Engender Zine Summer 2019

engender summer 2019

a production of the

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contents “Self-Portrait” Ashley Tsang “through a window on a ferrarese street” Julia Fisher “a (very brief) appraisal of modern beauty, & other reckonings” Joli “felt tipped” Julia Fisher “Fragments (Inspired by “Break-Up” by Solmaz Sharif)” Rebecca Noel “Facial Expressions 1 & 2” Anonymous “Untitled” Anonymous “my reckoning” Anonymous “an open letter to emily doe” Joli “Lily Pads” Madison Miller “What I want to tell any girl questioning her sexuality” Alexa Thomases

letter from the editors hi, friends! we’re Jenny & Julia, the Rice Women’s Resource Center zine coords for 2019-2020! this year, we’re excited to release editions of engender

on a bi-semesterly schedule in a series of four seasonal issues (you’re holding the summer edition right now). this means you have three more opportunities to submit to engender this school year!

this summer edition is our very first publication of the year, & our theme is “reckoning.” a reckoning can refer to a number of things— an appraisal, a contemplation, a settlement of accounts. we hope this choice of theme invokes several timely & relevant issues at the forefront of the collective consciousness of our campus & in our

nation. as you read this edition of engender, we hope you examine

events in your own life which deserve an appraisal, a contemplation, or a settlement of account—that is, a reckoning. thank you to everyone who submitted. we’re stunned by the depth of vulnerability & humor & pain & resilience you’ve shared with us through your works. thank you to you as well, dear reader, for your desire to witness & see & encounter the perspectives of others by opening engender today. love & peace, Jenny Li-Wang & Julia Fisher 2019-2020 engender zine coords

“through a window on a ferrarese street” Julia Fisher

a (very brief) appraisal of modern beauty, & other reckonings Joli I want to be beautiful.

The image in my head looks like this: fair-skinned, wide-eyed, thin-nosed,

straight-toothed, delicate-jawed, lean-cut, narrow-waisted, thin-thighed, small-footed girl with a natural face. “Natural” face, which is to say, makeupless face. Unpainted face, “real” face. Flawless anyway.

I’m fully cognizant that this vision of my idealized beautiful self is largely the result of an elaborate ploy fabricated & reinforced by a capitalist-

heternormative-abilist-ageist-white-patriarchal system. An idealized

beautiful image pushed by agendas of those in power, weakly supported by claims about evolutionary biology, reiterated & depicted endlessly by media. Internalized by myself.

The obsession with beauty operates through a mechanism of lack: all of the above influences create a yawning pit of insecurity & deep-rooted

self-consciousness in myself regarding my appearance which I attempt

to meticulously cover through the purchasing of various products & the expunging of various undesirable parts & the decoration of body & face with things that promise to restore self-worth & protect it—in vain, of

course—from the creeping approach of impending & inevitable ugliness that comes with decline & decrepitness & death.

We know this, we see our own vanity & narcissism & recognize the

obsessive, knee-jerk response is to waste time quirking our heads towards anything that bears our reflection, but come on—I wish rational &

reasonable critique were enough to induce self-actualization, but when was the last time anyone immediately changed their worldview & countered a

lifetime of socialization through calm & civil discussion? Here, I’m talking specifically about beauty (repeating this again because it is important to

me that you take that last sentence in context). Stop talking to me about

feminism & hyperfemininity & the trope of female superficiality & how my

skincare routine inherently caters to the white male gaze. Just let me draw my damn face on in peace.

I am a girl who has received an innumerable number of comments from

my family in China about my supposed prettiness. This type of comment is made when there is nothing else to say to a girl—a comment to break the awkward silences during our short obligatory visits to the ancestral

country every three years. Aunties comment on my double eyelids. Big

eyes. Relatively petite nose. They mourn my tan. The higher-processing feminism-advocating progressive part of me recoils internally at this,

hissing about the internalized racism evident in their beauty standards.

Meanwhile, the uncritical pleasure-driven lizard-brained part of me hums

with satisfaction at the fact that my aunt called me prettier than my sister.

ContraPoints outlines this good picture of what the Left does: we see

something problematic, we problematize it, & we critique the shit out of it.

The problem is this: there’s often a gap between what we critique & what we actually believe & implement in praxis.

My confession is this: I got lash extensions done last Tuesday. For some

reason it makes me uncomfortable to talk about this, like my face is less real after the fact & I’ve just exposed myself & every other person who has gotten lash extensions as the somehow less-real person that they

are. Whenever anyone comments on them, my immediate reaction is to

minimize & justify it like a reflexive defense of myself against accusations of vanity & actually caring about what I look like. My favorite approach of late

is to intellectualize, like my new lashes are some interesting anthropological experiment. I wanted to try something new. I was interested in how it

would feel. It was pricey & requires work to maintain, so I’m not sure I’ll do it again, but I’m glad for the experience.

Fuck that. I look & feel beautiful. Catch me serving looks. No apologies necessary, okay?

But the pendulum inevitably swings back & guilt strikes. I guess I still feel bad—& I’m sorry anyway?

The mind knows much more than it actually believes. Cerebrally I know

there is this insidious social backdrop that defines & frames beauty. At

the same time, beauty as it operates presently is undoubtedly important.

Statistically, beautiful people are more likely to be hired, are more likely

to be helped by people, & are rescued first in emergencies. That’s pretty

significant social leverage. Similarly, the enduring tradition of art & society almost globally conflates beauty with virtue & youth & moral good. Also, I just want to be beautiful. Why is it so controversial to care about my appearance?

This discussion of tension & hypocrisy is not just inefficacious rambling. The stakes are high. Questions of beauty naturally engage questions of worth & value & virtue. Objectification & apperception & gender presentation. By

talking about the ways I edit my photos, I open Pandora’s box of aesthetics.

I am not a bimbo, but a philosopher.

Despite the intellectual railing, I doubt that my mind & wherever the

self-worth resides (the brain? also the mind? the heart?) will ever be

convinced that I am subversive or radical enough to transgress a desire for beauty. Even a subversive beauty is ambiguously subversive. What is the

difference between prettying yourself up for someone else’s sake & prettying yourself up for your own sake when you & I & this “someone else” are all simultaneously shaping & being shaped by these standards? At worst,

Margaret Atwood is right—the male gaze is on you & of you & in you, & you

are your own voyeur, etc. etc. pessimism & tragedy, etc. At best, we have at least some degree of agency in shaping a discourse on aesthetics.

That—even the lizard-brain part of me would agree—is surely something to look forward to.

“felt tipped” Julia Fisher

Fragments (Inspired by “Break-Up” by Solmaz Sharif”) Rebecca Noel In late 2016, the Washington Post released a recording of Donald Trump on the set of “Days of Our Lives” in 2005 in which Trump makes several lewd comments about women to television host Billy Bush, including an indication that he believes he has the right to perpetrate sexual assault: Trump: I moved on her like a bitch. But I couldn’t get there. And she was married…..You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful—I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait.

And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.

Bush: Whatever you want.

Trump: Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

1. [Sometimes I imagine I am air.

Floating out of my limbs and fracturing through the space above like smoke slinking off a candle or a gun.

A willful evaporation.]

I moved on [I suppose, after the evening in my car three Novembers ago, convinced myself this is what love is supposed to feel like, pressed my knees together, gripped the wheel, and missed my turn three times.

When my mother asked if I was okay, I lied to] her like a [good girl is not supposed to and went to bed after texting him that I got home safe.

No matter how hard I squeezed my eyes shut, I could not remember saying yes to any of it.]

2. Bitch [the word splattered across my skin as I jogged past the car that slowed to meet my pace.

A middle aged man with a smirk mixed into his five o’clock shadow asked if I needed a ride.

I kept running, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance.]

But I couldn’t get there [before he snarled that he “didn’t mean a car ride” and winked before labeling me bitch and speeding away, maybe home to a wife] And she was [waiting there for him after her shift at work. He hasn’t looked at her The same since the day they were] Married [and he gets angry when food isn’t waiting for him on the table.

When he got home, he said nothing.]

3. You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful [songs about people shattering.

Flesh turned to shrapnel that glimmers in heat I don’t know at what age I started identifying with rubble.

Maybe the same time I started kissing like I do now, with my whole drowning body, nothing else] I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. [don’t think too hard] Just kiss.

I don’t even wait [to feel regret to feel remembrance to feel the foreign heart in my chest beating me to death.]

4. [When I was six, I wanted to be famous.

My mother would comb my hair with her fingers and say, “Work hard --] and when you’re a star -[the whole world will listen.”

And I believed her when she said that when you ask people for permission to exist on your own terms] they let you do it.

[I believed her when she said] You can do anything.

5. [My friend tells me he heard from someone once in his childhood that, as a man, you can do] Whatever you want [as long as you don’t flinch or whimper or ask for permission.

Just find the things you can’t bear to lose,] pull.

Don’t think too much.

Don’t hold back.

Don’t be a] pussy [Just swallow hard and take.

Some days I wonder what Donald Trump must have heard when his mother looked hard into his eyes, dark and gleaming like the ocean or a gun and said,] You can do anything.

Untitled Anonymous In the tunnel that smells like frat boy urine he turns her into Eve. Only years later will the deceiver wear those shoes again— heeled boots that matched her red skirt that day.

During her trial, she waits both the prosecution and the accused skeptical, the serpent hisses— Are you sure?

Yes, the deceiver responds. leaning across the podium she says— Those shoes and his name are unforgettable.

“Facial Expressions 1 & 2” Anonymous

an open letter to emily doe Joli you have been hard-pressed impressed upon messed up join a history of women who spoke upturned faces hopeful expecting to be listened to judgement day lasts days anxious crying lasts nights I cried last night again & I reported this shit last year &

but my dear, look look at this: a history of women who speak up turned faces hopeful expectant towards one another I see empathy I see ‘dear emily

yesterday you dreamt:

‘this is an apology from yourself this is a page taped to the wind lifted up like a voice

last night you dreamt that the red-stained hand still grasped your

‘this is the end of a torturous summer & the start of a peaceful autumn’

neck breath strained while the other hand held a diploma. you have been hard-pressed undressed messed up made so small

“my reckoning” Anonymous

what I want to tell any girl questioning her sexuality A spoken word poem by Alexa Thomases i was never in the closet at sixteen years and six months, i realized i am gay at sixteen years and seven months, i told people i’m gay when they asked how long i’d known i’d say i just figured it out and wanted to come out because i knew there was nothing to worry about they said what? how could it take you so long i said i don’t know guess my defenses were too strong i said i strive to speak the truth i said the second there was proof that i like girls i wanted -- immediately -- to tell the world. so i did. a simple bid. there was no closet for me because i am free. i am lucky that coming out creates no threat to my safety so i declared: oh, the closet? who is she? these words tasted sweet on my tongue because someone who can declare the closet done must be powerful must be enlightened must live in a world that treats girls who like girls the same as, you know, the straights. but what i conveniently forgot was that i’d been taught since i could form conscious thought that girls must like boys. that fear or poise or anger or noise or any emotion ever in the presence of boys was a sure sign of a crush.

this crushed the signs that straight love was never mine never mind those fake crushes i made up so my friends at sleepovers wouldn’t wait up until i choked up the name of a boy who seemed very tolerable; turns out it was a ploy. but the worst part is, i believed it. for sixteen years and six months i believed a lie. i convinced myself that i could like a guy because why else would i sometimes laugh in their presence? why else would i get so antsy when they got close to me? why else would i be able to tell which ones were cute? sure i’m astute, but i’m not the type to have delusions. to me, liking boys was a foregone conclusion. i had my first crush on a girl in third grade. i thought i just really badly wanted to be her friend, i thought the feelings would end, i thought i never spent time in the closet. but that was eight years before i came out. eight years of doubt and suppressing my emotions and being confused about my friends’ devotions to famous men. eight years of not admitting to myself that i like girls - and then... somehow i also conveniently forgot that the day before i came out to my parents i stood in my closet for an hour and cried. the symbolism of this was lost on me until i decided to write this piece of poetry but it turns out there really was a closet for me. closeted from myself, blinded from a scarily obvious truth i thought i needed proof but what i needed was a clue because i always knew people are straight until proven gay and the clue came in the way of a caption: feeling uncomfortable when boys show interest is not a sign of attraction. the end of this sentence was the end of my closet and i would posit that it will help other girls too. i was in a closet, and so -- perhaps -- are you.

“Lily Pads” Madison Miller

engender

summer 2019

Editors-in-Chief Jenny Li-Wang Julia Fisher

Contributors Ashley Tsang Julia Fisher Rebecca Noel Joli Madison Miller Alex Thomases & all of our Anonymous submitters

see you in the next issue of

engender !

we welcome all original creative content, both visual and written, from poetry to paintings to lit crit to vignettes of memoirs!

Submit to tinurl.com/engenderzine or drop your entry into the zine box on our office desk.

Cover art by Ashley Tsang

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