Spare Rib 22W by Spare Rib

Spare Rib INTERSECTIONAL FEMINIST ZINE AT DARTMOUTH VOLUME 2 | ISSUE 1 22W EDITION

Never “No

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When the wor ld is closing in pg. 25

What WGSS

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pg. 3

The construction pg. 50

Of Race

SO NGS to make you feel something new pg. 46

When I

SAW M Y FAT H E R

CRY The Sensation Issue

pg. 15

1992 Spårë Rïb Mïssïøñ Ståtëmëñt: “The dialogue here involves both men and women … only when we can come together to recognize the distinct talents of Dartmouth women, as well as root out the conflicts that still lurk, that we can all share the community comfortably. The mythical Eve discovered and revered knowledge, and Spare Rib appreciates that small step of the first woman to educate herself and make space for herself in a world of men … Spare Rib will recognize the achievements of women across the spectrum … There is room here for creative works and investigative pieces; for art and sports stories as well as news; for humor and seriousness. We are multifaceted and multitalented, and [bringing] our talents together can only help us celebrate our difference and unite our strengths.”

2021 Spårë Rïb Mïssïøñ Ståtëmëñt:

The Spare Rib newspaper was first published in 1992 to highlight women’s accomplishments and persisting problems in the two decades following co-education at Dartmouth. Unfortunately, the paper’s editorial staff and approach represented a narrow, one-dimensional slice of feminism, and the paper went out of print after only a few years. Twentyfive years later, our goal reflects a movement that has evolved considerably since 1995. We are re-establishing Spare Rib to discuss struggles, achievements, and history of people and places beyond the center, hindered (but not constrained) by racism, classism, sexism and further means of oppression, through analysis, humor, and critique. Our struggles deserve recognition, our perspectives deserve to be voiced, and our strengths deserve to be celebrated.

Låñd Åçkñøwlëdgëmëñt Today, many of the issues highlighted in the original Spare Rib publication persist. We have fought and will continue to fight battles for a more equitable and inclusive future by learning from the past. As we mentioned in our previous issues (and will continue to mention), Spare Rib itself was created by students at Dartmouth College, a school built on unceded Abenaki land that to this day prospers off indigenous trauma.

Ëdïtørs’ Lëttër

When we were brainstorming the theme for this term’s edition, we were all sitting in the first in-person full-staff meeting since our founding. Many of us were meeting for the first time. We had just returned to a campus overflowing with students, bursting with a cacophony of sounds we hadn’t heard in almost two years. We bumped elbows while sitting together in our small classrooms. We all agreed that we felt like we were learning how to feel again. Our 22W theme, Sensation, emerges from these feelings — ecstasy from reunion, trepidation from chaos, frustration from expectations, to name a few — which all indicate just how fresh all of this change really is. Being on campus was a relief for many, but for others, returning to Dartmouth brought feelings of isolation, anxiety, and more. Sensation is a theme that embraces all the feelings that arose from being back on campus and living in an unpredictable world — both positive and negative. We have returned to in-person gatherings without adequate time to grieve all that has been lost by so many during the COVID-19 pandemic. As a publication made primarily of women and femme presenting people, we are reminded of feeling the male gaze. We are also reminded that our other identities are now facing judgment under the eyes of those that surround us, those that are no longer forced to stand six feet away. We continue to experience anger towards the systems that surround us, the institutions that continually threaten to strip women of their right to choice, that invite fascists to our campus, that allow a virus to seep into every inch of life, and that challenge compelling scientific knowledge. And then we are told to silence our anger, our rage. As you flip through the pages of this publication, we invite you to reconsider what we conceive of as “normal” and imagine what happens when those conceptions fall apart.

Thë Ñåmë ”Spårë Rïb” As written in the second chapter of Genesis, God took a rib from Adam, the first man, and from it fashioned Eve, the first woman, to serve as his companion. We propose a different origin story, in which no one is merely a piece of flesh, secondthought, servile, or spare. 1

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in Spare Rib are those of individual authors and not necessarily reflective of the zine, writers, or staff as a whole, nor represented as wholly complete or correct information, nor intended to disparage any group or individual.

Tåblë øf Çøñtëñts

Ëxçåvåtïøñ:

Åñålÿtïçål & Ëxpløråtørÿ

Living with an Eating Disorder .................................................................................................. ..................................................................................................13 13 Author: Ari Morris...Designer: Caty Brown...Artist: Olivia Gresham

Untamed: In the Crosshairs ........................................................................................................ ........................................................................................................28 28 Author: Caroline Balick...Designer: Maanasi Shyno...Artist: Sophia Gregorace

Mixed Feelings: Identity, Blood, & Indigeneity .......................................................................... ..........................................................................50 50 Author and Designer: Kaitlyn Anderson...Artist: Sarah Berman

A Crash Course in Seasonal Depression (When the Seasons make you Crash) ............................ ............................43 43 Author: Raegan Boettcher...Designer: Anisia Tiplea...Artist: Maanasi Shyno

bårë bøñës:

ïñførmåtïvë & ïñtrødüçtørÿ

The Sensation of WGSS: A Petition to Better the Dartmouth Curriculum ................................... ...................................33 Author: Aoiboheann Holland...Designer: Aryma Moore...Artist: Sophie Bailey

çhøppïñg bløçk:

øpïmïøñ båsëd & ëxpløråtørÿ

Why Didn’t I Speak Up?............................................................................................................... ...............................................................................................................99 Author: Izzy Squier...Designer: Cailey McVay...Artist: Kamilla Kocsis

Cross-Cultural Affections ...........................................................................................................32 ........................................................................................................... 32 Author: Michaela Gregoriou...Designer: Sophie Williams...Artist: Shena Han

Policies Off Our Bodies ..............................................................................................................39 .............................................................................................................. 39 Author: Zoe McGuirk...Designer: Sabrina Eager...Artist: Uma Alagappan

årtïfåçts:

pøëtrÿ & årtïstïç

A Chain is Only as Strong as its Weakest Link............................................................................ ............................................................................19 19 Author: Alexandra Slayer...Designer: Anisia Tiplea...Artist: Liza Tatishev & Ashley Xie

The Dial’s Stuck at 11................................................................................................................. .................................................................................................................25 25 Author: Anne Johnakin...Designer: Kamilla Kocsis...Artist: Shena Han

Meditations on Grief: A Collective Elegy.................................................................................... ....................................................................................15 15 Authors: Sabrina Eager, Ishika Jha, Esme Lee, & Reva Dixit...Designer & Artist: Sabrina Eager

Eight Variations on Silence ........................................................................................................... ...........................................................................................................77 Author: Ella Grim...Designer: Caty Brown...Artist: Milanne Berg

a walk around campus ................................................................................................................ ................................................................................................................12 12 Author: Hayden Elrafei...Designer: Aryma Moore...Artist: Milanne Berg

Frostbite ..................................................................................................................................... .....................................................................................................................................35 35 Author: Anonymous...Designer & Artist: Gaia Yun

A Gentleman’s Pledge ................................................................................................................. .................................................................................................................47 47 Authors: Serena Suson & Sadie Weil...Designer: Kamilla Kocsis...Artist: Chloe Jung

Ode to the Male Historians ........................................................................................................ ........................................................................................................42 42 Author: Ari Rojas...Designer: Kaitlyn Anderson...Artist: Sophia Gregorace

Notion ....................................................................................................................................... .......................................................................................................................................27 27 Artist: Kaitlyn Anderson

Sabana Inglesia ...........................................................................................................................55 ........................................................................................................................... 55 Artist: Yowis Arias

Playlist laylist R Revie eview w ............................................................................................................ ...........................................................................................................46 Sensation P Author & Designer: Sophie Williams

stërñüm:

rëçürrïñg

Want to Join Spare Rib? ............................................................................................................. .............................................................................................................56 56 Our Staff .................................................................................................................................... ....................................................................................................................................57 57 Our Socials.................................................................................................................................58 ................................................................................................................................. 58

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advantage of smaller class sizes, and learn about a vast array of subjects. Now, what has always baffled me about the WGSS department is how little most of the student body here knows about it. It always seemed to me that everyone at Dartmouth should have at least a working knowledge of women, gender, and sexuality, but there is no required WGSS course within the college distributive requireme nts. Students are required to take scie nce courses, English courses, sociology courses , etc., but the only time you will see a WGSS cou rse pop up on DartWorks is within a cross-liste d distrib like Sociology, Art, Literature, etc. In every class I have taken within the department, I hav e interacted with Black feminism, queer theory, clas s, psycholog y, economics, politics, environmenta l studies, and pretty much anything else you cou ld name. I have also felt comfortable becaus e I knew that the knowledge I had gained wou ld stay with me and make me a more thoughtful person. I believe that having a knowledge of WGSS is essential, especially as it connects to becoming better people as wel l as better students, yet the college largely overlooks the benefits tha t WGSS classes can provide. Furthermore, many Dartmouth students consider the major to be

the student body and the administration gave it and its faculty a shot — it would give students the opportunity to look at the work they were producing with the aim of understanding due to salience and fascination rather than necessity. WGSS faculty, especially women and people of color, are heralded as champions of

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taken on campus, the ratio of those who identify as men to those who identity as women, transgender, or non-binary has always been incredibly lopsided. At Dartmouth, those wh o identify as male largely tend to avoid the WGSS department, perhaps because of the mere menti on of women and the aversion many men have towards studying other sexes, genders, and races. Ironically, within the WGSS department, men could learn so much abou t sexual assault, power imba lances, ways to pursue l fem healthy relationships with inism female peers. Perhaps . inte we would see more accounta rsect I h bility and respect were a iona ve in with these courses required. Fu emin l f e t rth m e ermore, reproductive ism. ract iniqsm Blac rights and autonomy are inter e k . u d f i fac e n ing horrifying assaults in s ec ti seecti eminism psyc ertetrh our country right now. Ev onal femi o o ery n one needs to know how f r h , e a y mpini olog nism , cl lfeami reproductive rights matte olsim . inte n y s r to i every single person in s , . s , m. in ticisn,ter econ rsect this country, especially tho s s t e e t e o i n c r u o se m t s wh v i nal o may one day have nal f dies ectiothe emin ics, emin , an iroon nalpo wer to make real legislativ mfeem ism. a n f e e i i d change. Finally, n n s y m inter tailsm. i thim . inte prett studies ininWG ismSS ng s ec ti allo n w for tra r . t y ns na e s tional exploration; i elseectio mu nters rsect students onal nism c can n i e lea femi o y rn h c a to mo n t ve o l . inte aw i a ay onal from American u cofemin nism nam fetia mlism rsect esslen femi uld ism. inismand towards a bette . inte e. iona r unde nirst i n r . sman. din s i t e n l e of c rsect what it means tto femi erbe tiona integr ism. s a be e tte r glo n i c ba l o cit ism. t ize l fem n n i in sectio o inter a nal f times l fof inter r and deep divisio emwa inism nal f s ec ti nsealo m i ng n eve s ec ti ry emin i lin i e . onal n s inter ism. imaginable. Ifmwe . o i n ism can n f no t e a cla s i t im ism. mini to e n l e ha ve c r f str t ive e e d t s iomo mini ectio rfor s inter sm. i n re e kn ow c a led ge t of l ou s n i rselves aan femi onal m. in s ec ti nters of the world, l fdem nisthmcan we femi onal terse how on ectio ear inism ass um . nism e femi c tha i t n we t n are i pre a . pa t o red l e i n nters femi nism . alto enter the world asrswe ecll-r fem t nism i ou e . inte nd onal ed adults? I have ctio ism . inte n rsect spentinsev f e a en. iwe l fem n ekrss at Dartmouth m rsect iona soin far ism thi. s year, inism l fem iona and I’ve alreadtyeen e c i t n i co ter, se oter un l fem inism naed so much rudeness l c f tiona angeinr,isan mini . inte md. obvious disregardefor l fem sm oth rsect er. pe ople. terre i inism n iona Maybe if weinwe s t e e tea ch c r ing tiona students to be bette secr,ti l fto . embe o l inco nal f nscientious, to be kin femd,i to be ism e n inq m ism uisitive, intleer inism we’d all be. ab intha to secsuc ceed at a lot mo.re . inte t e t r i n s o jus t e ction academics. Maybe WGn feuld SSalco minbe is an. example of anal femin environment in which thi ism. i.nter s can happmen in s

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femi n i s m . inte rs e c t i onal emin fem i s i m n i . inte sm. i nte rse c r t s i e o c nal f tiona nism emi l fe .i n n m t i e s i r m n s ec ti ism. . inte ona in rs t e l e c r f e t s i m e onal ism. ction inism fem int al . e f i e i n r n m s t i e e s inism ction rsect m. in ion al .i te n r f e a s t m e l e nism c r f emin inism tiona s ec ti . int on ism l fe .i a n e m l r . t e s f i e i e n r n m s ec ti ction terse ism. inism ona c ti al in f . t o e l e i n m n r f e a ism. s t m e inism l ersec ction femi inism inter tio . in ni al . s n s f m i t e a e n e m l c r . t e t s f i emin iona inism ectio nters rsect l fe na io is ec . i n t m n l i a f t o e i l e n n m r f emin al fem ism. s ec ti inism on int ism in . a e i i l n r . s s f m i t e e n e mini ction rsec . int terse e t sm i c a r o t s l n i e f o c emin al fem nal f tiona em ism in lf e i i . n s m m i i n s i m . t nism e i n r . s ec ti inter terse . in ona s ec c ti o t l n i f o e a n m l al fem femi inism ni i . n s m i i n s m . terse inter . inte c t s i e o c n t iona al fem l fem in i s i m n i sm. i nt

ectio ter Refrences: nal f e [1] “Women’s, Gender, & m inism Sexuality Studies.” 2020. Program in Women’s, Gender, & Sex . inte uality Studies. October 22, rs 2020. https://wgs.dartmouth.e du/department/womens -ge nde rsexuality-studies. [2] Wendy Brown, “The Im possibility of Women’s Stu dies,” pg. 20, May 2008. https://d oi.org/10.1215/9780822 389101002.

Ei h

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I e s L nce

By: Ella Grim Art by: Milanne Berg 7

Silence has a voice. It speaks of itself. Those who hear it are the silenced, and the silenced have a choice: Speak or remain silent. Challenge the patriarchy, the supremacy, the normative, the acceptable, or don’t. But nothing about silence is binary. It haunts the gray area between speaking and not speaking, where words are present but contested by forces that lock vocalizations somewhere between the throat and the teeth. Silence is visceral, felt. It is uncomfortable. It is familiar. It is safe. It is suffocating. I’ve been unable to shake the sensation of silence from my body and my brain.

I was sitting in the center of the auditorium, attentive. The presenters asked for thoughts from the audience. The lines formed in a heartbeat. Only men stood to speak. This was the first time I felt silence imposed in a systemic way. (I cannot speak; my hands shake.) These were my feelings and not reality, but sensation has a way of warping mentality. (My heart beats. Too fast.) Only men stood to speak. After, I asked the presenter for her perspective. She and the men on stage noticed but said nothing. They did not want to be taken the wrong way or distract the direction of the conversation. (My shaking becomes silent rage.) Only men stood to speak.

I just read Sappho, or what is left of her. See, even the greatest poets are fragmented when they are female. Censors fear sensual women, and deviancy. Her words were lost— not in time, but misogyny.

Once, I met a boy who silenced me—I wrote poetry in which I was mouse and he was cat. When I look back, I see that the power he had over me was in my inability to speak about what was happening. To this day, I don’t trust easily.

I am incredibly aware of how heads swivel toward me when I speak in class. I wonder if this will last, or if it is just a reaction to my status: I am younger. I am a woman. I have made it clear I don’t care if people like what I say or agree. I am not here to please. Words are my superpower; the training wheels are off. I will not be stopped by a glance. I have my chance to be heard and each moment is only lived once so you’d better believe I will be speaking through the weight of the stares.

VI VII Hear it?

VIII

I have made my choice. I stand to speak. I reject fragmentation. I am working on trust. I am speaking. I hear it.

An d

re fuse

Why didn’t I speak up? During New Student Orientation, three professors hosted a seminar for first years where they discussed how to approach conversations about controversial topics such as current political and global issues. The professors had their debate, and the general conclusion was that nothing should be banned from campus discourse, but that it is important to consider the circumstances and nuances of every topic and situation. The professors then turned to the audience for their comments. There were two microphones set up in the aisles of the auditorium. A group of students rushed to the microphone. The only voices that were heard were men. One could argue that this was the most efficient way to get student participation; the microphone sat in the center of the auditorium, anyone could theoretically stand up and speak into it. Yet, the demographic of those who spoke was far from representative.

Walking out of the auditorium, I was irked by the lack of variety of voices, along with hearing man after man explain to me what a controversial conversation is and when to have them. Why didn’t I just speak up? Or anyone else? Why is it that when I open my mouth, there is an unfounded sense that I am taking up space, using people’s time that would be better filled by listening to someone else’s thoughts? In classrooms, seminars, debates, I am a guest and must not overstay my welcome. I know this feeling isn’t unique to me, but something felt by many women, people of color, LGBTQ people, or anyone that is not a majority in academic spaces. The right to speak is not equal in the classroom, nor the auditorium.

To feel the courage to speak up, there are numerous barriers that marginalized students have to push through, especially in academic institutions where their voices are already underrepresented. Most, if not all, of the controversial or possibly traumatizing topics that could be discussed on campus (e.g. racism, sexism, abortion, military and police, welfare, climate change, abortion) are issues that disproportionately affect marginalzied people, not cis men. These topics don’t only exist within the classroom; they are ever present in many students’ lives. It can be distressing to discuss these issues in classrooms as if they are thought experiments, even if done so “respectfully.” It’s not that the conversation shouldn’t be had, but it is ignorant to believe that these conversations are equal playing fields. Every student’s background brings a different set of barriers to how comfortable they feel in collegiate spaces. These barriers can range from being a person of color in a predominantly white institution, or a woman in a field dominated by men, or a person whose high school education didn’t prepare them for the academic rhetoric used in classrooms, or an interplay of factors. It can be hard for someone who doesn’t experience these barriers to recognize the different factors involved that may inhibit someone from participating in a discussion. The more comfortable a person feels in a space, the more likely they will join in on the conversation. During the seminar, it seemed clear that the only members who felt comfortable speaking were those with the least barriers: white men. Not only can these conversations inflict harm, causing some students to be wary of speaking up, but many students may have a similar feeling of not having an inherent right to the floor. Sometimes people don’t want to debate their livelihoods, or explain why they should be treated equally. Institutions of higher education are built upon the systemic oppression of women, of Black and brown people, of queer people. Expecting these individuals to feel equally comfortable speaking out within these institutions, to walk to the microphone with the hoard of entitled boys, is naive. To make the seminar all the more awkward to sit through, the professors — two men, one a woman — crafted a skit to show an example of mansplaining. The two male professors went back and forth and even interrupted the female professor until she had her moment to speak. Afterwards, the audience cheered when the female professor finally got a chance to say something. Yet minutes

after their performance of mansplaining, an all-natural example materialized from the audience. The male students who spoke did not add much to the conversation and reiterated the points made by the professors, even though a broader range of voices would have shown the complexities of having such conversations on campus. If anything, the seminar taught me that even when examples of male entitlement are served on a platter, the fight for an equal right to speak is a continuous and never-ending battle. The entire discourse on what discussions should be allowed on campus feels catered towards white men. Often, it is seen as the job of marginalized people to educate privileged individuals about their experiences of oppression in order to broaden their world view. This is an exhausting and harmful ideal that constantly puts marginalized people in a position of vulnerability. The seminar’s discussion and the thoughts proposed by student volunteers felt removed from the possible controversial topics themselves, as if these controversies don’t affect real individuals but are only useful to further classroom learning. I understand the need to encourage discourse around controversial topics, as they do come up on college campuses. It’s important to discuss and learn about them, and the profes-

sors brought up valid points about how to approach these situations. They touched on the nuances of handling delicate discussions and the importance of creating safe spaces where these discussions can be had. However, the conversation should not have been about when these conversations should be had, but about who is present, who isn’t, and how these conversations affect the greater community. The discussion exemplified the underlying dynamics that exist in every academic space. Certain people feel entitled to speak, as if they have an inherent right to take up that space, while others can’t step into those spaces or need to make the space themselves in the first place. In a way, I did learn something valuable in that auditorium. No matter how confident I feel, there is still a long way to go until I feel as comfortable as my cis white male classmates walking up to the microphone.

Why didn’t I speak up? I didn’t feel it was my right to.

By: Hayden Elrafei Art By: Milanne Berg CW: imagery suggestive of anti-queer and anti-trans violence.

Intruder. In this locus of heterosexism Born of violent white supremacy, My queer and racialized body Is entirely unwelcome. A good ole family man sees me Passing outside the café. First glance. Masc—just a sissy? Still too fem. Second glance. The street light Reflects off my body, Glimmers on glossed lips, Dances on racially ambiguous skin, And passes through his optic nerve. His gender sorting machine Arrested by a paper jam. Complete limbic breakdown. Red lights, wailing sirens. Error. Third glance. Breathing quickens. He grows hard. That thing, Its glossed lips Around his cock— No—I mean—

Fourth glance. He hates it. It should be destroyed. What has come of our world? Walking around like that? What if kids see it? Must be some kind of pervert. Blood vessels constrict. Fists clench. The pressure of his short, unpainted Nails against rough palms. Floral perfume Colors the space between him And this illegible monstrosity.

In another universe, Where my gender-needle Was one millimeter too far One way or the other, Glossed lips split with blood. I should probably reapply.

Only seconds pass, The air is still, silent, And their strides do not even stop; These images come to him in a flash. Too quick to distinguish, They are one. He fears himself. My queer body feels His repressed desires In the aggressive, puzzled glance.

Living with a n Eating D is o r d e r By: Ari Morris Art by: Olivia Gresham

Growing up with an eating disorder is a sensation few can relate to. Although I have dealt with disordered eating for as long as I can remember, I only recently started talking about it to my closest friends and family. I have a rare eating disorder called Avoidant-Restrictive Food Intake Disorder (ARFID) which involves severely restricting the types of food, not for fear of weight gain, but for any other reason[s]. Some people restrict food because of texture, color, smell, or negative past experiences with the food.

For me, I can’t pinpoint exactly why I can eat some foods but not others. Although my ARFID differs from more commonly known eating disorders like anorexia and bulimia, there are overlaps in the general experience. Many with an eating disorder can relate to the anxiety surrounding going out to eat with friends. Googling the menu of a restaurant to choose your order beforehand is a common occurrence. Many people with an eating disorder have specific “safe foods” and a hierarchy of “fear foods,” including myself. I remember being 10 years old sobbing at the kitchen table because my parents decided I couldn’t go to bed until I tried soup — one of my fear foods.

Although my eating disorder involves an extreme limitation of what foods I can eat, it is not life threatening. As a result, the majority of the stress resulting from my disorder arises from social situations involving food. Even getting food at Foco can induce stress. Being at Dartmouth has presented new challenges surrounding my eating disorder. If there is no food that I can eat, I won’t eat at all. In college, I committed to work on my eating habits for the first time in my life. I decided to reach out to Dick’s House counseling. It was the first time I had ever gotten professional help for a disorder I’ve had since childhood. I went through the typical intake appointment, and they referred me to a nutritionist who focuses on eating disorders. I was shocked by how inadequate the treatments for eating disorders are at Dartmouth; during my intake appointment, they told me that although I “deny having body image issues that cause my eating disorder,” I couldn’t be sure that I don’t have anorexia. I continued for a few sessions with a Dick’s House nutritionist before giving up. Throughout those appointments, they told me that the foods I could eat were very bland and that I should just eat my fear foods to get

Living with an Eating Disorder over my disorder. Imagine that you are at the doctor because you broke your ankle and they tell you it’s disappointing that you can’t just walk. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. After receiving unsatisfactory help from Dick’s House, I decided to give up altogether. Sadly, I know my experience with Dick’s House counseling is not unusual. It is often shocking to people that I had an eating disorder for almost two decades before receiving treatment. But to me, it makes complete sense. Since my eating disorder wasn’t causing life-threatening issues, I saw no reason to change my eating habits. Before college, I was able to hide my eating disorder by avoiding eating with friends, claiming I wasn’t hungry, and eating later. However, at college, this isn’t an option; Foco with friends is a part of social life at Dartmouth. I was also scared of putting significant effort into getting help, only to be met with negative experiences with mental health professionals like I did at Dick’s House.

Upon reflection, I realize that another I wish I could write about how I was big reason I never got help was that able to overcome my eating disorder after I was too ashamed to talk about it. so many years, but that is not the case. Like many people with eating disorders, I have and The amount of stigma surrounding eating will always continue to struggle with food. disorders in particular makes it so difficult to This reality is worsened by the inadequate reach out for help. Even as I write this, I feel social systems of care (this goes beyond Dick’s anxious about talking about my eating disorder House!) that fail to address eating disorders since I have kept it a secret for so many years. comprehensively. There is no point where Eating disorders can feel so isolating; feeling someone “gets rid of ” their eating disorder. ashamed to admit you have a problem only I can’t help other people work through makes you feel more alone. I know that an their eating disorders because I have neither eating disorder is not something I should feel the experience nor the training to do so. But ashamed of. However, it is still so difficult to what I can do is share my story. My hope is feel even neutral about my eating disorder after that this article speaks to someone and helps years of being taught that mental illness is not them feel less alone. something that should be spoken about openly.

Meditations on

GriEf A Collective Elegy By: Reva Dixit, Sabrina Eager, and Ishika Jha Art by: Sabrina Eager This piece tells the story of three individuals and their grief since the onset of the COVID-19 pandemic. The three colors of text represent their three distinct voices and experiences. Reva’s story is in green, Sabrina’s is in light pink, and Ishika’s is in teal.

It's the most heartbreaking thing to see your father cry. I had just finished a two hour long midterm and was enjoying some chai in my cozy Vermont springterm housing when he Facetimed me. “All done with

your exams? Did you do well?” my father asked me. A Miami thunderstorm lurked outside his window, washing him in gray light, muting all colors like an ancient family photo. “I have to tell you something. This morning, your grandmother was going to the hospital because of COVID, but she had a heart attack. Nahi rahi.” He told me not to cry, that she wouldn’t have wanted me to cry, but I couldn’t stop the tears. Seeing me cry made him cry. It made him sob. He ducked his face from the camera to wipe away his tears. I heard his hitching

wbreaths. I had always wondered about it with a morbid curiosity — I thought that I would probably see him cry at the impending funerals of my grandparents, who all live in India. But it wasn’t really about him and his hypermasculine stoicism. Despite knowing my father was not the infallible beacon of strength as he seemed to be to an awestruck younger-me, it was still shocking to see him cry. There are few things that make me cry as much as my mother’s tears. Growing up, it was always the two of us. I am strong only because she was strong my whole childhood. I’d never seen her cry as much as she did after losing her father. It was October 2020, almost a year since the last time we’d seen him. When I was home during the two weeks after his death, we took turns swapping tears. When she drove me back to my grandparents house from the airport the day before his funeral, we cried together in the car. We cried sharing stories about him on my grandma’s yellow leather couches in the living room, while writing our obituaries in the guest bedroom atop the bed’s scarlet colored comforter. Two months later, on New Year’s Eve, I saw her cry while cooking dinner when the song w“A Long December” came on and she heard the line “Maybe this year will be better than the last.”

questions about mortality and death that any child asks, the same fears of aging and knowing your parents and grandparents will grow old, get sick, and die. I also had questions about reincarnation and moksha, and if we will find our loved ones again in the next life. Death anxiety is not anything new. What felt sharpest to me in those silent, contemplative hours between consciousness and sleep was the prospect of living multiple lifetimes without the souls I loved by my side. I think I’ve become death-obsessed. I started working in the cemetery on campus. It’s become my physical

Last year was not easy for anyone, but it is impossible to ignore all the pain of the past 20 months when I look my mother in the face. The looming certainty of their deaths and the havoc of grief and tragedy it would wreak upon our little bubble in America has always troubled me. I’ve always wanted a connection to my culture and my extended family. One way I strengthened this was by learning about Hinduism and spirituality, despite being more or less agnostic. Growing up in America made India feel so plastic-fake, not only in the way other Americans treat India, but in the way I feel complicit in its exoticization when I compare India to America. This feeling was especially true for religion — New Age spirituality in America is a bastardization of Asian philosophies that made any faith I might have possessed feel tacky and simply unbelievable. I had the same existential

connection to the dead. It feels like my only connection. My grandpa is buried in Florida. I couldn’t go to his unveiling. I don’t know how to mourn for him without a religion to teach me how. As a Jew, tradition tells me to light Yahrzeit candles and say Yizkor prayers, but doing that feels like a lie. Adonai knows that he’s a fictional character in my mind. And even Papa never believed in God. Well, he didn’t believe in an afterlife at least. Am I betraying him by hoping that his soul exists somewhere, that he can see me venture through the old cemetery? This year saw my anxieties boil over into reality. My father had just returned from India after a monthlong stay to visit his mother, sick with cancer. On the way, he had contracted COVID and was isolating from my brother, who was finishing his senior year of high school virtually from the same house. My mother had just left for India to tend to her own ailing mother. The four of us, the people I loved most in the world, were physically unable to hold each other in the wake of my grandmother’s passing. Actually, “passing” is a Western euphemism. Soft and transient. My dad put it like this: nahi rahi, she’s no more, that’s that. There was nothing to do but carry on. Our grief was interrupted, but our lives weren’t. The past year and a half has brought an onslaught of moments of grief and mourning: losing friends and classmates, hearing about extended family and family friends abroad who have passed, and preemptively grieving for family members that I might never be able to see again in full health because of COVID-19 complications. These instances have been difficult to process and have become even more unbearable when combined with the relentless pressure to be productive, to successfully navigate college for the first time, to make friends and be social, and to stay on top of classes as assignments, commitments, and extracurriculars pile up. With this consistent pressure, there is no spare time to grieve. After Dartmouth lost four students during the 2020–2021 academic year, a vigil was planned for the end of Spring Term. Student Assembly requested that the Administration allow students to take the day of the vigil off, ensuring that, “the Class of 2024 are excused from classes and academic work on

Wednesday, May 26, as they mourn the loss of a third member of their class.” The request was denied by the Administration out of “concern about the impact on student learning.” “I have reached a point where I can only be happy if I pretend the world does not exist outside of bubbles.” I said this once to a friend while sitting on the front porch of the house I’d been living in for five weeks, up in Callicoon, NY; the house I was leaving in a mere three weeks, once finals were over. I didn’t know how to work, how to write, read, study. So I’d spend time on the porch and try not to cry. The sun was long gone for the day, and the waxing moon’s light reflected turquoise onto its frame of clouds, and we sat admiring the fireflies sparkling over the algae-coated pond that sat at the bottom of the hill. It was early June, 2021. It was the hottest it had been since the summer before, the summer I barely left my house, and I was wearing a white dress to celebrate. I tried to explain what I meant by bubbles. The Dartmouth bubble. The bubble that is a house of six friends in upstate New York. The bubble of fake lives posted on social media. Somewhere to pretend that we live somewhere less painful. At the time, we had already lost 3,489,677 lives worldwide to COVID. Dartmouth alone lost four members of our student community. The denial of the request to keep students focused on our studies was ridiculous — as

if grieving and emotional exhaustion weren’t impacting our academics and lives in general. This response represents an expectation that is forced upon us: that grief must be contained and palatable, something we must tuck into the corner of our minds so we can keep moving through our normal routines. But absolutely nothing feels normal. At the cemetery, we walk over cavities filled with rotten bones and mark down the quality of eroded headstones. They’re improperly marked. I cannot help but think about the bodies that probably lie directly below my feet while weaving around the rubble of forgotten names. I respond to emails with the subject line “Cemetery Party” to schedule my hours. I hear about the funny stories of the dead that people wrote in private journals centuries ago, private journals now preserved in Special Collections. It feels wrong to laugh when people are resting, but I do so anyway. Sometimes I think about springtime, about how I did a good job of holding in my grief — as if that was the goal I was supposed to achieve. I spent the majority of nights locked in my room, lying on my bed, and skipping meals because at times I couldn’t even stomach the idea of making my way to the dining hall and being around people without feeling anxious. Yet I still did the majority of my assignments, mostly made it through my finals, and it almost felt like a win. It has not been until months later, returning to campus with everything restarting, that I feel the consequences of not allowing myself to process my emotions. My head constantly feels cloudy; sometimes the same memories that make me laugh also make me want to cry; it feels as though I’m stuck in

a sea of constant dread, unable to deal with or control the swirl of emotions under the surface that has been festering for months. I want to start working through those feelings, to slow down, and really let myself feel what’s happening around me. I don’t know exactly how or when to accomplish this, but I know it starts with prioritizing time for myself and giving myself room to breathe. I know I can’t forget about the world outside the moonlit porch, speckled green with pollen and stained yellow by the carpenter bees that live in the banisters. I know that this loss must be remembered. I know that the pain of the past year and the fear for what’s to come are now as much a part of me as they are a part of all those mourning around me. But crying to the rhythm of the bird songs and brushing leaves as I sit on the porch in the twilight isn’t going to save me. Or anyone else. Throughout that night, I Facetimed various family members across the country and across the world. My grandmother was cremated, all alone, in the hospital. There was a small virtual funeral attended by my father, my uncle, and my grandfather. It was nowhere near the kind of grand funeral a woman as mighty and dominating as herself deserved, and also nowhere near the funeral that I expected I would attend as a child. I felt like I would need to “collect” cultural milestones due to the limited time I spent back in the motherland. I’d been to an Indian wedding — which involved a congregation of extended family, many long poojas, and a lot of singing and dancing — but I’d never attended an Indian funeral, where everyone would wear white, and the body would be cremated on a funeral pyre, and then the ashes would be spread at the Ganges. I wore white the next day. My father shaved his head in accordance with the mundan ritual.

I haven't seen him cry since. 18

A Chain Is Only As The sickening snap of teeth slicing through bone hastened my pace as I flung myself down the hallway. Socks skidding against the corridor’s faded carpet, I careened into a corner, heart skipping a beat as the muffled thud of impact bounced off the wooden walls. I heaved a breathless sigh of relief as the following crunch confirmed the monster’s ignorance and then pitched over and gagged — reminded of what the sound meant. Throwing myself off the wall, I raced further down the hallway. I yanked at the handles of the numbered doors, but the curved bronze remained unyielding — a taunting reminder that the old woman and I were the only patrons staying on the fourth floor of the inn.

A reminder that I was now the only patron staying on the fourth floor of the inn. My eyes widened as I reached the end of the L-shaped floor. A flash of lightning slashed through the darkness and revealed the withering label of MAINTENANCE on the furthest door. I darted towards its handle and slapped it. The handle turned. Ear trained on the hinge, I eased the door open and tucked myself inside. Bottles of cleaning solutions formed a haphazard pile in one corner, and a stack of sheets congested the other. I inched the door closed. The moment it clicked shut, I grabbed a bottle of detergent and dove into the heap of the fabric. Flicking off the cap, I doused myself in the pungent scent of clean and buried myself deeper into the cloth. I didn’t know how that thing had found the old woman, or whether scent factored into it at all, but the lung-crushing screams that had ripped through the wall between our neighboring rooms old me that I needed to evade detection however I could. The bright array of colors and the shining bells of

the inn’s exterior gave no hint at the horror glutting itself only rooms away as I had rolled my suitcase through the parking lot under the dusk sky. The AUS inn was supposed to be a quick, forgettable overnight stay — a rest stop when an impending thunderstorm forced me to halt my cross-country drive back home from college earlier today. The woman behind the desk had been pleasant, nonchalant, as she handed me the key to my room. The only attention-drawing moment had been the casual remark she said, as her eyes scanned over a text: “Just a warning: this building is, like, sort of old and needs a few repairs, so some of the doors, windows, and locks might jam.” A wet squelch seeped through the door, followed by a whining wheeze. I tucked my knees closer to my chest as light steps grew closer. My stomach flipped. I had only caught a glimpse of the creature. When the first scream had torn me from the empty peace of slumber, I had crept out of my room. The door next to me, the door of the old woman with whom I had exchanged a short but sweet goodnight, stood slightly ajar. I peered through the crack, feet already flying across the hallway before my brain could properly process what it had seen. What I could remember would be a returning character in the plotlines of my nightmares.

As Its Weakest Lin

As Strong By: Alexandra Salyer Art By: Elizabeth Tatishev and Ashley Xie

Sickly yellow skin stretched paper-thin over prominent bones and a cavernous stomach. Ghostly blue bruises dotting a concave, too long neck and chapped, greying lips. Flaxen scar tissue covering a massive chest. Heavy purple sagging dull, lifeless eyes. Slimy green oozing from two red, raw cracked nostrils. Louder than the pounding of my feet, I remembered its sounds better. The crunch of its teeth splintering skin, muscle, and bone. The hacking coughs that rumbled through its protruding ribs and shredded its too-long neck. The raspy breaths that whistled through its throat.

My fingers clenched around the blankets as one of the hoarse croaks shook the maintenance door. Squeezing my eyes closed, I shallowed my breathing and waited. Minutes passed, as the hacking and wheezing knotted my fingers tighter and tighter into the fabric before finally, a series of quick, heavy booms signaled the monster’s departure. Yet, I found no relief. My eyes remained slammed shut, and my breaths stayed light and unsatisfying. Hours or minutes swiftly crawled by. Stagnation, isolation, desperation — all have a funny way of messing with time. My muscles cramped and my mind clamored. The pile of blankets, the four walls, the stillness that had all seemed so safe, so secure — they all now seemed like stepping stones on the path to madness. The need to move seized my atrophying limbs, and though possibly lethal to my life, I could not help but stand up and creak the door open. Peeking my head through the crack, I found the hallway’s shadows beautifully empty. With dainty paces, I crept through the corridor. Fearing the ding of the elevator, I slid into the stairwell. It too was barren. Tiptoeing down the stairs, I squinted through the inky blackness and blinked as the tiniest drop of honey-gold light flickered in my gaze. Soft and warm against the harsh white flashes of lightning, the light came from the third level. Other cars had sat in the parking lot. Perhaps, there were other survivors. I listened for the sounds of the creature, but when only silence replied, I left the stairwell and slunk onto the floor. The door creaked ajar, and I slipped through the crack. As the door was shut, an onslaught of harrowed faces greeted me.

“Hello?” I whispered. “In here,” came a muted hiss from inside the inn’s single conference room. I hurried to the door as more voices spoke.. “Quickly! Before it comes again!” “Do you want to kill us all? It’s too risky. Don’t open it.”

A thirty-something woman, the receptionist, and a teenage boy beamed with relieved smiles. A pair of bob-wearing, middle-aged blondes scowled. An elderly man and another man fitted in a suit wore neutral boredom. “Jamie, yes? Are you alright?” I turned to find a greying, bespectacled man at my side. He held a small candle. Its yellow light dimly lit the somber meeting hall. “Yes. It didn’t find me.” “Meg said there was another woman staying on the fourth floor with you.” He gestured to the receptionist. “I heard a scream. Is she…?” I swallowed hard. “It’s only me now.” Smile drooping, the thirty-something woman, dressed in an oversized t-shirt decorated with teaching puns, whimpered a choked cry. “My apologies for the crudeness, but it’s imperative for our collective safety,” the bespectacled man said. “Did the creature consume her?” I flinched. “Yes, then. And were you able to see what it looked like?” I relayed everything — sights and sounds. The man’s face pinched. “It is as I feared,” he said. “Everyone gather around, and keep your voices low.” With some grumbles from the bobbed blondes and the suited man, the group sat at the bespectacled man’s feet. “I am a monster-researcher. I have spent the last thirty years of my life traveling the world, studying the hidden, deadly creatures that roam this Earth. If what Jamie reports is true, then I know which of these beasts is currently lurking in this inn: a Plaga,” he said.

Plaga

The teenage boy inhaled sharply and scooched closer to the elderly man. “What do we do?” “The best option would be to simply wait here. The Plaga’s hunting capabilities are inferior to many beasts, and this room has shown promise in hiding us from it. It should starve to death in a few days provided that we don’t feed it anymore.” The suited man snorted. “You want us to wait? Waste days of our lives hiding from a creature that probably doesn’t even exist?” “You heard the old woman’s scream just as we did. You heard what Jamie saw, what Jamie heard. How could you say that it doesn’t exist?” the thirty-something woman, a teacher perhaps based on her shirt, exclaimed. “I say it doesn’t exist because how could it? The old woman probably tends to overdramatize, and Jamie was scared. It’s easy to see things that don’t exist when you’re scared.” The man stood up. “Why are you even here if you don’t think it’s real?” the teacher demanded. “I heard a strange noise, investigated, and found you all. I’ve only stayed here because he,” the suited man pointed at the researcher, “told me to. But you’re right. I paused a call for this, and I’ve wasted too much time on this already. I need to go back.” He turned and walked towards the door. “Please stay!” The monster researcher cried softly. “I heard the scream. It was a scream of death. You all need to trust me, lest you become its next meal.” He adjusted his glasses and glanced around the room, gaze landing on a pantry. “There is an alternative to staying. The monster locates its prey primarily by scent. It’s not as safe as waiting it out, but I’ve heard stories about others escaping Plagas by using a medical concoction called PMJ, whose smell makes the wearer relatively invisible to the monster. I know how to make this concoction.

are carnivorous creatures who feed on human flesh and grow in lethality the more humans they consume.

We could apply the salve and hopefully walk out of the inn undetected.” The teenager spoke, “I don’t think I could stand just waiting, but I like that plan.” “I like the plan, too, but there is one problem,” Meg, the receptionist, said. “This inn is old. During storms like this when the wind is bad, the doors and windows jam. With the weather outside as bad as it is, I don’t know if we could get out.” “Is there anywhere we could feasibly escape?” the researcher asked. Meg cocked her head to the side. “There is a covered window in the basement. We had to replace it a while back, and it’s sheltered from the wind.” “How many floors are there in this inn?” one of the blondes asked. “Four.” “That’s not too far. Once applied, the concoction does lose potency overtime, but we should be able to reach the basement before that is a concern,” said the researcher. “Alright. Is everyone good with this plan?” The teacher, teenage boy, Meg, and I all nodded — majority rule with the researcher. Muttering under their breaths, the blondes grumbled, but did not directly protest. The suited man scoffed and shook his head but did not protest. The elderly man kept his blank countenance. “Plan 2, then. Wait here while I create the concoction.” The researcher paddled towards the pantry and started pulling out various bottles of liquid. Mixing the bottles’ contents in a bucket, the man poured out a few drops of the green ooze onto his hand and sniffed it. “It is ready.” The bespectacled man lifted the bucket and carried it back to the group. “Everyone coat yourselves.” Dipping my hand into the container, I grimaced as the grainy ooze clung to my fingers. “How does this connotation work?” I asked the researcher. “It mimics the smell of dead Plagas,” he said. “Plagas have no taste for their dead.” Cupping a handful of the goop, I slathered it across my body. Silently, the teacher, teenager, and 23

Meg followed, smearing the repellent across their skin. The blondes leaned over the bucket and gave the concoction a sniff. Their faces twisted in disgust. “Absolutely not. I will not be putting that on my body,” the shorter of the pair snapped. The researcher’s brows knotted. “But the likelihood of the monster finding you is much higher without it. It will also lead the monster to the rest of us.” “I know it doesn’t smell great, but it’s not that bad,” the teacher said. I sniffed my arm. While the pungent sourness wasn’t great, I would take the smell any day if it meant that I wouldn’t have to hear the splitting of my own bones or anyone else’s ever again. “If you all have it, that should be enough. Personally, I don’t trust it yet on my skin. I’ll wait,” the other chimed in. “If I see this supposed monster, that’s when I coat down with that stuff,” the suited man said. “These clothes are too expensive to ruin over nothing.” The researcher scrubbed a hand down the side of his face. “I advise against it, but I can’t force you.” He lifted the bucket towards the elderly man. “Here, and then we can go.” The elderly man shook his head. “I don’t need it. God’s watching over me. If it’s my time, it’s my time. If not, He will protect me.” “Grandpa!” the teenage boy protested. “But

you will be endangering the group,” the researcher said. “If it’s our time, then it’s our time,” the elderly man said simply. The researcher’s shoulders sagged, but he argued no further and coated himself in the ooze. “Hopefully, the rest of us will be enough,” he said. “Is everyone ready to leave?” “About time,” remarked the suited man. Pressed up against the door, I listened with everyone else for the warning booms of the creature’s run. The soundless darkness compelled us forward, and we tiptoed down the hall and into the stairwell. Only our uneven exhales pierced the quiet. We climbed downwards, leaving the third level and reaching the second level, yet as I turned to descend farther, the suited man diverted from the stairs and walked to the second-floor entrance. “What are you doing?” the researcher asked. “There’s something I need from my room,” he answered. “What about the monster?” I asked, suppressing a shiver as a phantom of its wheezing hack reverberated through my ears. The man dramatically swung his head back and forth. “What monster? I don’t see one. I don’t hear one. I’m grabbing my things, and I’ll find everyone after.” He pulled open the door and disappeared inside the second-floor hallway’s shadows. The old man hobbled towards the door as well. “I have belongings I don’t wish to leave unattended as well.” “Grandpa, no one is going to take your stuff. We can get it later,” the teenage boy hissed, grabbing onto the elderly man’s arm. The grandfather shrugged off his grasp. “It’ll be fine. I’ll find you all later.” He, too, vanished towards his room into the inky darkness. “What do we do?” The teenage boy rushed forward and grabbed the researcher’s jacket.

The teacher wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulder and guided him forward. Lightning bolts crashed against the window’s glass and illuminated his wobbling lip as we wound farther down the spiraling steps. Coming upon the cusp between the first floor and the basement, a series of thunderous strikes brought a slicing stop to our exodus. Though muffled through the walls’ plaster, I knew immediately the source and location of the pounding; the monster was racing towards the stairwell from the first floor. A flash of white burst through the first-floor door and jumped to the level above. The rasping coughs rattled the steps as the flash charged into the second floor. “NO —” The teacher slapped her hand over the boy’s mouth. The pair shuffled closer together. I backed into the wall and held my breath. A masculine shriek engulfed the inn. The boy ricocheted in the woman’s arms as he dashed forward, only to be yanked back to safety. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes as he pushed away the woman’s hand. “Please,” he begged. “Please.” The researcher muttered a swear and adjusted his glasses, sliding the frames up the ridge of his nose.

“Stay here and coat down again.” He poured a handful of the liquid over his head and ran down the stairs...

Want to see how the story ends?

The researcher sighed. “We continue on. We can’t control their actions. We can only hope that we all escape safely,” he said. “Follow me down.” 24

The Dial's S By: Anne Johnakin Art by: Shena Han

Author’s Note: Neurodivergencies and mental illnesses are misdiagnosed and underdiagnosed for those assigned female at birth. Compounding that, women of color and other persons of color are less likely to receive an accurate diagnosis and care. Within our society, cis white men are often given the ability to present themselves as they are, a freedom that not everyone else is afforded. Being socialized as a woman leads to the concealment of neurodivergencies, hiding how much you are struggling from the world. Until one day, the seams holding you together burst.

There’s a clinking metal sound. A bird flapping its wings inside my pipes. The boy who lives three doors down calls his girlfriend in the hallway every night. He doesn’t like his roommate, and he’s developed a cough. Yesterday, it smelled like a dentist’s office here. Now, the indoor pool where I learned to swim. My fan is only six inches wide, but it’s too loud. When I turn it off, I get twenty percent of my brain back. The masks Dartmouth gave us scratch my face. I feel like I crawled into my body wrong. There’s a clinking metal sound. A bird flapping its wings inside my pipes. The boy who lives three

I am tiny. In my memory, this place was bright and shiny. I clasp my hands and keep myself pulled together. I grab the food that has the smallest crowd around it. The light on the ceiling in front of me is blinking. A friend offers to switch seats with me so I don’t have to look at it. I wear my noise-cancelling headphones, which barely make a dent in the voices compressing me from every side. The bass from the music FOCO chose makes my head feel like it’s being slammed to the ground. I’m squeezed out of my own brain. There is no room for me.

Stuck at 11 I feel like i crawled into my body wrong

I’m paying too much attention now. And they keep looking at me. I don’t think anyone believes me. When I play pong for the first time in a year and a half, the knocking of paddles against the side of the table makes me want to fold into a ball on the wet floor under the table. Instead, I go outside and cry. I envy those who are comfortable. I cry in my closet, covering my ears and rocking back and forth. There’s a ringing that’s tearing me apart. The exact frequency to make me shatter. Is this how the world always sounds or am I losing my mind? I call my mom and the ringing is gone. Sometimes, in the early morning, I think I’m in my room at home. I can convince myself that the boy in the hallway sounds like my sister. It’s quieter there, darker. I’m trying to make myself miss this place, too.

There’s a ringing that’s tearing me apart. The exact frequency to make me shatter. 26

“Notion” By: Kaitlyn Anderson 27

Untamed in the crosshairs

By: Caroline Balick Art By: Sophie Gregorace Disclaimer: Curly hair is closely tied to race. In this piece I will be speaking from personal experience as a white, Jewish, woman and my experience with having curly hair may be similar or vastly different from that of other women who have curly hair. I will reference other women’s experiences when relevant.

When I look at pictures of my younger self, I see a carefree, joyful girl looking back at me. With my uneven, jagged teeth and eccentric outfits, I was a sight to see. I look a lot different now. I’ve grown a few inches, straightened my teeth, and (barely) improved my sense of fashion. But my hair has stayed consistent. It has always been bold and difficult to brush. It is distinct and sticks out in every direction. It is unapologetic. It is both beautiful and maddening. Despite, and because of, these characteristics, my curly hair is a core part of who I am and is central to my growth from girl to woman. Today my hair can sometimes feel uncontrollable, but this is minimal compared to how unmanageable it was as a child. I couldn’t care for it myself, mostly because I was too busy attending to my extensive plastic animal collection, in addition to having little self awareness. My parents hardly knew how to tame my hair either, since brushing or combing it always led to such intense frizz that I looked like I got electrocuted. As a result, my hair often had a mind of its own. In third grade, a turning point occurred in terms of how I viewed my hair. While I was waiting for the bus to arrive, a classmate said, “Shut up, afro head.” He probably has no recollection of this

remark, but I have never forgotten it. I do not in fact have an afro, yet the negative tone struck me as an insult. The implication was that having an afro was something to be embarrassed about. Despite his harmful intentions, I now do not feel hurt by this comment, since all curly hair types are beautiful. This comment exemplifies how the interaction between race and hair is viewed by society. If I received the message that natural curly hair is undesirable through this one comment, then what is it like for women of color who hear similar messages? Nevertheless, his comment caused me to feel an awareness of my hair rather than just passively existing with it. I figured that if he was focusing on my hair in a negative context, then everyone else was too. For the next 5 years, I wore my hair up. Whether my hair was in a ponytail or a braid didn’t matter to me; I just needed to hide it. I ensured my hair would not be perceived by others in order to protect myself from hurtful comments and looks. On the rare occasion I wore my hair down, I straightened it, which I only did because my classmates recommended it. If people ever caught a glimpse of my natural hair down, they would be shocked, asking why I didn’t show it more. 28

“It was easier to hide; to not constantly feel ashamed of something I couldn’t control.” I reasoned that it was easier to tie it back every day. It was easier to hide, to not constantly feel ashamed of something I couldn’t control. It was easier to prevent scrutiny from occurring in the first place rather than find the confidence to ignore it. Few girls in my grade had hair as curly as mine. I just wanted to fit in. I was also ashamed of my curls due to my Jewishness. I frequently received comments saying I “looked Jewish” since I have dark features and curly hair. My hometown is homogenous: very white, very straight, and very Christian. I’ve heard almost every stereotypical anti-semitic statement you can think of. This only heightened my awareness of what others thought of me. Sometimes my peers told others with curly hair that their hair “looked Jewish.” This especially occurred when their curls resided near their temples, slightly resembling peyot, which are the curly sideburns traditionally worn by orthodox Jewish men. Not only did I feel my curls made me physically stand out, but these remarks also reminded me that my religion differentiated me from everyone else. These comments concerning my religion in addition to ones about my hair in general significantly affected my relationship with my hair. My hair never felt like it was mine, since my perception of it was so easily swayed by others’ opinions. The media’s representation of curly hair also contributed to my self-consciousness. For example, in movies or TV shows that feature a woman undergoing a transformation from 29

“ugly” to “pretty,” she essentially straightens her curly hair and removes her glasses. Teen magazines provide hair care and styling tips that rarely apply to me. According to shampoo and conditioner advertisements, frizz is the enemy. As an impressionable young girl consuming these notions, I could not help but feel embarrassed. Despite my Jewishness, as a white woman I feel the pressure to conform to beauty standards to a lesser extent than women of color who have curly hair. In a BYRDIE article titled “30 Women of Color Share Their Most Personal Natural Hair Stories,” a Black woman named Regine Christie shared, “I never fit into the box of Eurocentric beauty, but as I grew older, I realized I didn’t have to. My natural hair, kinky and coarse, has never been glamorized in the media or society. Over the years, I developed a tendency to question my self-worth and the value of my hair. ‘Am I only pretty with a weave in my hair?’” Women of color seldom grow up seeing their natural hair represented in mainstream media, which significantly impacts their self-image. The pressures to conform to white Western European beauty standards vary across all women, especially when it comes to hair. While my experiences are not commensurable with those of women of color with curly hair, both of our experiences showcase different ways in which curly hair falls outside the societal beauty standards. Straight hair represents being put togeth-

er, while curly hair represents dishevelment. Many wavy- or curly-haired girls I knew growing up straightened their hair every day. They would wake up hours before school started, burning and destroying their natural curls with little concern for doing so in a healthy way. Just like me, they wanted to fit into society’s ideal beauty standards. Thankfully, I am lazy, so I would just tie my hair back instead of straightening it consistently. But too many girls permanently damage their hair and reinforce a negative self-image in order to fit these standards. Society’s view on naturally curly hair contributes to discrimination towards women of color. For instance, Black women in the Army were not allowed to wear their hair naturally until a few years ago.[1] For many women of color, their hair may put their place at school or work at risk. In 2017, a charter school in Boston nearly suspended two girls when they wore their hair in box braids, claiming they violated the school’s dress code.[2] Additionally, in 2016, the Perception Institute conducted “The ‘Good Hair’ Study” which found that, “A majority of people, regardless of race and gender, hold some bias towards women of color based on their hair.”[3] These are just some of many examples of how women with curly hair are not a monolith and are treated differently by society depending on their various identities. Other identity aspects lead people with curly hair to have contrasting experiences. For instance, traditional curly hair stereotypes are gendered. Men with curly hair do not seem to have the same experiences as women with curly

hair. Rarely do men with curly hair feel inclined to straighten or significantly alter it, and many mainstream media roles are played by curly-haired white men. Male curly hair in mainstream media might represent the down to earth, funny guy (think Jonah Hill or Will Ferrell). Men with curly blond hair represent the cool surfer or skateboarder (think Matthew McConaughey). While men with curly hair may experience similar feelings of self consciousness, they are not pressured to conform to the same mmainstream beauty standards as women are, nor is their worth based so heavily on appearances. I am very grateful that I have a beneficial relationship with my hair now, but not every woman with curly hair is able to feel this way. Women of color, for example, have to hide their hair as a form of protection, to avoid harassment, or to keep their job. One may have trouble loving their hair simply due to a lack of confidence and may never find it. Although my relationship with my hair is positive, millions of women continue to be negatively impacted by unattainable beauty standards promoted by mainstream media and the beauty industry. Becoming comfortable with my hair didn’t

“While my experiences are not commensurable with those of women of color with curly hair, both of our experiences showcase different ways in which curly hair falls outside the societal beauty standards.” 30

happen overnight. Eventually, I became exhausted from always hiding an essential part of myself. My hatred for changing myself in order to appease others overshadowed my hatred for my hair. I pushed my comfort zone, steadily growing comfortable with wearing my hair down in new hairstyles that made me feel secure. I love my hair, but this feeling didn’t come from some grand epiphany or convincing from others. It was a slow, gradual process that involved determining which products, hairstyles, and routines did and didn’t work for me. My purpose transitioned from pleasing others to simply feeling confident.

Instead of viewing my hair’s uniqueness as embarrassing, I now see it as something to be proud of. Works Cited [1] Siraad Dirshe, “Black Women Speak Up About Their Struggles Wearing Natural Hair In the Workplace,” Essence, October 24, 2020, https://www.essence.com/hair/black-women-natural-hair-discrimination-workplace/. [2] Kay Lazar, “Black Malden charter students punished for braided hair extensions,” The Boston Globe, May 11, 2017, https://www. bostonglobe.com/metro/2017/05/11/blackstudents-malden-school-who-wear-braids-facepunishment-parents-say/stWDlBSCJhw1zocUWR1QMP/story.html#comments. [3] Shammara Lawrence, “Study Shows Bias Against Black Women’s Natural Hair,” Teen Vogue, February 6, 2017, https://www.teenvogue.com/story/black-women-natural-hair-bias-study-results.

CROSS CULTURAL AFFECTIONS “As a Greek American who has grown up in Greece her whole life, I’ve always had a very layered relationship with affection.”

By: Michaela Gregoriou

he pulse of the music vibrates beneath your feet. The revolving strobe lights occasionally flash across your vision, blinding. Your heart, a thing so heavy, constraining against emotion. You can’t see him yet, but you know he’s waiting for you, anticipating your arrival. After all, he invited you here, initiating the “Wanna go out tomorrow?” text... 32

You don’t know this boy very well, but you met him at a party a few weeks ago and bonded over the fact that he wanted to drunk-snack on cucumbers (which you found weird but kind of charming). As you round the corner, air flows through your lungs, thick with cigarette smoke and excitement. Your gazes meet, and he smiles at you, shy and boyish. Approaching the table, strewn with tall glasses of vodka lemon, you notice the rest of his friends. Nerves simmer beneath the surface. You hug, and you notice the smell of his cologne — a detriment to your already erratic heartbeat. And then, as you step back to meet his friends, his hand descends to the small of your back, as if it belongs there. His hand pushes, guiding you when you do not need to be guided, nudging you in a direction that you were already intending to approach. You inwardly scoff. Subtly, his touch makes you feel like a child, incompetent and docile, being pushed around. As you try to pinpoint why such a touch would bother you in the first place (after all, you want him to touch you), you reason that if you dared to place a hand on his lower back, he’d probably think you had grown another head. He would have probably shrugged your hand away, or laughed at your effort. And you would have probably felt uncomfortable, touching someone in such a way, as if to command their movement. It’s not so much the attention that bothers you, but rather the type of attention. The coddling, imposing kind of attention, which places you in submission to his touch. The expectation that in the uncomfortable “getting to know you” stage, a woman should depend on a man to make the first move and lead the relationship. The assumption that you are the puppet to his desires. You are a sixteen-year-old girl that cannot understand why such a simple touch can unearth so many questions, that cannot understand why she feels so isolated in her displeasure. After all, she should want his touch, right? Other boys touch girls this way all the time, and they don’t seem to mind. In fact, both parties seem to enjoy it. But what if, to you, such a touch represents something larger, something deeper than just a guiding hand in a nightclub? What if it represents your forced subservience to men, not because you like it or because it “feels natural” but because it makes things easier? What if it represents your silence to patriarchal conventions that bother you but are more convenient to ignore?

di by t tha touch cult not so touch bothe but rat context touch

I have often found myself isillusioned the politics at dictate and dating ture... It’s o much the itself that ers me, ther the of the h.”

As a Greek American who has grown up in Greece her whole life, I’ve always had a very layered relationship with affection, having to reconcile my instincts with what is socially acceptable. In Greece, that means reluctantly tolerating touches that perpetuate a patriarchal system. In America, that means holding back when I would otherwise reach out because of the fear that my affection could be taken the “wrong” way. In fact, as my perception of the American “personal bubble” crystallized, Greek displays of affection and touch began to elicit a novel fascination: greetings of kissing each other on the cheek, hugging someone goodbye, squeezing someone’s arm when they told a good joke. Such behaviors are weaved into Greek culture so seamlessly that it would be impossible for a Greek to imagine an interaction without them. Greeks are expressive and loud and caring, and in no other way is that expressed so strongly as through their touch. And yet, what do Greek norms of affection reveal about the perception of women in Greek society? The perception of men? Oftentimes, I have found myself struggling with the desire to form meaningful, affectionate relationships with men, only to be disillusioned by the politics that dictate touch and dating culture. It’s not so much the touch itself that bothers me, but rather the context of the touch. Why is it that men feel entitled to cross that invisible barrier first when things are still new and unfamiliar? Why is it that certain touches or “moves” feel so rehearsed and contrived? Why do I end up feeling like an object, like my personality is inconsequential to his interest? Touch, aside from being mutually consensual, should feel natural, rather than a forced assertion of “masculinity.” Of course, I understand that we have all been socialized to operate under gendered body language, and that it can be difficult to pinpoint how independently motivated our behavior is from these norms. For instance, I cannot say whether that boy put his hands on my lower back because he genuinely wanted to or because he felt entitled to that touch. That being said, a man is free to act as stereotypically “masculine” as he pleases, and a woman is free to act as stereotypically “feminine” as she pleases. My suggestion is not for women or men to reverse the norms that they’ve become accustomed to, but rather to acknowledge the gendered confines that patriarchy places on touch and to question the authenticity of affection within these confines.

Frostbite By: Anonymous Art by: Gaia Yun

Winter’ inter’s Day Day It’s as simple as going out in the cold, when your skin prickles and the cold pushes its way down your throat. Many times, I have stood, shivering, pushing through the slow numbing of my toes into unrecognizable lumps and the sharper ache in my hands. I drift somewhere between the line of discomfort and pain, sometimes unsure which one currently holds sway over me. A tension falls over me that I learn to ignore, one that I only remember for a moment while it’s slipping away.

Speech My voice sounds choked when I talk, like I’m forcing it out. Perhaps this isn’t always the case, but there are mines buried in the landscapes of conversations, ones that I find myself falling into. I speak, moving faster by the moment, trying to unrun something, and I begin to lose track of the amount of times that I stumble, that I break the rigid script I have set for myself to follow, but I feel the wounds from them all the same, carved into the flesh of my mind like battle scars. I lay with them after, my eyes open and staring. I hear my voice, choppy, breathy, running over its mines, over and over again in my head. My train of thought shatters, my mind goes fuzzy white with pain as the remaining shreds of my confidence are sliced away. Next time I go to speak, these sensations will flash right before my eyes.

Disease The power of disease seems to rise every year, or maybe I’m just more aware of it. I learn as I grow, and what I learn is that every inch of the world has the potential to kill you. The forests that were once a friend are full of creatures that sink poison into veins. The places I tread through in my childhood are no longer safe. Every new location is full of deadly potential. I see my grandparent’s attic, once a vast space of unknown potential, white walls and floors covered in artifacts: a typewriter, a mattress, a Christmas tree. Now it is a place of dirt, the bodies of insects, unknown substances that I sweep away with my mouth closed tight, afraid to breathe. I try to memorize every touch, let every instance of danger crowd the spaces of my mind. I walk with my hands trapped close to my body, where it is safe. The ritual of food, of eating is fraught, of rubbing sweat from my face. Everything that was once easy is risky. There’s a part of me that doesn’t remember what it’s like not to be afraid.

Love It feels odd to admit that I do not have a full understanding of the concept of love, that what I had was discomfort that passed as feelings. When I was younger I would look at people who had never shown a bit of interest and choose them. My crushes were sites of misery, places where I built up my conviction that this was how the world must run while creating the perfect place to tear chunks of myself away. I burned in hatred, sank in despair, believing this was how my life was supposed to be. That love was pain, and that not to feel pain meant not to love. Looking at another person and turning them into a manifestation of my own self loathing just felt right. Love is hard, isn’t it?

“The very act of living, even Self in your safest place, hurts.”

It’s hard to find the concept of self. Sometimes it is easy, and just for a second, a clear image of the person you are, or is it the person you want to be? The image fades; you are blind to this once again. It is uncomfortable to hate yourself;, really, it is uncomfortable to hate anything, but it is probably most uncomfortable when you have to always stay with this person you dislike. You aren’t really sure why you dislike them anymore, just that you do, and that whoever they are, they are irreversibly lost, eternally unfixable. You stagnate, waist deep in quicksand, low enough that you can’t take a clear look around you. You are a ghost to everyone and yourself, a creature just floating forward, unable to see. You are aware of how uncomfortable your body is, how uncomfortable your mind is. The very act of living, even in your safest place, hurts.

Breakdown and Recovery I have learned long ago to live with pressure. I assume everyone does. Like the cold on a winter’s day, I push it aside and sometimes I manage to forget it. I imagine if every day was cold, that every day was winter, I would be able to forget that too. Is there a breaking point, the place where you can no longer stand these invisible forces, when your life becomes unbearable if you spend another second with them? I can’t say. My anxiety, my hatred, all feel natural to me, parts that I know are wrong because I’ve been told they are. I wonder what would have happened if this hadn’t happened, if they had remained nameless. Would they blend into the background, just a part of the scenery that my mind’s eye glosses over, again and again? I wonder if there are other parts of me I cannot yet name. Is it truly possible to escape, or do you wait for it all to shatter around you? Why is it that these ideas remain so unrecognizable? That discomfort hides? Why is it so hard to notice that we’re hurting? Where do we learn to set aside our discomforts and keep moving until our minds become unrecognizable and we don’t know how to fix them? Do we talk, share, tell each other what’s wrong until we can better map the human mind? I suppose it’s been done before. Like when someone says they’re cold and you realize that, maybe, you’ve been cold too, all along.

How can we speak of the senses without an hon-

orable mention to the searing, visceral rage which consumes so many of us as we watch reproductive healthcare rights get stripped away from millions each day? This is nothing new. However, the rate at which these infractions are occurring has not been this dramatic since the historic 1973 Roe v. Wade decision. This year, 2021, is shaping up to be the most hostile year in recent history for the defense of reproductive healthcare. Already, we have seen a disproportionate uptick in the number of attacks against our rights to legal, accessible, affordable, safe, and equitable abortions and other forms of reproductive healthcare across the country.[1] Notably, the six-week abortion ban in Texas has millions worried for the Roe v. Wade precedent, and we have seen ripples of that bill which we have seen extend into our own New Hampshire political arena at Dartmouth College.

According to the Guttmacher Institute, there have been 561 abortion restrictions — including 165 bans — proposed in 47 states, in the mere six months between January and June 2021. What’s more, 16 states have actually enacted 83 of those restrictions, which includes 10 bans.[2] It is important to note, this is not even the most comprehensive tally of restrictions to reproductive rights occurring. These numbers do not cover, for instance, what has since happened in New Hampshire or Texas. On that note, let’s revisit the situation in Texas. The U.S. Supreme Court allowed the ban, Senate Bill 8, to go into effect on Sept. 1, 2021, following a challenge against it on the grounds of the Roe precedent. The bill effectively bans all abortion after six weeks of pregnancy, containing no exceptions for circumstances including rape, incest, or fetal health conditions which result in the fetus being “incompatible with life after birth.”[3] Bans similar to this one are commonplace (although the timeline is more conservative than most others of its nature), except

Policies Off Our Bodies: Bodies : Abortion Restrictions Do Not Save Lives

THEY HURT THEM By: Zoe McGuirk Art by: Uma Alagappan CW: mentions of abortion, rape for this kicker: the enforcement of this ban relies on private citizens to seek lawsuits and sue for injunctions against abortions. Anyone who aids a pregnant individual in seeking an abortion — even Uber and taxi drivers — can be sued.[4] This is bullshit. In June 2021, Republican Governor Chris Sununu signed into law a 24-week abortion ban in New Hampshire. This ban, which was swept into the Governor’s budget, also requires expensive ultrasounds prior to abortion at any stage in the pregnancy, and it imposes criminal charges against abortion providers. The language is vague, however. It also allows either parent (if married; if not married, then only the abortion-seeker), as well as the abortion-seeker’s parents (if the individual is a minor), to file lawsuits for psychological and/or physical injuries, though the law does not specify who or what party is to be sued.[5]

a refreshed sense of hope following the 24-week ban instituted this year. Some New Hampshire Republicans have gone as far as to express the hope for the enactment of the state’s very own incentive system for private individuals to sue those who seek, aid in seeking, or provide abortions. In recent news, New Hampshire has defunded Planned Parenthood! Mind you, they provide services such as ultrasounds! Which are required under NH law prior to abortions! The hypocrisy!! Furthermore, abortions are not even funded by the state, nor were they prior to the cancellation of the state’s contracts with Planned Parenthood. Here’s the backstory… The New Hampshire Executive Council is a body composed of five elected officials; each represents an equal amount of the NH population. They are meant to keep the Governor in check, and they deal with much of the state’s finances in regards to state contracts, etc. In September 2021, the Council voted to cut contracts with three reproductive healthcare providers in the state: Lovering Health Center, Equality Health Center, and Planned Parenthood of Northern New England (all abortion providers, though the abortion services are not state funded). The very Executive Councilor who represents our population of Dartmouth students, Joe Kenney of Wakefield, was one of four members of the council who voted to reject the contracts.[6] The only

This. Is. Bullshit.

A fun fact: in 2020, New Hampshire proposed a similar six-week abortion ban. Right here, under our noses. Now, it didn’t make it out of the then Democrat-controlled House of Representatives, but its sponsors have said that it will be refiled in the next session, with House Republicans instilled with

Democrat (and woman) on the council, Cinde Warmington of Concord, was the sole vote in support of the contracts. Even the four Republicans who voted to terminate the contracts are out of line with their party’s current leader, GOP Governor Chris Sununu. Sununu is cited as claiming himself to be a “pro-choice governor,” though when confronted with the choice to have these contracts come under discussion again, Sununu has failed to act.[7] The central theme throughout the entirety of this shithole: hypocrisy and a complete and utter lack of empathy. Take, for instance, the fact that the number and frequency of unsafe abortions is proven to increase when policies restrict safe, legal abortion access; that denying pregant individuals of abortions has been proven to result in new or worsening mental health conditions, notably depression and/ or anxiety; that restriction and banning of abortions disproportionately affects queer and LGBTQ individuals, individuals of color, individuals in low-income areas, and those in rural or medically underserved communities.[8] If those in power who are responsible for these attacks on reproductive rights actually cared about the “pro-life cause,” they would consider these truths, and invest more attention and political capital into currently underfunded and mishandled social welfare programs. These include housing, education, infrastructure, transportation, childcare, the foster care system, and yes, healthcare. Abortion restrictions do not save lives.

They hurt them. [1]Planned Parenthood, “Timeline of Attacks on Abortion,” (Planned Parenthood Action Fund), https://www.plannedparenthoodaction.org/issues/ abortion/timeline-attacks-abortion. [2]Elizabeth Nash and Lauren Cross, “2021 Is on Track to Become the Most Devastating Antiabortion State Legislative Session in Decades,” (Guttmacher Institute, July 9, 2021), https://www. guttmacher.org/article/2021/04/2021-track-become-most-devastating-antiabortion-state-legislative-session-decades. [3]Relating To Abortion, Including Abortions After Detection of an Unborn Child’s Heartbeat; Authorizing a Private Civil Right of Action, Texas Senate Bill 8, 87th Legislature, (Texas 2021). [4]Michael Hiltzik, “Column: That Texas Anti-Abortion Law Is so Much Worse than You Imagined. Here’s How,” Los Angeles Times (Los Angeles Times, October 8, 2021), https://www.latimes.com/ business/story/2021-10-08/texas-anti-abortion-lawmuch-worse-than-you-thought. [4]Annmarie Timmins, “Ripples of New Texas Abortion Law Make Their Way to N.H.,” (New Hampshire Public Radio, September 8, 2021), https://www.nhpr.org/nh-news/2021-09-08/ripplesof-new-texas-abortion-law-make-their-way-to-n-h. [5]Paula Tracy, “N.H. Executive Council Votes to Defund Planned Parenthood - Conway Daily Sun. N.H. Executive Council Votes to Defund Planned Parenthood” (The Conway Daily Sun, September 16, 2021), https://www.conwaydailysun.com/n-h-executive-council-votes-to-defundplanned-parenthood/article_fbdfef6c-1678-11ec9c53-c3433f7ff91c.html. [6]Josh Rogers and Rick Ganley, “Where Does Gov. Sununu Stand on Abortion and Systemic Racism?,” (New Hampshire Public Radio, June 17, 2021), https://www.nhpr.org/nh-news/2021-06-16/ where-does-gov-sununu-stand-on-abortion-and-systemic-racism. [7]“Abortion and Mental Health,” American Psychological Association (American Psychological Association), https://www.apa.org/pi/women/programs/abortion/.

“This is who I am” Laverene Cox “By all means marry; if you get a good wife, you’ll ecome happy; if you get a bad one, you’ll beome a philosopher.” -Socrates “Virtue can nly flourish among equals.” -Mary Woltencraft “History will be kind to me for I ntend to write it.” -Winston Churchill “I’m ough, I’m ambitious, and I know exactly what want. If that makes me a bitch, okay.” -Maonna “All human beings, by nature, desire o know...All men by nature desire knowldge.” -Aristotle “I have heard their groans nd sighs, and seen their tears, and I would ive every drop of blood in my veins to free hem.” -Harriet Tubman “Who teaches the

Ode to the Male Historians

He’s got this chicken scratch handwriting. Hieroglyphics would’ve been more clear. Squinting won’t help, so I cave. “What did I miss last class?”

He’s eager and all too ready. He attended class; he took the notes. He says he’ll catch me up on what I missed last class.

By: Ari Rojas

Art by: Sophia Gregorace

Men model the passage of time, Or so that’s his story. “Just think about it,” he says. What luck, these men are the products Of some kind of divine intervention.

“Look at the creators, Zeus and God, just to name a few. It’s like every origin story under the sun.” “But Gaia!” I almost interject.

“Then there are the prophets: Mathew, Mark, Luke, Peter, John, James,” I’m looking at you.

“There’s the philosophers too: Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, A dynasty in their own right.” “Wollstonecraft,” I’d like to add, but don’t. “Most importantly, there are heroes. Each born possessing greatness Destined to dispel his generation’s greatest calamity.”

Cla u Col dette vin

dra

san

I sigh and let him finish. Here’s to the half-hour I won’t get back. Here’s to the forgotten ladies of history.

Cas

Wholeheartedly he christens them Ubermenschs. I half expect his search history to read “How to become an ubermensch”

M Woll ary stonec raft

His favorite is Churchill, He’s even got a mini-bust of him in his dorm. He got it last summer at a museum.

Crash Course

Seasonal Dep

When I moved to campus in September of 2020,

I recall hearing a myriad of vague warnings about how cold the winters in Hanover could be and how little the sun shines in the dead of December and January. I never took it too seriously, convincing myself that it couldn’t possibly be as awful as everyone claimed. Despite all my refusals to lend weight to these concerns, I ended up spending almost the entirety of my freshman winter holed up in my room wondering why my brain wouldn’t work the way I needed it to, why hanging out with my friends didn’t even really make me happy, and why even just getting out of bed required an Olympic effort.

“

It wasn’t until much later that I realized that I was struggling with seasonal depression. Seasonal depression looks different for everybody, but it is usually characterized by the same symptoms as other forms of depression: loss of interest in activities you usually enjoy, changes in appetite, and change in sleep patterns (exacerbated by the lack of daylight).[1] Like other forms of depression, it is not always clear to yourself that what you’re experiencing isn’t quite right. The trickiest part about seasonal depression is that your whole body screams to crawl into bed and hide from the world, but that’s the last thing you need. For me, I started falling behind on my coursework and gradually stopped going to classes. My situation was partly impacted by Dartmouth’s

strict COVID-19 regulations last winter — but unfortunately, a nearly-normal campus this winter can’t fix everything. For those of you who have never spent a winter in the New England area (or another equally desolate place), I want you to be prepared for these new feelings that you may not be entirely equipped to deal with. Sometimes, it doesn’t fully register how much you miss the feeling of the sun warming your face until you experience the first day of clear, 70 degree weather after four months of dreadful winter. You don’t register how sad and numb you have been until you start finally feeling something again. It’s important to note that, if you have prior history with depression or other mood disorders like I do, you are more likely to experience seasonal depression.[2] My prior history made it especially difficult for me to differentiate between my usual struggles and the added burden of Hanover winters Struggling with seasonal depression is nothing to be ashamed of; there’s no reason to be angry with yourself when your body is reacting to changing seasons with less and less daylight every day. Almost nothing is more evolutionarily natural. Although it is scary, it is nothing to be afraid of, but keep in mind some things you can do to help yourself through this.

Or When the Seasons

Mental

101

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a lt h

By: Raegan Boettcher Art by: Maanasi Shyno

If on some random, cold, and snowy day, you find yourself wanting to just curl back up in bed and hide away, or find that you can’t find the motivation to finish that problem set, I encourage you to take a step back and give yourself space to feel what you’re feeling. Instead of becoming frustrated with yourself, take stock of your emotions and give yourself time to work through them.

“

Emotions are messy, and dedicating some time to parsing through them can help to clarify the root of your struggles. From here, you can begin to seek out solutions.

Make You Crash

Maybe you just have a mild case of the winter blues or midterm stress is getting you down, but if you feel that you may be struggling with something a little more serious, then that’s okay too. There’s a silver lining to all of this: you are not alone and there is no shortage of resources available to you. The first step, and perhaps the most important, is reaching out to talk to someone. This could be a close personal friend, your mom, your dad, or other guardian, any trusted person with whom you can openly discuss your concerns. Sometimes this can be the most difficult part, but for me, talking to my close friends about my struggles with depression is what motivated me to seek out further help. It’s always nice to know that someone is in your corner while you navigate this unsteady territory. If you feel that, for any reason, professional help isn’t in the cards for you, there are a few alternative options that don’t require any official attention or diagnosis. One option to consider are sun lamps, which have been shown to help alleviate symptoms of seasonal depression. Sun lamps can also help to reset your sleep schedule if the short winter days are preventing you from sleeping well. Getting up a little bit earlier in the day, soon after the sun rises, can also help offset this problem. Try establishing a good, realistic routine for yourself to stay on top of your academic responsibilities without overwhelming yourself. Humans are social creatures at heart; though we often love to isolate ourselves, we need other people to thrive, so making an effort to grab lunch or study in the library with someone is a great option. It’s startling how much better you can feel after just making some light conversation with someone. You can try going out on occasional walks, doing some morning yoga to get your body moving and your blood flowing, putting on a face mask and watching your favorite movie or Netflix series — all small, basic things that you can do to center yourself a little bit and give yourself some time to settle your emotions. It seems small, but no time that you take caring for yourself is wasted. 45

If you are open to seeking professional help, then reaching out to Dick’s House Counseling Center can also be a good first step. Admittedly, Dick’s House isn’t the most helpful resource, but reaching out can be better than struggling silently. There are also many counselors and therapists in the Hanover area that may be able to help you if you feel that Dick’s House isn’t fulfilling your needs. Alternative methods are a great option, but sometimes there is no replacement for professional guidance. College is already hard; there’s no use making it more difficult by not attending to your own struggles. Even if you’re like me and tend to stubbornly ignore the advice people give you, I hope that you keep this in the back of your mind just in case. One day, when you’re simmering in those winter blues, trying to kick your mind back into gear, think of this.

“

Remember to have patience with yourself and dedicate time to processing your emotions. Your brain is doing the best that it knows how — be kind to yourself. e Dis ffectiv n PsyA l a a n c eri easo r [1] “S SAD),” Am , Octobe n . ( o i r t t e cia hia ry ord c Asso /www.psyc resi r t a i ch ep s:/ er , http ilies/d 2020 ients-fam tive-disord t c a e p ff / s a g or Di aleason ective sion/s asonal Aff stitute of e . In [2] “S National ps://www t t ,” r h e , i l d h or ub alt al He alth/p Ment ih.gov/he ective-dis ff n . a h l a nim /season s cation r e ord

SENSATION PLAYLIST (22W) By: Sophie Williams Playlist by: Elaine Mei and Sophie Williams

“Words make you think a thought. Music makes you feel a feeling. A song is a thought you can feel.” E. Y. Harburg

Recently I told someone that I didn’t listen to any music for over a year because I didn’t want to feel anything. I said it to make them laugh, which did happen. And it wasn’t meant to be that deep of a confession. The circumstances weren’t that deep, exactly. I was taking a few leave terms from college, and I started spending the majority of my listening time on audiobooks and podcasts. Without schoolwork and readings, I was looking for information. I had been reading, and when I started listening, it was exciting — even irresistible — to be learning so much so effortlessly. (And to be developing parasocial relationships with podcast hosts. Nima Shirazi, for example.) I still listened to the Spare Rib playlists; I still played the guitar and started albums sometimes, and I went to church for the organ and the choir. Still, maybe it was a truer exposé than I should’ve been speaking so lightly about. I was at home; I spent a lot of time by myself. And the times I did turn to music, instead of talking, would put me in an odd space. There is much to learn and think about, and it felt better to fill my head with new concepts and history, directly offered from others’ speaking voices, than to return to sounds I knew. (I think I considered music an experience, but not an education.) Podcasts deal with the world and other people. Music offered more space to have a self. And there certainly were things I was avoiding feeling. I did listen to music a few times. I’d be in the car, alone. A song would play. And I would try to think of how to describe it. The same idea kept coming to me, then and now — Something like being submerged in a bath saturated with epsom salt, where the water’s lifting all these tiny rocks out of your skin. Something purgative. An obvious thing that I find incredible is that everyone can listen to the same music. It sounds so personal, and yet it’s produced by someone else, and can be consumed by almost anyone. Instrumental and verbal lines resonate at different frequencies, at different times and for different people — but there’s a common perception, too. Some music is widely recognized for its emotional impact — and almost everyone has some music that means more to them than others, and certain music that means the most. As life goes on and we

encounter new trials and go through new things, lyrical and musical phrases suddenly make more sense (or make sense differently). “Making sense” — It’s an interesting construction, referring to when something is in a state of being clearly understood. Sensations don’t really have explanations; they can only be described. There is no choice in feeling; it is all automatic absorption and reception. In this way the senses are clear. The simplest words are made bitter, agonizing; the melodies are truly disturbing/moving. Music’s not wicked, but it is manipulative. It pulls us through experiences, it draws out emotions and swirls them around. It creates coldness in our spines, empty spaces in our stomachs, sudden knots in our chests or throats. It compels us to sing, urges us to move, forces us into energy or peace. (There are chord progression for all those things.) It’s calculated phrasing, but it flows as if spontaneous. These sounds we subject ourselves to get stuck in our heads, not only as earworms, but fully coded into our memories, songs and albums writing themselves in our heads as people and places that we want to — have to — return to. We mentally replay them, we hum them, we miss them, we listen again — and we constantly find new ones. The songs in this list aren’t meticulously curated. Many of them mention feeling, affection, sensation, sense or sensitivity directly, and all of them allude to it, like all music does. It was a collaborative effect. Headphones music, party music, performance music… At the end of the day it’s all composition. I don’t know. If I had to write an explanation about what, if anything, is singular about human beings as a species, the thing called music would just about cover it. I would like to take a class in the spring that’s cross-listed in the music and linguistics departments (The Language-Music Connection); maybe after that I’ll have a more precise grasp on what I’m intuitively gesturing at now. I could keep going down new lines and reflecting on the sensual impact of music for hours, but the general idea’s been given. The Harburg quote at the beginning reflects it concisely. I don’t really know what we’d do without music, even if for a year I didn’t know what to do with it.

How to describe it... Something...purgative.

Honoring their 69th anniversary in operation, the all-male Society of the Missing Rib (SMR) at Dartmouth has

sought to renew its vows of honor and respectability on campus. In cooperation with SMR, Spare Rib is happy to present, for the first time in publication history, the “Gentleman’s Pledge,” which chronicles the SMR’s dedication to an equal, manlier world. Below are the original ten points from 1952, along with several add-ons from current members — whose contributions were conducted after several shots of Evan Williams bourbon — with the intention, as they proclaimed under intoxication, to “account for modernity.”

The Makings of a Proper Gentleman

A fine tie demonstrates a vital fitness of character.

Every man should possess at least one fine tie. The tie may be either black or red. Upon usage, every man should not only appraise the advantage his tie provides to his outfit but also appraise the tightness of his tie. A true gentleman should be aware of the constant restraint a proper tie places around his neck.

II.

Compliments are a gentleman’s best costume.

Besides keeping a pristine wardrobe, a true gentleman takes care to groom his social repertoire. Upon adulthood, a man should expect to give himself to society without desiring much in return. He should move to give compliments. His surety, above all, lies in the frequency of his compliments. He should, at all times, assert himself to the object of his admiration, in spite of any silence or signs of discomfort he may face, as silence and signs of discomfort indicate only that he has not made enough compliments to ensure an acquaintance.

IV.

III.

Every man should aim to have a personality, at least one.

Many studies show that it is important for people to have personalities. It is no less important for a man. Every man, before entering society, should spend ample time developing a comprehensive backstory. This backstory should be as exhilarating as it is slightly below average, as the imagination can only go so far. The personality of a true gentleman should always be based on the current object of his attention, so as to amplify the potency of his compliments. If a man should be unconfident in the success of one personality in the pursuit of his object, he should feel free to cultivate as many personalities as he would like, switching out props as necessary. Popular props include: a smile, a neat whiskey, and a wedding band.

Announcing one’s attraction as much as possible will attract every possible partner.

A man’s relevance is in the multitude of his words. As with compliments, increased attention will be sure to ensnare a romantic object. A true gentleman should know that he is entitled to attention as well as attraction, so he should never hesitate to make his advances.

True vice is vulnerability. In spite of the necessity to cultivate a personality, a man should always remember that self-preservation takes precedence. A true gentleman, in the course of all relationships, should never disclose any feelings that would put him at risk of vulnerability. These feelings include but are not limited to: doubt, envy, fear, sadness, happiness, and love. If a man should disclose any such feelings, members of the Society have vowed in some manner to hold him responsible.

The

G entleman’s Pledge

By: Serena Suson and Sadie Weil Art by: Chloe Jung

VI.

Conduct within the Dartmouth Community and Beyond Brotherhood preserves a gentleman’s soul.

Every gentleman should have some form of male influence present in his life. The Society of the Missing Rib serves the interest of all Dartmouth gents during their time at the College, providing a space for manly confidence and camaraderie. Members shall be like brothers, bound together by covenant. They shall firmly grasp each other’s manhood, exclusively showing each other the most intimate respect.

VII.

Compromise preserves order. Disagreement will inevitably arise among men with varying degrees of social experience. The Society of the Missing Rib welcomes those from all different backgrounds but shall ultimately uphold the principles of a brotherly order. A true gentleman does not cause his brothers discomfort. A true gentleman, in keeping with his covenant, relinquishes his independence to the collective. A true gentleman does not define himself outside of brotherhood.

VIII.

Order preserves security. When in accordance with his brothers, members may always be assured they can rely on each other for safety and security. In the upkeep of a male alliance, members shall ensure they will never encounter discrimination or endure prolonged silence. Without this alliance, no gentleman can be sure of his social standing. The Society of the Missing Rib aims to preserve the dignity of all gentlemen, to preserve the role of the gentleman as the executor of all order.

IX.

Security preserves balance.

The Society of the Missing Rib recognizes the value of security. With the security that members promise each other, the Society of the Missing Rib aims to extend the same courtesy to all facets of the Dartmouth community. The Society of the Missing Rib recognizes that men must be protected first, if the rest of the world is to be protected at all.

Balance preserves a gentleman’s world.

The Society of the Missing Rib stands eternally to represent the ideals of a better world. First and foremost, as peacemakers, the Society of the Missing Rib understands the role of the gentleman in preserving liberty and order. The balance that the Society of the Missing Rib upholds assures the development of proper gentlemen at Dartmouth and beyond.

A 2021 Addition to The Gentlemen’s Pledge

I. II. III.

Adhere to a hierarchy of introduction

Ignore her friends of different races. Bonus points if you insist on hugging her gay male friends.

Only approach her if she is protected

Treat her straight male friends like her father. All women should be protected by men, and obviously men should garner more respect than her. So, yes, go ahead and introduce yourself casually to them first, and take a sudden change of tone with her.

Alcohol is your best friend

Coax her into playing too much pong. Your drunk physics are almost as cool as your econ major. The alcohol helps make you seem a little more bearable, maybe even a little more attractive too.

Execute enchanting dance moves

Insist on inserting yourself unwarranted into closed-off dance circles. Nothing beats the fun of simultaneously showing off your killer moves and attempting to prod your way into a group of girls enjoying their night.

Make sure to catch a glimpse of who you are taking home with you

Shine lights on faces when meeting for the first time outside parties. Nothing feels sexier than being scoped out following a sweaty basement. Check to make sure they can handle the clamminess of the frat basement with more grace, more deodorant, and fewer pit stains than you. The bar really is on the basement.

Maintain polite eye contact

Stare at boobs instead of the face when making conversation. In the words of Shakespeare, they are the eyes of the body. Anyone would feel respected by your constant eye contact with their chest and will find even your mundane small talk more entertaining.

IV. V. VI.

MIXED FEELINGS Identity, Blood, and Indigeneity By: Kaitlyn Anderson

Art by: Sarah Berman

When I tell someone that I’m mixed-race, I can feel them studying me in order to make sense of that statement. Usually, after some contemplation, they announce that they can tell — they say my eyes are a dead giveaway. They remark how “interesting” a combination of Chinese, Swedish, and Kanaka Maoli (Native Hawaiian) must be. I tell them all about Hawai‘i, my home, and how being multiracial is the norm there. If you ask any Islander off the street, they will probably rattle off lots of their ethnicities and say that there might be more they can’t remember. I feel pride when educating someone about my beautiful home, but, in the back of my mind, guilt grips me. There’s a rush of shame when I look into the mirror and see light skin and hair or when I hear someone speaking in their native language while I know no other languages but English. I am always willing to step back for others who better fit the definition of a Native Hawaiian or Asian person because I feel removed from those experiences and that cultural belonging. I feel like an actor, a fake. An internal voice interrogates me:

How can I identify myself as Chinese when I know next to nothing about Chinese culture and language? How can I be Swedish when I feel ashamed to admit it? And how can I claim to be Kanaka Maoli when I have only the smallest drop of blood in me to prove it? 50

a dissection of race, blood, & mixing Why are we so obsessed with measuring our blood and ancestry down to the exact percent? What does it even mean in our daily lives and our overall identity? Companies like 23andMe and Ancestry.com make profits by turning people into numbers and genetic databases that are faulty at best. Genetic ancestry testing is complicated and problematic as it relies on small control groups and varying foundational data. Despite their claims, DNA ancestry tests cannot detail your family history because you don’t inherit every piece of your parents’ DNA. [1] You may have or had family in Spain, but that might not show on your test. This doesn’t mean you aren’t related, but it means you didn’t receive those genes. These tests just aren’t definitive histories of anyone’s ancestry or identities, and the notion of ancestral blood isn’t really viable. Ancestry tests also raise questions in regard to cultural appropriation and self-identification. Although a person might “uncover” branches of their ancestry they didn’t know about, do they have a right to claim that identity right away, when cultural knowledge-wise, they’re still an outsider? Intentions are important, but this doesn’t make cultural appropriation acceptable, especially when people are hurt in the process. This reveals a discrepancy between social constructs of race (roughly aligning to ontological experience and personal identity) and ancestry/ethnicity (the epistemic).[2] But this does not mean you should never get a genetic ancestry test or reject its results if they don’t line up with your family history. Ancestry tests can be helpful tools when evaluated carefully. At the end of the day, it’s impossible to compress a person’s total family history into clean percentages; blood, ancestry, and identity are completely separate from socialized and lived constructions of race.

“Blood, ancestry, and identity are completely separate from socialized and lived constructions of race.” The practice of quantifying blood and ancestry can be traced to European colonial systems of power and authority such as the exploitative Encomienda system of post-contact Latin America, which set a precedent for other colonies throughout the Americas. Mixed-race peoples were segregated by the “amount” of white, Indigenous, or African blood they had within them, as though the mixing of race (as a European social construction) was a contamination. The term “mulatto,” meaning “young mule,” was used in reference to mules’ hybrid parentage and sterile status to socially stratify these blended ethnoracial populations and control “impure” interracial relations while extracting labor from trafficked Indigenous and African populations.[3] Often, the life of a mixed-race person was determined by their genetic phenotype: people with lighter skin were allowed more social advantages, while those with darker skin were relegated to slavery or servitude.[4] Although mixed peoples could benefit socially (albeit somewhat arbitrarily) from their heritage, these historical practices still enforced notions of behavioral and intellectual differences between races. Later, the newly made United States used the terms “mulatto,” “half-blood,” and “half-breed” regarding mixed-race peoples in legal documents and treaties, solidifying the concept of mixed “blood” as a historical and legal precedent.[5] The system was founded on racism and targets people of color, especially those of Indigenous descent. A hierarchy of class, based on perceived amounts of purity and morality, created the idea that people of mixed descent only mattered as much as their exact mixture of ancestry, commoditizing and dehumanizing people into halves, quarters, and eighths.

reference: “Justice for Hawai‘i”, University of Washington Comparative History of Ideas, https://chid.washington.edu/study-abroad/2021/autumn/justice-hawaii

blood quantum today

The idea that ancestry informs worth was thus established on a racist labor system marking Indigenous and Black mixed descendants. Unfortunately, these colonial conceptions of race didn’t stop with the encomienda system but continued into the present day, contributing to systemic racism and oppression of people of color. “Blood Quantum” laws have been and are used to condition eligibility for citizenship, land, aid, and more in Indigenous communities, usually favoring those with 25–50% or more Native “blood” (that is, if you can prove it through ancestral birth records, tribal citizenship, and/or other documents).[6] At first glance, this seems like the best system to avoid phony claims to Indigenous land — only those who were deeply harmed by these racist and colonial policies, those with ancestral ties to historical victims, should receive these apologetic reparations. The catch, though, is that these rules and concepts are not determined by Indigenous people, giving the illusion of choice and protected power when there is still none and allowing the Government to gatekeep Native American identity and thus land, reparations, and more.[7] A lot of mixed people, like myself, are not eligible for land or federal recognition by these laws legally denying us our identities as Native peoples. Even when Blood Quantum is used as a genuinely protective policy for Indigenous people, such as within the Alaska Native Claims Settlement Act (ANCSA) of 1971, it creates a complicated social and legal standard which many Native people use to evaluate themselves and others. ANCSA used blood quantum and geographical policies to determine Alaska Natives’ eligibility for shares of land and rights in Alaska Native Corporations, which disregarded Native people born after the cutoff date or those in Indigenous diaspora. As a consequence of blood quantum (as well as diaspora and even adoption), many Alaska Natives have “grown up immersed in

their Alaska Native culture, but are unable to enroll in a tribe or an Alaska Native corporation.”[8] We have similar policies at home in Hawai‘i, requiring Kanaka Maoli to prove, by birth certificate, at least 1⁄2 or 1⁄4 Native Hawaiian blood quantum in order to receive Hawaiian homestead leases from a relative, actively keeping us from land and reparations by this notion of diluted blood.[9] These laws, unintentionally or not, separate natives based on ethnicity and identity and eliminate the power of lived ontological determination. For African-Americans, too, Blood Quantum became a harmful policy to determine which people would remain slaves; in this situation, however, any African American “blood” was enough to qualify someone for that status. This law was named the “One Drop Rule,” following this tradition of numbering and quantifying blood and ancestry, hypocritically flipping the standard for Native Americans on its head.[10] It’s plain to see that these rules were created to define and continually oppress minorities and mixed-race people by quantifying their race based on numbers and distancing them from Christian-born notions of superiority in white “purity.” The very fluid movement of ancestry and ethnicity is incongruent with stubborn laws and policies that dictate identity. In other words, the sociopolitical changes in definitions of “race” and ancestry may not be accounted for as time moves on. All these policies have to do to erase us is stick steadfast to a number — 50%, let’s say — and wait for those people to have children, who may be theoretically 25% native blood or lower, and on and on. In this way, blood quantum laws, or other policies based on race and measured ethnicity, are carrying out “autogenocide by statistical extermination” and exclusion in our settler-colonial worlds.[11] Eventually, Indigenous peoples could be totally excluded from our legal identities as such and could be systematically denied land and rights as our ancestors have before us. We would be bleeding out our rights. Blood Quantum maintains this theory of a dying race to continue stealing land and history from Native peoples with the undercurrent thought that, with blood spread thin, eventually no one will be Native “enough.” So, while the legal practice of blood quantum purportedly has logical reasons, it hurts Indigenous peoples by removing the definition of indigeneity from our hands, the power of self-identification, and gives power to that voice questioning their identity. Blood quantum maintains a system that has been designed to keep minorities down — but, should we reject and stop depending on blood quantum laws to determine native eligibility and identity, we can separate ourselves from our “imposed racial past which was artificially created in the first place.”[12]

social colorism and racial imposter syndrome

This leaves mixed people occupying a peculiar space in the world, not belonging to any one place and perhaps not wanting to choose one racial identity over another. Mixed people by any definition have existed for centuries, but the complicated intersections between race, ethnicity, and culture still keep us on the outskirts of culture. Coming to Dartmouth, I was struck by these new interactions, and soon I was scrambling to redefine myself in a place where social dynamics are totally different and where we don’t all share the shared experience of being multiracial and multicultural. I was suddenly feeling pressure to connect with an Indigenous identity totally different from the one I had at home, while still not feeling Hawaiian enough. I am more than proud to be someone who is mixed, and I have never had anyone exclude my cultural expression outright, but I never feel like I’m enough of anything to claim any identity but a white/whitewashed person, the social default. I can’t comfortably step into my identities when I’m around others who are “more” than me because I don’t feel that I deserve to. At the same time, I am constantly worried about being perceived as white. I am afraid to admit that my neighborhood at home is very white, that I don’t speak local slang or ‘ōlelo Hawai‘i (Hawaiian) that well, and that I may as well not be Hawaiian. I feel the responsibility, by trying to identify myself as Hawaiian, to reject all notions of whiteness, but I can’t do that. That doubtful reflex is still upholding and reacting to a colonialist sentiment that sees myself cut into parts and quarters, as though I am not a homogenous mix in and of myself.

“It’s not about

HOW MUCH AM I?

but simply

” I AM.

But I learned that these experiences were not just my own. Lots of multiracial people share my thoughts and offer new ones, contemplating their experiences in performative code-switching between groups, the pressure they feel to learn their heritage language(s), and an overwhelming need to find themselves among different cultures. NPR’s podcast about “Racial Imposter Syndrome” addressed both the social forces excluding mixed race people as well as the internal obstacles acting against them, both of which dictate destructive conditions onto cultural identity.[13] The myriad of stories resonated strongly with me, and I agreed with the podcast’s conclusion that multiracial people need to remember that we have each other, but also that we get to choose which opinions inform our experiences. Although my qualms with my identities are internal, I know it comes from concepts created to oppress people of color like blood quantum, purity, and worth that I need to mentally reject. But I’ll need to practice divorcing those internalized concepts. In the Foucauldian school of thought, power and knowledge are most effective when internalized in the minds of the oppressed; when I doubt my identity, in fear of being not enough, I am letting those internalized and invalid standards dictate my reality. But it’s not about “How much am I?” but simply “I am.” I’m done letting that notion and doubtful voice — which came from genocide, exploitation, and opression — define myself. Instead, while learning and growing into my identity, I want to recognize all of my origins and ancestors, acknowledging the good they did and the bad they lived through. I’m going to learn the languages that help me connect with my ancestry to the extent I feel is enough for me, not for others. I might not know everything about the cultures and people that contributed to my existence, but my fear of rejection only accomplishes the goals of colonizers who wished to “kill the Indian and save the man.”[14]

the verdict The multiracial experience is a complicated one, manifesting both externally and internally in our culture, in our laws, and in our actions. I resent the notion that I exist as part of a “dying” race. Yet I am still guilty of believing in it, that it has died with me, the drops of blood slipping through my fingers. But I also believe that I can share and live in my culture, my Hawaiian-ness, and reject the colonial idea that I have to be enough, that any number defines my identity. It’s what’s in your na‘au, your gut and soul, that truly “counts.” I don’t exist for others — my culture, my notions of self, and my identity aren’t for anyone but me — so I shouldn’t have to tell myself to step back in fear. It’s important to know that nothing defines your identity but you; it’s more than your phenotype, more than words on paper, more than blood and experience. I need to work on recognizing my potential and accomplishments instead of shrinking back from challenges when internalized doubt tells me I should. Otherwise, I’ll never be able to establish a comfortable relationship with my identity. Mixed people define our own places in the world, and we all need to reject ideas of worth that surround factors that we don’t have control over; if not, we lose those identities altogether. I’m not letting that voice win.

works cited

[1] Brian Resnick, “The Limits of Ancestry DNA Tests, Explained.” Vox, January 28, 2019, https://www.vox.com/science-and-health/2019/1/28/18194560/ancestry-dna-23-me-myheritage-s cience-explainer. [2] Sandra Feder, “Genetic ancestry test results shape race self-identification, Stanford researchers find.” Stanford News, May 17, 2021, https://news.stanford.edu/2021/05/17/ ancestry-tests-affect-race-self-identification/. [3]A B Wilkinson, “People of Mixed Ancestry in the Seventeenth-Century Chesapeake: Freedom, Bondage, and the Rise of Hypodescent Ideology,” Journal of Social History 52, no. 3, (Spring 2019): 593–618, https://doi.org/10.1093/jsh/shx113. [4] Wilkinson, “People of Mixed Ancestry in the Seventeenth-Century Chesapeake.” [5] Ryan W. Schmidt, “American Indian Identity and Blood Quantum in the 21st Century: A Critical Review.” Journal of Anthropology 2011, (January 15, 2012), https://www.hindawi.com/journals/janthro/2011/549521/. [6] Maya Harmon, “Blood Quantum and the White Gatekeeping of Native American Identity.” California Law Review, (April 13, 2021), https://www.californialawreview.org/blood-quantum-and-the-white-gatekeeping-of-native-ameri can-identity/. [7] Harmon, “Blood Quantum and the White Gatekeeping of Native American Identity.” [8]Meghan Sullivan, “Alaska Natives’ Complicated Identities.” Indian Country Today, July 15, 2021, https://indiancountrytoday.com/news/alaska-natives-complicated-identities. [9] Associated Press, “Congressman Eyes Blood Quantum Rules for Hawaiian Homelands.” AP NEWS, July 15, 2021, https://apnews.com/article/hawaii-09dd8eefbd6bdee56cdd7b0f09cb8fab. [10] Yaba Blay, One Drop: Shifting the Lens on Race, (Boston: Beacon Press, 2021). [11] Schmidt, “American Indian Identity and Blood Quantum in the 21st Century.” [12] Schmidt, “American Indian Identity and Blood Quantum in the 21st Century.” [13]Leah Donnella, “‘Racial Impostor Syndrome’: Here Are Your Stories.” NPR, June 8, 2017, https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2017/06/08/462395722/racial-impostor-syndrome-here- are-your-stories. [14] Barbara Anne Henderson, “Division by Blood: Examining a History of Political and Racial Clashes Underlying American Indian Identity.” University of Montana, April 5, 2016. https://scholarworks.umt.edu/etd/5391/.

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Our Staff As we publish our fifth edition of Spare Rib, Sensation, it is only fitting that we reflect on the way our community has been challenged to grow and expand beyond our previous bounds. Our first fully in-person term challenged us to foster new spaces and environments unlike what we’ve had before, especially as a plethora of new members with diverse perspectives have joined our creative ranks. We decided to continue challenging ourselves in a number of ways, including through the ambitious and aggressive color scheme we used to represent this time of challenging feelings and growth. We were also able to challenge ourselves by creating new spaces for collaboration in writing, art, and design. Throughout all the hardships of this term, our amazing staff has continued to put out thought-provoking and beautiful works that we are happy to compile and share for our audience. To our amazing team of artists, designers, and everyone who has contributed to this edition, congratulations, and thank you. -Caty Brown & Kaitlyn Anderson, 22W Edition Design Heads

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