Engender Zine February 2018

engender

february 2018

a production of the

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contents “Crazy” Ilana Nyueen “Some Music For You” Sarah Torresen A Collection of Quickie Haikus ~Group Effort~ “Reve(a)l” Jannie Matar “Insomnia” Anonymous “No Daughter of Mine” Navya Kumar “My Offenders” Anonymous Canoe Ride Anonymous

Ilana Nyveen

M O S

E

IC F S U M

OR YOU

Sarah Torresen

A Collection of Quickie Haikus How does this reflect?

I found a red umbrella, I took it; oh well.

Fuck this fucking shit, But not really it’s okay.

Nothing matters, right?

If you’re feeling down, Look! Timothée Chalamet.

I’m calling your name. she is part of me i ask that you let her breathe like you do for me

In the quad these nights; Full moons, Fondy, friends, frogs, and Lies, betrayal, bullFlowerscent you taste.

I was told I could achieve; I still think I can.

Jannie Matar

Elana Margosis

insomnia (or how many words can i rhyme with bed) anonymous

it’s a little past midnight, i’m lying in my bed trying to fall asleep after you left me on read but i’m distracted by memories of you giving me head and haunted by all the things we left unsaid the texts i never sent you, the texts you never read the on the phone silences, the things i never said the iloveyous, imissyous, the times i almost begged for you to tell me that you loved me, for the silence to end are you thinking of the times we made love on your bed? of grilled cheese sandwiches on sourdough bread of the way you had me tied around your finger like a thread or are you thinking of latest girl you kissed instead? when i cry myself to sleep at night, the tears stain my bed when i think about you too hard, it really hurts my head i’m so scared of the future, i hate thinking ahead because a future without you is a future that i dread it’s a little past three, i’m lying in my bed trying to fall asleep in the puddle that i’ve shed i hate the way i left you, i wish i’d stayed instead sintigo tengo hambre, sintigo tengo sed

No Daughter of Mine Navya Kumar

She has been admonished and admired her whole life She believes in two rivers never meeting, never sharing sweet waters with each other or Poisonous tides And because no daughter of mine considers the pressure building somewhere deep down (It Makes Her Squirm But In A Good Way) She never had the chance to consider that the Hard lines on the bodies of men and The curves on the bodies of women Make her feel--No she shuts that out It's gone it's gone it's gone (it's not) And no daughter of mine is anything other than perfectly Extraordinary Beautifully impressive Absolutely fucking amazing (although no daughter of mine would ever say it in so many words---)

No daughter of mine resents the cage The wires around her neck around her arms around her chest Never allowed to wear her beauty as a shield or a Eyebrow cocked upward lips pursed and curled up Not even fully grasping the effect of the sensual bite of her bottom lip on Men and Women And even sometimes (shockingly!)

Herself No daughter of mine is attuned to her urges and her wants and her Goddamn Fucking Needs And no daughter of mine finds ways to satisfy that most base most vile most corrupt Pleasure With a flick of her finger And His tongue No daughter of mine--Not long until she claims that title as all her own until You either decide "Well, obviously my daughter is my---" Or "Now wait just one fucking moment---" Well, papa, Choose quick and true or She will truly become (and revel in and adore being) No Daughter Of Mine

"Directing the Vagina Monologues has been incredibly important, “We have come together with a impactful, and interesting.

We started out with just a show full of women with their vision of the monologues own artistic direction" (and our graphics—yonic fruit! wow!), and have come together --Jahnavi Jagannath '18 with a show full of women with Manasi Joshi '18 their own artistic direction, goals, and values. We’re really excited that we can work to support a valuable cause with Showtimes: our funds while getting more • Thursday, February 22nd: of Rice University to talk about 7:30pm to 9:30pm vaginas and womanhood. We • Friday, February 23rd: hope that our show sparks 4:30pm to 6:30pm conversations and gives us all a • Sunday, February 25th: 4:00 to 6:00pm space to be angry, happy, hopeful, and in awe."

--Jahnavi Jagannath & Manasi Joshi, Directors of The Vagina Monologues 2018

C A S T

N E W 2018 women d e r e w o p “Em together.” elzel ‘18 P e in le e d ---Ma

“My revolution

overthrowing th

e state of

mind called p

atriarchy.”

-My Revolutio

n Begins in th

O L D 2017

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C A S T

My Offenders anonymous

2004, midday.

Under the yellow blanket, covered in holes from fallen cigarettes.

I am 5, you are my half-sibling.

I am confused, you have a smirk, and tell me, “It’s okay.”

I repress the memory for 8 years.

2013, after school.

Your bedroom, your mom won’t be home for a while.

For the millionth time, you try to talk to me about sex.

For the millionth time, I tell you we are too young.

You convince me you want it too badly to wait.

You don’t wear a condom.

2017, after school.

Your couch. Your girlfriend is busy.

My new boyfriend hit me in public, and I weakly come to you for comfort.

You push me down, Hold my arms behind my head, And you don’t wear a condom.

2018, late morning.

Your bedroom, I finally get to visit my best friend again.

I told you I don’t like being FWB anymore.

I don’t want you like that anymore.

I don’t want you to kiss me.

No, not even on the lips.

I told you no.

Stop.

Please. Stop.

Jake Bhoi

canoe I step outside my family’s house in Liberty, Maine, the door squeaking loudly as I push it open. I’m greeted by the cool July night air thatfeels so much cleaner than the polluted, heavy atmosphere back home.I hurry down the wooden steps to avoid the huge spiders I know are lurking in the corners of the roof above the deck and am greeted by my grandfather, who has just left his wooden cabin that lies several yards away from the main house. He smiles and we start walking together, our bare feet pattering on the stones that create a path to the dock. When we reach it, he turns over the canoe we’re about to get into and performs his routine bug-check of it for me (something I’ve forced him to do ever since finding a spider in my kayak and subsequently jumping into the lake fully-clothed).

When he gives the all-clear, he drags the canoe from the shore to thewater, its metal surface scraping loudly against the rocks into the silent night. When it is lined up with the dock I get in slowly, balancing my weight so as not to flip it over and slowly shuffling to the front of the canoe. He gets in after me and we begin our ride. The water is so smooth that it looks like glass and the moon hangs yellow and inflated right above the surface of the water. The only sounds in the air are those of our paddles rhythmically dipping into the lake and the loons that are not too far away, slowly calling to each other while the rest of the world, it seems, is asleep.

My great-grandfather built the house and the two cabins next to it from scratch in the 30s), and even though they’ve underwent several renovations since then I still feel a connection to him whenever we first pull up in the driveway after a grueling 12-hour drive from home.

I must have spent countless hours sitting in the bushes on “Blueberry Hill,” picking only the darkest berries and eating about half of what I had collected from the plastic containers we used for the sole purpose of these all-day berry-picking marathons. Our nightly games of Michigan, a card game involving lots of players and not much strategy, are memorialized through our tradition of writing on one of the poker chips used in the game every year. Each family member writes his or her name, favorite movie, favorite book, etc. on a chosen chip and it goes right back in the shoebox where they are kept. From the year 2001, when I was three years old, my chip simply says my name and, “3 Years Old. Gave a grape to the Michigan winner,” written by my mother in her familiar slanting cursive.

The thing about our trips to Maine that stands out the most in my mind, however, is our trips to John’s Ice Cream. John’s is a shop that’s about a 5-minute drive from the house. It’s painted an Easteregg yellow and is no more than a window through which we place our order and a few picnic tables right outside. Often, we don’t even put on our shoes to make the short trip over there. If we are lucky, we might even see John himself, a Lorax-esque man with bushy white sideburns, a warm smile, and an incredible knack for making homemade ice cream.

It’s the kind of establishment that you go to and know every employee’s name, and vice versa.

After I spend several minutes of enjoying the serenity and reminiscing on our Maine traditions, my grandfather and I begin to chat idly, about trivial things like the classes I am planning on taking in the fall and the present he wants to buy for my grandmother for their 50th anniversary. Our conversation fades back into silence and allows us once again to absorb our surroundings and appreciate where we are. As I look down at my paddle causing ripples in the moon’s reflection, I say to him, “I’ll remember this forever.” So far, I’ve kept my word.

Anonymous

ride

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Editors in Chief Jane Clinger Ishani Desai Sarah Torresen Contributors Ilana Nyveen Elana Margosis Navya Kumar Jake Bhoi Jannie Matar

Table of contents and credit page artwork by Elana Margosis Cover graphics by Clair Hopper

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