. But when I began sharing my outfits regularly, three or four or five times a week, I noticed a pattern. I posted when I felt good about myself, yes, but also when I looked… Not normal. Not “good.” Not thin. And definitely not straight.

I paired baggy shirts and sweaters with leggings and combat boots. I packed bright yellow eyeshadow onto my lids. Crop tops became a staple part of my wardrobe; a pair of white faux snakeskin ankle boots worked their way into a regular rotation. I posted outfits that made me look amazing, and outfits that made me look, objectively, like shit. I craved colors that clashed. I loved textures and patterns that shouldn’t have gone together. I never even learned to do my hair, letting it wave and curl and frizz in an uncontrollable mane, or tangle into a knot on top of my head. My past self, in her perfectly matched Elder-Beerman separates, wouldn’t have even recognized me.

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My fatness, my queerness, my depression, my disappointment, my joy and curiosity, my confusion, my lack of and constant search for identity: I let it all color the choice of what I put on my body. And I kept posting photos onto social media, because I wanted people to see me, finally, for who I was excited to be.

to explore and express and celebrate. I can’t fit into my jeans from college, but I don’t need that girl anymore. I’m someone else, now. I’m someone brighter and bolder, bigger and better.

“I love your outfit!” a girl at Starbucks said to me one morning. I wore a black off-theshoulder bodysuit and pinstriped black-andwhite pants that tied at the waist. A bronze pendant of a sword dangled from my neck. I had looked in the mirror before I left, posted the look onto social media, and grinned with hot pink-painted lips.

*** I don’t have green hair anymore; it’s back to its virgin brown. But I daydream about the next color I’ll dye it. I don’t kiss girls anymore; I’m married to a man now and content with monogamy. But I know my queerness is still valid, still a part of me I want

I looked fat. I looked queer. I looked fucking incredible.

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about the artists Zeyn Joukhadar is the author of The Thirty Names of Night, which won the Lambda Literary Award and the Stonewall Book Award, and The Map of Salt and Stars, which won the Middle East Book Award and was a Goodreads Choice Awards and Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize finalist. His work has appeared in the Kink anthology, Salon, The Paris Review, [PANK], and elsewhere, and has been twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Joukhadar guest edited Mizna's 2020 Queer + Trans Voices issue and is a member of the Radius of Arab American Writers (RAWI) and a mentor with the Periplus Collective.

Meca'Ayo Cole is a singer, multi-genre writer, itinerant nerd and point-and-shoot art dabbler in Denver, Colorado. Their work explores heartbreak and healing, finding the words for our experiences, familial estrangement, being ‘in-between’ things, finding beauty, even during times of strife, and movement towards reconciliation. Their writings have been published in pulpmouth, Rigorous Magazine, Inverted Syntax, Full Stop Reviews, Heavy Feather Review, Lambda Literary, and more. Their photography has been featured in literary magazines and in newspapers. Their first book, an identity polyptych, debuted from The Elephants on the Salish Sea Fall 2021.

Megan Volpert is author or editor of over a dozen books on popular culture, including two Lambda Literary Award finalists and an American Library Association honoree. She won Georgia Author of the Year for her newest work, Boss Broad (Sibling Rivalry Press, 2019). Volpert is a part-time Assistant Professor of Interdisciplinary Studies at Kennesaw State University, has been teaching public high school English in Atlanta for almost two decades and was 2014 Teacher of the Year. She writes for PopMatters and has edited anthologies of philosophical essays on the music of Tom Petty and the television series RuPaul’s Drag Race, as well as the fashion anthology Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear (Et Alias Press, 2020).

Jubi Arriola-Headley (he/they) is a Blacqueer poet, a storyteller, a first-generation United Statesian (the son of Bajan immigrants), and author of the poetry collection original kink (Sibling Rivalry Press), and recipient of the 2021 Housatonic Book Award. He’s a 2018 PEN America Emerging Voices Fellow, holds an MFA from the University of Miami, and has received support for his work from Millay Arts, the Fine Arts Work Center, the Palm Beach Poetry Festival, Lambda Literary, and the Atlantic Center for the Arts. Jubi and his poems have been featured in Literary Hub, The Rumpus, Beloit Poetry Journal, Nimrod, Southern Humanities Review, Washington Square Review, PBS NewsHour’s Brief But Spectacular, & elsewhere. Jubi lives with his husband in South Florida, on Tequesta and Seminole lands, and his work explores themes of masculinity, vulnerability, rage, tenderness & joy. Black Lives Matter. Trans Lives Matter. Stop Asian Hate.

Art is Labor. Abolish Policing. Eat the Rich. Stay Kinky. Free Palestine.

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Jas Huff (she/her) employs IT witchcraft for money while studying word sorcery for an MA at University of North Texas. During her free time, she practices gender morphing and parent demonology.

Theo Canavan is a gay trans man living in Albany, NY. He got his psychology degree at the College of Saint Rose and is planning on pursuing a masters degree in Social Work. His end goal is to open a queer sanctuary of sorts where people can go and stay the night if they need, get a hot meal, and acquire resources of all kinds. In his spare time he makes art of most kinds, cooks, and hones his makeup skills.

Alex DiFrancesco is the author of Psychopomps, All City, and Transmutation. They are an Assistant Editor with Sundress Publications and a Literary Arts Director with Sundress Academy for the Arts. They live in Cleveland, Ohio, with their Westie, Roxy Music, Dog of Doom.

Sarah Sheppeck (they/she) is a graduate of U.C. Riverside’s Palm Desert Low-Residency MFA program in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts. They are the co-Editor-inChief of just femme & dandy, and their work has most recently been featured in Writers Resist and The Coachella Review. Born and raised in upstate New York with stints in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and the woods of northern Maine, they are now back in their hometown with their dog, Chloe, and their cat, Rita Moreno. Find them on Twitter @EpicSheppeck if you like thirst traps and loud opinions.

The Cyborg Jillian Weise is a poet, video artist and disability rights activist. Cy’s books include The Amputee’s Guide to Sex (2007, 2017), The Colony (2010), The Book of Goodbyes (2013), Cyborg Detective (2019) and a chapbook, Give It to Alfie Tonight (2020), in collaboration with the disabled publisher Red Mare Press. Cy’s recent work appears in POETRY and Hobart. Cy is the director of the video play A Kim Deal Party which features Eileen Myles, A.D. Carson, Patricia Lockwood, Alice Wong, Alex Haagaard, Mistress Snow, and 80 more writers, scholars, artists.

The play screened at Public Space One. Cy’s production company, Borg4Borg, sells snow globe rings on Etsy. Cy's next book, a memoir, will be published by Mariner.

David Salazar (he/xe/she) is a teenage writer from Chile. He describes himself as a butch bigender bisexual and is autistic and mentally ill. Xir writing deals with queer identity, Latinidad and romance primarily, but often delves into other topics; lately he has been experimenting with horror and magical realism. She is in her senior year of high school and plans to be a psychologist/writer/weirdo. You can find him on Twitter at @smalllredboy.

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M.S. Dean (she/her) is a graduate student of Pakistani descent studying genetics in Cambridge, Massachusetts. She writes to learn about herself and the intersections between spirit and body. She can be found sending out stories and thoughts in her newsletter, “Dear Ghost” found at buttondown.email/dearghost and on Twitter @MyrceneDean.

KB is a Black transmasculine writer & object in the sky. They are the author of How To Identify Yourself with a Wound (Kallisto Gaia Press, 2022) and Freedom House (Deep Vellum Publishing, 2023). Follow them on Twitter and Instagram at @earthtokb. jesse smith (they/he) is a queer poet and reviewer from the uk, with a BA English Literature with Creative Writing and MA Creative Writing (Poetry) from the University of East Anglia. their poems and reviews are published or forthcoming with Stone of Madness, Delicate Friend, Eggbox Publishing, UEA New Writing, Public Menace, honeyfire lit, and Gutslut Press. they are the founder and poetry reader of the gamut mag. find them on Twitter and Instagram @jessesmithpoet.

Nnadi Samuel (he/him/his) is a black non-binary writer and graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin. His works have been previously published/forthcoming in Suburban Review, Seventh Wave Magazine, North Dakota Quarterly, Quarterly West, Fantasy Magazine, Uncanny Magazine, The Capilano Review, Contemporary Verse 2, Gutter Magazine, The Cordite Poetry Review, Gordon Square Review, Trampset, The Elephant Magazine, Birmingham Arts Journal & elsewhere. Winner of the Miracle Monocle Award for Ambitious Student Writers 2021 (University of Louisville), Lakefly Poetry Contest 2021 (Wisconsin), and the Canadian Open Drawer contest 2020. He got an honorable mention for the 2021 Betty L. Yu and Jin C.Yu Creative Writing Prize (College Category). He is the author of “Reopening of Wounds” & “Subject Lessons” (forthcoming). He reads for U-Right Magazine. He tweets @Samuelsamba10.

Eitan Perlin studied mathematics and philosophy, but found a love for poetry in the past two years. He works full time in a small consulting company in the DC area, and spends his free time playing board games in bars and bedrooms. And (of course) writing poetry. He has been published in Kaliope and has a forthcoming publication in Prospectus.

Sarah Blankespoor (she/they) started writing poetry at age 7, kicking off a lifetime-long love affair with beautiful words. These days, they mostly write about water, travel, and the people they love. She lives on California’s Central Coast, where she is studying public health. About a year ago, they picked up a needle and thread, and their fashion has been getting steadily gayer and more authentic ever since. Find her on Instagram @stonefilled.

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Lara Ameen (she/they) is a screenwriter, fiction writer, sensitivity reader, and PhD candidate in Education with a Disability Studies emphasis at Chapman University. She received an MFA in Screenwriting from California State University, Northridge. Her YA Contemporary Fantasy novel was awarded a grant from Suffering the Silence, longlisted in Voyage YA’s First Chapters Contest, and their Book Pitch Contest. A graduate of the Tin House YA Fiction Workshop and Futurescapes Writers' Workshop, her short fiction has been published in Prismatica Magazine, Disabled Voices Anthology, Flash Fiction Magazine, Drunk Monkeys, and just femme & dandy.

Addie Tsai (any/all) is a queer nonbinary artist and writer of color. They collaborated with Dominic Walsh Dance Theater on Victor Frankenstein and Camille Claudel, among others.

Addie holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Warren Wilson College and a PhD in Dance from Texas Woman’s University. She is the author of the queer Asian young adult novel Dear Twin. Unwieldy Creatures, their adult queer biracial retelling of Frankenstein, is forthcoming from Jaded Ibis Press in 2022. They are the Fiction Co-Editor and Features & Reviews Co-Editor at Anomaly, Staff Writer at Spectrum South, and Founding Editor & Editor in Chief at just femme & dandy.

Nour Kamel (she/they) writes and edits things in Egypt. Their chapbook Noon is part of the New-Generation African Poets series and their writing can be found in Anomaly, Rusted Radishes, Ikhtyar, 20.35 Africa, Sumou, The Shade Journal and Mizna. They helped create and facilitate writing workshops at the Contemporary Image Collective, leading to the publication of The Taste of Letters / ‫ طعم الحروف‬and Our Bodies Breathe Underwater / ‫أجسادنا تتنفس تحت الماء‬.

Elayna Mae Darcy (she/they) is a queer storyteller & star cluster of feels from Philadelphia. They are the author of the poetry collections Unravelling Light and Darkness Undone as well as the sci-if short story, Continuum. She is a filmmaker & fandom content creator who has spoken on panels at New York and San Diego Comic Cons. They are also the author behind Queery Letters, a readersupported publication about life as a queer writer. When not writing, Elayna can be found snuggling with her cat, Bean, and relaxing in the light of too many candles.

Orion Cho (They/Them) is an emerging Non-Binary interdisciplinary artist. They embrace the chaotic, subtle and surreal. They challenge personal illusions, morals, and inner narratives.

Danny Echo is a musician and multidisciplinary artist from Wichita, KS where they co-operate The Hereafter, a vintage and alternative second hand clothing store with their partner and cats.

They’ve been dressing themself since always.

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Hallie Linnebur is a visual/performance artist living in Wichita, KS with their partner and herd of cats. In 2021 they opened The Hereafter, a vintage and alternative secondhand clothing store in their neighborhood.

Jennie Lightweis-Goff lives in New Orleans, Memphis, and, in luckier times, Beijing. Through myriad disasters, she has failed to shelter in place.

Zefyr Lisowski is a trans disabled poet, Pisces, and multidisciplinary artist. The recipient of fellowships from Tin House, Blue Mountain Center, and more, she is a poetry co-editor at Apogee Journal and the author of the short Lizzie Borden murder book Blood Box (Black Lawrence Press, 2019). She lives online at www.zeflisowski.com and in person in New York.

Zefyr grew up in the Great Dismal Swamp, North Carolina.

Sam Spadafore (He/him they/them) is a white, queer, nonbinary trans man currently living on settled Wabanaki tribal land known as Portland, Maine. Sam writes poetry and articles focusing on mental health, Queer and Trans identity, sex and sexuality. They are also an educator, theatre artist, activist, and steering committee member at MaineTransNet. Check out what Sam’s been up to at samspadaforeofficial.com.

Jillian A. Fantin is a poet and the recipient of a 2021 Poet Fellowship from the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing. They also regularly collaborate with Chicago-based mixed media artist Kate Luther. Jillian’s poetry is published in or forthcoming from The American Journal of Poetry, TIMBER, The Daily Drunk, wind up mice, Selcouth Station, Homology Lit, and elsewhere.

Jamela Law is a Fashion Designer/ Conceptual Artist who holds a Fashion Design and Textiles BA (Hons) degree from LASALLE College of the Arts Singapore, accredited by Goldsmiths University of London. Her graduation collection was awarded ‘Best Fashion Collection’ by the School’s Dean of Design. She was also named a finalist for the 2018 Graduate Programme, organized by the Council of Fashion Designers in America (CFDA+). Jamela has showcased her works internationally and appeared in publications such as ELLE, FEMALE, L’Officiel, Tatler and Vogue. She is the recipient of the Hong Kong Human Rights Inkluvision Award 2021, presented by the Goethe-Institut and winner of the PULSE Award 2021, under the theme ‘Sexual Health Matters’ in the 3D sculpture category. Besides being a fashion junkie and technology geek, Jamela is passionate about sustainable living and LGBTQIA+ rights. Jamela currently works in Hong Kong and Singapore as Creative Director at her self-founded company Baëlf Design.

Katharine Mussellam is a writer and cinephile from Markham, Ontario, Canada. Her writing has appeared in The Mitre, Versification, Jump Cut, and Anime Feminist. Chat with her on Twitter: @KVMwrites.

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Brody Parrish Craig is the author of The Patient Is An Unreliable Historian (forthcoming 2024) and the chapbook Boyish (2021) from Omnidawn Publishing. They are the editor of Twang Anthology, a regional collection of art & writing by transgender, nonbinary & gender nonconforming creatives of the south/midwest. Find them on IG @brodyparrishcraig or read more of their writing at brodyparrishcraig.com.

Sabine Grohowski (suh-BEEN grow-HOW-skee) is a queertrans Cripple punk and selfdescribed exhausted optimist. They are based out of El Cerrito, California. You can find them on Tiktok at @sabinemags or check out Hell On Wheels Design’s website at hellonwheels.club. All business inquires can go to sabine@hellonwheels.club.

Self_Saboteur is a south asian chronically-ill illustrator, zinester and comic artist from Canada.

She creates colorful art inspired by late indian children's illustrations and art nouveau, exploring topics on trauma, disability and healing. You can find her work on instagram and twitter @Self_Saboteur6.

Sky Cubacub (pronounced KOO-bah-KOOB) (They/Them/Xe/Xem/Xyr) is a non-binary disabled Filipinx queer from Chicago, IL. Xe first took a chainmaille class from Rebeca Mojica of Blue Buddha Boutique when they were 13 years old because they were drawn to the stimmy nature of the medium, and ended up finishing their project by the time everyone else had only completed an inch. This led xem to create Repetitive Motions, a debut collection of eighteen garments in June 2010 (at age 18), which directly resulted in xem starting Rebirth Garments, a line of wearables for trans, queer and disabled people of all sizes and ages, which started in summer 2014. Sky is the editor of the Radical Visibility Zine, a full color cut and paste style zine that celebrates disabled queer life, with an emphasis on joy. As a multidisciplinary artist, Sky is interested in fulfilling the needs for disabled queer life, with an emphasis on joy. Additionally they are the Access Brat and the editor of a section on ethics and inclusion called “Cancel & Gretel” at literary fashion magazine just femme & dandy. Sky has also created a queer fashion program series with Chicago Public Library Called Radical Fit. They have had over 50 fashion performances and lectured at the Whitney Museum of American Art, the Rhode Island School of Design, the University of Utah, the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, Northwestern University. Rebirth Garments has been featured in Teen Vogue, Nylon, Playboy, Huffington Post, Buzzfeed, Vice, Wussy Mag, and the New York Times. Sky was named 2018 Chicagoan of the Year by the Chicago Tribune and is a 2019/2020 Kennedy Center Citizen Artist and a Disability Futures Fellow.

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Rachel Wiley is a queer, biracial poet and performer who aspires to one day move to the bottom of the ocean and become queen of the octopuses. While she waits, she is living in a cute little witch cottage in Cleveland, Ohio with her cat, Legendary Kitten Meowoncé Cathair, collecting stickers and vintage housewares. She is a fellow and faculty member of the Pink Door Writing Retreat held annually for non-cishet male writers of color in upstate New York. Rachel is the author of the forthcoming Revenge Body (Button Poetry, 2022), along with Fat Girl Finishing School (Button Poetry, 2020), and Nothing is Okay (Button Poetry, 2018).

Dani Mohrbach (she/her) is a writer and actor. Her deeply personal writing explores her experiences with mental health and wellness, queerness, identity, relationships, and nerd culture.

After spending six years in Chicago, she now lives in LA with her husband and their two zany cats.

Keet Geniza is an illustrator and cartoonist from Tkaronto (Toronto). Their zines, comics and storytelling builds and refracts through their experiences as a fat non-binary first-generation Pilipino immigrant. Narrative repurposing, the sacredness of mundanity, and their dog Ibarra often move them. Find them @makeshiftlove on Twitter and Instagram, and on their website makeshiftlove.com.

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about our team Addie Tsai (founder & co-editor in chief)

(any/all) is a queer, non-binary writer and artist of color, who lives and teaches Creative Writing, Dance, Humanities, and Literature in Houston, Texas. He received her Master of Fine Arts from the MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College and her PhD in Dance from Texas Woman’s University. She is the author of the young adult novel, Dear Twin. Unwieldy Creatures, their genderswapped queer biracial retelling of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, is forthcoming this fall from Jaded Ibis Press. Addie is a staff writer at Spectrum South, and Fiction co-Editor at Anomaly. Find her on Twitter: @addiebrook.

Sarah Sheppeck (co-editor in chief, the glowup)

(they/she) is a graduate of U.C. Riverside’s Palm Desert Low-Residency MFA program in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts. They earned her Bachelor of Arts degree in English from the University of Rochester and their Master’s in Secondary Education and Curriculum from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas. Born and raised in upstate New York with stints in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and the woods of northern Maine, they are now back in their home state with her pit mix, Chloe, and their cat, Rita Moreno. Find her on Twitter: @EpicSheppeck.

Simone Person (managing editor, the mane attraction, fat + furious)

(they/them) is a Black queer femme, two-time Pink Door Writing Retreat fellow, and casual goth who grew up in Toledo, Ohio and small Michigan towns. They are the author of Dislocate (Honeysuckle Press, 2018) and Smoke Girl (Diode Editions, 2019). Their work explores the aftermath of trauma through poetry and prose. They live with their perfectly terrible cat and wonderful triple Pisces partner. You can find them at simoneperson.com and on Twitter and Instagram at @princxporkchop.

Jen St. Jude (sole mates)

(she/they/mx) is the managing director at Chicago Review of Books, and has work in Gigantic Sequins, The Rumpus, and Catapult. Her debut YA novel, If Tomorrow Doesn’t Come, will be published by Bloomsbury Children’s in 2023. Find them on Twitter: @jenstjude.

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Jo Davis-McElligatt (no scrubs)

(she/her) is queer Black woman and mama to the best kid ever. She is an Assistant Professor of Black Literary and Cultural Studies and affiliated faculty in Women’s and Gender Studies at the University of North Texas, where she teaches graduate and undergraduate courses in Black studies, comics studies, and southern studies. She is the co-editor of three collections: Narratives of Marginalized Identities in Higher Education: Inside and Outside the Academy; Narrating History, Home, and Nation: Critical Essays on Edwidge Danticat; and BOOM! @*#&! Splat: Comics and Violence. She is currently writing her first monograph, Black and Immigrant: The New African Diaspora in American Literature after 1965. Find her on Twitter: @jcdmce.

Kirin Khan (triple thread(s))

(she/her) is a writer living in Oakland, CA who calls Albuquerque, New Mexico her hometown, and Peshawar, Pakistan her homeland. She is grateful for fellowships from PEN America Emerging Voices, SF Writers Grotto, AWP's Writer to Writer program, and SJSU's Steinbeck Fellowship, and residencies from the Vermont Studio Center and Tin House. Her essay Tight was nominated by Nat. Brut for a 2018 Pushcart Prize. Her work has appeared in Corporeal Khora, The Margins, Your Impossible Voice, 7x7.LA and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter: @kirinjaan, and her work at kirinkhan.com.

Sky Cubacub (cancel & gretel)

(they/them) is a non-binary disabled Filipinx queer from Chicago, IL. Rebirth Garments is their clothing line for the full spectrum of gender, size and ability. They maintain the notion of Radical Visibility, a celebratory movement based on unapologetically flaunting our bodies through the use of bright colors, exuberant fabrics, and innovative designs. Sky was named 2018 Chicagoan of the Year by the Chicago Tribune and is a 2019/2020 Kennedy Center Citizen Artist and a Disability Futures Fellow. Rebirth Garments has been featured in Teen Vogue, Nylon, Playboy, the New York Times and many more! Find them on Instagram, TikTok and Twitter @rebirthgarments.

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