Letter from the Editor Hello, friends,
ED. 8 VOL 1
FALL 2020
ROLLINS COLLEGE STUDENT MEDIA ATTEN: THE INDEPENDENT 1000 HOLT AVENUE, WINTER PARK, FL 32789
THEINDEPENDENT@ROLLINS.EDU
STAFF EDITOR-IN-CHIEF EMILY O’MALLEY CHIEF CREATIVE OFFICER CAITLYN PATEL CO-FOUNDERS SCOTT NOVAK MARY CATHERINE PFLUG SENIOR DESIGNER FRANCISCO WANG YU DESIGNERS/ARTISTS SAMANTHA ANDERSON GHINA FAWAZ DASSIKA GILKEY JAIANNE GILKEY MADISON GOESER SENIOR EDITORS LIZ TREPANIER ALEKHYA REDDY COPY EDITORS JULIE BENNIE LILY DENEEN TAYLOR INGRASSIA CONTRIBUTORS KELSIE ANDERSON LILY CALARY CORLISS CRANWELL WYATT DEIHL ALICE GOMES M.K. JAIMIE MANS NOUR SARAH MANSOUR ANGIE RIVERA SYMPHONY RUSSELL ELIZABETH SMITH
It feels impossible to reflect on this semester without reflecting on COVID-19. Are you sick of hearing about it, too? I would never encourage you to pretend it doesn’t exist; please, please keep wearing your masks and washing your hands. Keep loving one another with enough ferocity to save lives. But I am tired. I am tired of hearing about the pandemic. Tired of living in the pandemic. Loving fiercely is difficult work. So difficult that when people remind me that Shakespeare wrote King Lear in a pandemic, I want to scream. This issue features beautiful work from fabulous writers. I was thrilled to receive each submission, in part because the act of creation is always challenging, no matter the circumstances. For writers and artists to create now is a miracle. This issue was a labor of love: writers, editors, artists, and designers poured their time and their souls into the act of creation. I am grateful for each and every individual who contributed to The Independent this semester. When I took the helm, I had no idea that this would be the world today. How could I imagine something like this? Maybe that is why I struggled to write this semester. The pandemic tested the limits of my imagination, and I was afraid. If the universe could conceive something so terrible, who was I to try and create? So, I want to address the members of our campus community who did not create. I am just as grateful for each and every one of you as I am for our contributors. You are surviving, living, loving. My struggle to create this semester broke my heart. I love writing; how could an English major and Writing minor not? But the words weren’t finding their way to the page. I couldn’t find adequate language to capture the ocean of emotions in which I was swimming. In classic authorial fashion, I distracted myself by sneaking onto Twitter. Again and again, though, I was plagued by headlines wondering who our next Shakespeare would be. I obviously realized it wouldn’t be me, but I let myself feel disappointed. Crushed. If I wasn’t going to be Shakespeare, why should I waste my time writing? If you feel the same way, this letter is for you. Screw the headlines. Why should a college student struggling to survive a global pandemic try to write King Lear? Are you kidding me? Ridiculous. The expectation that, during COVID-19, we should create masterpieces is absurd. We’re busy trying to survive, live, and love. I urge you to set aside the expectation of perfection. Keep swimming to shore. Rest when you need to, on your back in the middle of the ocean, staring at the stars. Be kind to yourself. Listen to your needs. Instead of thinking of creation as dry land, let it be a life raft. Forget Shakespeare. Creating art is a messy, imperfect process. It should keep you afloat, not weigh you down. Make art for the sake of making art. Write for the sake of writing. Create for the sake of creating. Instead of using the pandemic to create, create to survive the pandemic. Take heart, friends. Forget the need to create something beautiful and perfect. Let the beauty be found in the act of creation. With love, Emily O’Malley Editor-in-Chief
Cover featuring photography by Samantha Maris Please send all letters to the editor submissions and articles to theindependent@rollins.edu Fonts in use: Air Condensed, Antonio, Bebas Neue, Big John PRO, Breathing, Burnaby, Centennial LT Std, Directors Gothic, Krungthep, Lato, Magneta, Minion Pro, MISTRAL, Oswald, Traveling Typewriter, Webdings
Send some letters to the editors, we would love to hear from you!
Logo design by Mary Catherine Pflug The opinions stated in this publication do not necessarily reflect those of The Independent, its staff, advertisers, or Rollins College.
The Independent is published twice a year by Rollins College with issues released in April and December. Principal office: Kathleen W. Rollins Hall, Rollins College, Winter Park, FL. 400 copies distributed per issue on campus and in the Winter Park area, available at Bush Science Center, Campus Center, Cornell Social Sciences building, Olin Library, and Alfond Inn. For additional information, please see our website: theindependentmag.org.
Photography by Maisie Haney
3
VISIBILITY
FEMININITY
19
How Do You See Me? Elizabeth Smith
I Live in a House with Women Lily Calary
6
Sing to the Song of the Woods Wyatt Diehl
8
12
False Advertising Angie Rivera
Unity in Colors Kelsie Anderson
10
Survivor’s Rumination Jaimie Mans
20
13
TENACITY
The Virus, Our Healer M.K.
Sitting Still Corliss Cranwell
16
Helicopters and Airplanes Corliss Cranwell
17
Barefoot Symphony Russell
22
Ethbat Makanak: Memoirs in the Reclaiming of Identity and Self-Worth in the Coming of Age of an Egyptian NeuroDivergent Woman Nour Sarah Mansour
How Do You See Me? Written by Elizabeth Smith
Illustrated by Francisco Wang Yu
VISIBILITY | 3
How many people do we write off or deliberately ignore, only because they look a certain way or behave a certain way? Kay Lindahl, “The Sacred Art of Listening”
A
bleism stabs me in the chest as I live with a disability, even while being part of the Rollins Community. Journey back across the swampy lake with me. 2018 was my freshman year. I was so excited, going to pursue music and learn more about life. My bright orange wheelchair accompanied me for all my classes. My mom was around when I needed assistance. To my surprise, though, when someone saw me in my wheelchair, they showed non-verbal cues. There was this perception of fear, or they would
look at me like, what’s wrong with you? People did not want to communicate with me. Others would sit far away as if I were contagious. Some would give a surprised look or comment when I did well in my classes. There was this one time, I rested my head sitting in my wheelchair. Someone anxiously came up to see if I was okay. People were utterly confused when I would get up to stretch my legs, just living life. Their non-verbal cues spoke of disapproval and fraud. Since I felt this sense of disapproval and
VISIBILITY | 4
dismissive behavior from others, I forced myself to go without my wheelchair during my sophomore year. Quite a smart idea, right? Still, at school, I experienced preconceived notions. Repeatedly, I had to explain why I needed to sit down. People were so confused. At one outdoor event, there was a chair someone put out for me to sit on. How nice, right? Except they placed the chair behind a speaker where I could not see anything. There was a trip I wanted to go on with the school. I was welcome to come. Then I asked about bringing my wheelchair, and was told it was “impossible” to accommodate. During my classes as well, I experienced a b l e i s m . Sophomore year, I arrived for my first day of class. I sat toward the front, since that is where I focus best. Nobody sat beside me. I sat at the desk alone, except when a guest came to class. These students were the same people I knew from the previous year when I used my wheelchair. Another day, I frantically rushed over from rehearsing to a different class. I was very out of breath and the professor asked if I had a “broken leg,” since I could not stand up to read my assignment. Other faculty congratulated me since I was not using a wheelchair, even though they did not realize it made me sicker not to use one. 2020 came along at the dock of the swamp.
During the summer, I was a Global Scholar Fellow with the Global Livingston Institute, based in Rwanda and Uganda. It was a virtual experience where we met leaders in community development and other scholars from different universities, researching for five weeks. People from the program did not know of my disability. I engaged in the discussions and spoke with other fellows on an individual basis. Then, I told them a little bit about my story. They saw the real me, not just their perception of me. Curious, is it not, that I experienced more acceptance during a global pandemic than an average year? As the p a n d e m i c continues, I am involved with the Student Government Association as the Accessibility Senator. I commit to being part of the change for Rollins. Deconstructing ableism needs to be addressed. It can be subtle, just nonverbal cues. Or it can be rather large—verbal cues or being told I cannot go somewhere. Now that I have this disability, I have been able to experience what so many others do. Despite the challenges, I want to inspire others by letting them know they are worth more than these judgments. As I go forward, I hope to share more of my journey. Everyone’s voice can provide new perspectives if only others would be willing to look past appearances or differences. g
“People from the program did not know of my disability. I engaged in the discussions and spoke with other fellows on an individual basis. Then, I told them a little bit about my story. They saw the real me, not just their perception of me.”
VISIBILITY | 5
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Written by Wyatt Deihl
Photography by Madison Goeser
Solemn breezes awake the leaves; they whisper their modest melodies to passersby. Kin, alike in their grief, compose haunting harmonies. Be it those with trained ears and earnest souls who know their song. Dewy grasses waver lean and low to the chilling airs of their sisters. Tuned to the assertions of the hoary crow, melancholy in their sorrow. The River, known for his rhythm, falls on ailed feet. Finding unwound shores, he dances no more. Limber saplings rise among carnage, mourning the guillotined necks of their mothers. Prepared are their arrangements for the cue of the wind. Can’t you hear the song of the Woods? It is they who listen who sing along. g
VISIBILITY | 6
sing si
to the
song g
woods of the
VISIBILITY | 7
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Dolly Water-soluble pastel painting sticks on paper Man with Eggs Etched plexiglass and ink print on paper
Unity in Colors Art by Kelsie Anderson
Designed by Caitlyn Patel
I love rendering people because I love to use their presence and good qualities as subjects themselves. To convey this, I implement the monochrome display of bright colors to effectively portray the subjects positively. I also find satisfaction through the exploration of different mediums and techniques, as each of these works were products of my initial experimentation with printmaking, pastel drawing, and colored pencil drawing. Although rendered similarly, the subjects themselves have little relation to one another otherwise. I believe that the connection of the subjects to one another in this manner further ties myself and the viewers of these works to the subjects and to one another as well, and the pieces when viewed together symbolize the interconnectivity, yet individuality, of humans altogether. g
VISIBILITY | 8
Movement in Music Colored pencil on paper
VISIBILITY | 9
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Survivor’s Rumination Written by Jaimie Mans
Photography by Samantha Maris Content Warning: This piece mentions self-harm. Editor’s Note: We remind all survivors of sexual abuse that what was done to them is not their fault.
I
don’t tell anyone what happened. They won’t understand. So, I lie awake at night, thinking about what I could have done differently. What I could have done right. Because isn’t that what we all want? To be right…to do things the right way. But what is right? What is right and wrong? How do we know which extreme to choose when everything seems so gray in this supposedly black-and-white world? I blame myself. Blame is the most powerful emotion I possess besides hope. And hope comes fewer and farther between these days. So, blame takes its place. Blame is what eats at my fingernails, tenderly chewed to the ragged cuticles of my bruised hands. Bruised hands are the aftermath of continual beatings inflicted upon myself. Violence is the only relief from the self-hatred that plagues my mind. These moments of action replace my inner pain with something more tangible. Something like a cracked fingertip. A broken wrist. In the moments of physical stillness, my mind wanders back to the blame. The How could I have put myself in that situation? The How could I not have known that I was in for something that would scar me for the rest of my life? The How can I still hate myself after all these years? These questions will forever be unanswered. I can’t tell a soul my innermost thoughts. For if I do, the blame will only seep out into the world, reaffirming what I know to be true: It was all my fault. g
VISIBILITY | 10
VISIBILITY 11 BETWEEN || 11
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
False Advertising Written by Angie Rivera Illustrated by Ghina Fawaz
M
y roommates were gathering with their friends to leave, wearing sequins, colorful eyeshadow, and strong perfumes. I had stayed in my room studying chemistry when I was called to take a photo of them on a Polaroid. Granted, they wanted to remember this day for the rest of their lives. As I counted down to capture the wide smiles and red-rimmed eyes, I realized that I was happy for them... COVID had taken a lot of happiness away from 2020, and in a way, they were reclaiming it. But it didn’t change the fact that I was regarded with weak smiles and side glances. The yawning difference between me and them wasn’t she’s smarter or they’re smarter, it was the fact that I didn’t drink or vape. So many distinctions these days. They didn’t know what to make of me, the only roommate in the apartment that preferred to stay sober on the weekend. It makes you feel as if there must be something wrong with you for not joining on in the fun. I’m not bashing alcohol. As a college student, I am of course exposed to the many pressures of drinking. However, I have recently experienced social setbacks from not engaging in certain actions. Alcohol has a multitude of uses and one of them brings people together. But what happens when you decide not to; are you immediately out of the invisible circle? At Rollins, I have learned that diversity is key. That absolutely any different group can find a common interest and work together. However, I’m going to take a giant leap and say that beneath the Rollins diverse exterior is a division between students who drink often and students who don’t. As a 19-year-old, it’s only normal for me to want to find my “group,” but one of the things I love about Rollins is that one person can be a part of many things without putting themselves in a specific clique. It’s only this aspect of Rollins that makes me feel disappointed. Although Rollins prides itself on growing diversity in race, gender, and social status awareness, we all know that at the end of the day no matter what Rollins portrays to prospective students it’s up to the community to uphold those values. That means every aspect not just creating more Latin clubs, even though those are just as important. It’s how we interact with each other when one else is looking. Sadly, many college students today find solace and community over drinking and other vices. On our own we can push ourselves out of our comfort zones and call others around us to respond in their unique way. Try getting involved with events from the Diversity and Inclusion council. Go to a club meeting you never imagined going to in the first place. Ask questions and understand that being different should be celebrated. I’m not here to tell you that I won’t do things, but I’d rather do them when I’m of age to enjoy it, not when I am being pressured to perform. I wish for students to become friends with each other not based on what the “norms” we push others into but through the same reason why the majority of us decided to come to Rollins. Our individuality is what makes Rollins diverse. g
VISIBILITY | 12
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
The Virus, Our Healer Written by M.K.
Illustrated by Francisco Wang Yu
TENACITY | 13
T
here is a girl not so far from here who lives a life just like mine. I can see her with her tousled curls, eyes like the trees touched by the evening sun. She sits at the same Ikea desk. She looks so very much like me. Isn’t she me? Surely my appearance would not have changed and neither would this room or this house. Perhaps my family, my mom, my dad, my sisters, my dog would be the same, too. But no, the girl at the Ikea desk isn’t me. I don’t think she could be me any more than I could be her. In our separate universes we sit here, never truly knowing each other. Never knowing the successes, the pain, the days where we laughed or cried. I’m sure that other girl hasn’t put any thought into who I may be, because how could she ever predict something like this to happen in any universe? The universe I’m living in is so different, so cruel in so many ways, yet transformative. For me, for at least one singular soul living through this great global catastrophe, it has made life better than it ever could have been before. Yes, I said it. I may not have gotten my prom or a real graduation. I may have been compelled to end things for good with a boy who was both my best friend and my boyfriend. I may have never been able to say goodbye to theatre, or Spanish 5 zero hour, or to so many acquaintances I may never see again. But I wouldn’t want it any other way. I am happy all on my own, and I am learning to mend myself so that I may mend relationships in the future and not fall victim to my own pride or the need to be right. I am seeing the beauty in the pain; I am realizing how all things work for the good of all others and how we attract goodness into our lives with our thoughts alone. I am learning
that everything happens for the reason we decide it does. This is the way my life is now, and I’ve decided that this virus happened for transformation. Not just individual growth, but transformation as a world, so that we may begin to rethink our ways and reconstruct our societies. Such a cruel thing is this virus, unconcerned with the structure of our daily lives, of our plans, of our dreams. Murderer, economy destroyer, city demolisher, crook. But for me...friend, ally, waymaker. How can one thing be both extremes at once? When the virus made its advent into our world, it brought with it a manifestation of itself that was not quite as evil as the virus and its killing nature. This twin was The Idea of The Virus, and it followed in the virus’s wake. This Idea is not a concrete thing like you and me; it is something else altogether, something that changes with every mind that it passes through. The Idea, much like life itself, could not be seen as either good or bad. Instead, it existed fully in a realm between the two, waiting for a human’s conscious mind to give it meaning. And meaning we gave it. Riding through our cities, The Idea sparked fear among us. Fear and despair and...what’s that? The people have had enough. They’ve had enough fear, they’ve had enough despair, but not in regards to the virus...In regards to racism. Oh, historic plague of inequality, wrought with tales of water ripe with boats, humans with dark skin and shackles they never quite lost but were forced to bear from generation to generation. Oh, the despair and fear on those boats; oh, the despair and fear that was felt from that moment on by their descendants. The people
TENACITY | 14
rose, they called for justice, they did not notice that The Idea was behind it all. The Idea had intentions beyond just the virus, you see. The Idea forced people to rethink their lives. What is necessary? What can be thrown away? Which of my high school friends really care about me? Which will fade from my memory in time? If I’m going to be spending so much time with my family, shouldn’t I be putting in more of an effort to understand them, to forgive them, to learn to live beside them in love and peace? How can I take what I have learned within these walls into the world? How can I make that world better? The Idea of The Virus, which was itself an injustice, in that way brought notice to all other injustices that had been taking place around it. The virus itself still killed, still destroyed villages and economic systems and the plans of high school seniors, but The Idea of The Virus perhaps wasn’t so bad. At its worst, it was a warning of what may be coming, but even that could be seen as a blessing. Anything could be seen as a blessing, and The Idea made sure the world knew that. Anything in this world that we have constructed, all by the devices of human creativity and wit, can be brought tumbling down in an instant, leaving us with only that which we will be able to take with us when we die. In a world where we had grown accustomed to those rituals of our creation, we had to learn how to return to nature and let it heal us, as nature is more consistent than that which we have created. We had to wake up to the idea that when we enter back into life “as it was,” we must make changes so as to protect that nature which we have given respect to in our distancing. We must continue to respect that nature, or else suffer the consequences of supporting our own selfish, human comforts. Finally–and most importantly–The Idea reminded us to live fully in every moment and value what we have, where we are. It guided us to understand that it can always get worse, but even when it does, we can decide that it is better. I have decided that this is better. And that makes me 10 times stronger and nothing like the girl not so far from here who lives a life just like mine. g
“The universe
I’m living in is so different,
so cruel in so
many ways, yet
transformative.
For me, for at least one singular soul living through
this great global catastrophe, it has made life
better than it ever could have been before.”
TENACITY | 15
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Helicopters and Airplanes Written by Corliss Cranwell
Illustrated by Dassika and Jaianne Gilkey
I wish I grew up by an airport. All the planes that have flown by. I used to live by a hospital. All the people about to die. The helicopters landing on the roof. The rattling overhead. Is it proof? Is there comfort in The sound of disarray? I adore laying in my bed, Listening to the blades above. Yes, I have found Disorder is my beloved. g
TENACITY | 16
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Barefoot Written by Symphony Russell Illustrated by Ghina Fawaz
At night, I listen to you breathe. I do not dare lift my eyes for surely you would disappear or are you even there at all? One night or the night before, I lit a lantern. I listen to you breathe. I made the decision for better or worse to step barefoot onto the wet stone that lay just outside the door.
TENACITY | 17
It was there, just as I predicted; a full moon. I knew my chances but stepped out, in spite of them The water on my feet stung and my eyes, crying or was that just the rain? my hair dripping should I have tied it back? my hair, or my hopes I stop I feel the edge somehow another step would mean death. but what if that’s who I came for my lantern falters as moon competes with rain It met her before I opened my eyes; a tiny wisp of smoke glass shattered over my hands one more step I do not dare lift my eyes are you even there at all? g
TENACITY | 18
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
I Live in a House with Women Written by Lily Calary
Illustrated by Jaianne Gilkey
I
live in a house with women. Where there are three floors and no hierarchy and we hand out I love you’s like confetti at a dull party where we are all battling to be the best host, always wanting the others to feel belonging. We buy each other snacks and lend each other our computers and mull over footwear because things like that matter to women who matter to each other. One will agonize over Emily Dickinson and another will try to forget about a boy with a flippant nickname who didn’t deserve her and they will both be equally valid because there is room in a girl for feelings that don’t deserve to be simplified for the consumption and understanding of others. I live in a house with women. We gather in common spaces and swear at each other lovingly and send each other messages to please quiet down. Notes slide under doors and groups of us eat dinner together while we complain about people who don’t matter to the women we live with (who aren’t really listening). In the end, we don’t really care what is causing each other annoyance, we only want to know that the women with whom we share our lives will be okay. I live in a house with women and none of us are eloquent. We walk around with dead eyes and red spots and t-shirts that swallow us whole. We are at our purest form when I can walk down the hallway and can tell that the person living three doors down from me doesn’t deserve the day she’s having just from the glance she gives me as if to say, “I live in a house with women, and thank god for that, because it saves me from having to speak.” g
FEMININITY | 19
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Sitting Still There she is again. She’s there every day. Sitting in the same exact place on that purple velvet couch. I shouldn’t be looking I guess, but she should also close her blinds. It’s an early March afternoon in Manhattan, so you can only imagine how brisk my walk here was. I’m not from the Upper East Side but something about her just caught my eye. It has become my favorite part of my daily routine. Granted, it has only been two months but… every day, I wake up around nine-ish as soon as the unbearable sun glares through my shades. I make a cup of my aunt’s hot detox tea, because New York coffee shops are too high priced for my college debt budget. I mindlessly throw whatever rags were tossed in the back of my car when I came up north. Then I swing open the rickety screen door and head on “up.” You see, I work the evening shift at Upstate Sanitarium so I basically have my days free. Sometimes I sit here for hours. She seemed to have changed her shirt today. That’s good. I was starting to worry... it had been four days. It’s a long climb to her fire escape since she is in the penthouse, but it’s all worth it when I see her face. Even though she looks very sad, there is still something so alluring about her. I’ve been watching her consistently now, and I cannot put my finger on it. Maybe it’s the redness in her cheeks or the deep brown of her eyes. It’s not a physical attraction. It’s more of a curious obsession. Sitting here is like my own little world, where it’s still and nothing really changes in this world but she is always here. Every day. She normally has that silly sitcom about the six friends living in New York playing on her television screen. Sometimes it’s “Grey’s Anatomy” playing, but most of the time it’s the other one. I’ve gotten pretty good at lip-syncing.
Written by Corliss Cranwell Illustrated by Ghina Fawaz
I honestly can’t believe Ross thought they were on a break. One day we can watch these shows together. I’ll already know all about them. I couldn’t even feel it in my body. I could only feel her drawing me to that twelfth floor window from something inside me. It’s been six months now. I still come everyday and she is still there. The sun is beginning to shine warm on my skin and a few flowers in the city are beginning to bloom. I sit and wonder what could be going on in her mind. From the outside, one could see a rich girl wasting her youth being lazy. She is surrounded by maids who serve her every meal, fold her laundry when she decides to get up and change her gown. And yet she just sits there with a blank stare on her face. You would think she’s taking her life for granted. But I can see in her eyes that she has something to offer. That she has a story, and is not just an empty shell of a girl. I can see a woman frozen in her own misery. I have to meet her. It’s time. I am not actually sure what her apartment number is. I have only ever been outside her window. I know she’s on the twelfth level but her building is huge. “One, two...twelve… sixty two,” I count the units and windows. Ah yes it’s 1298! It’s got to be. My walk to work is easy but I can’t help thinking of tomorrow. Will she like me? Will she like me as much as I like her? What will I say when I knock on her door? And who will answer? Today is the big day. I had two cups of tea this morning and I’m wearing my nicest clothes. I know she’s gonna love it. I can’t believe I’ll be in her actual room today, the one I’ve been staring into for six months. I know every detail of it from the small crystal chandelier that hangs above her bed to the faded stain in the carpet
“That she has a story, and she’s not just an empty shell of a girl. I can see a woman frozen in her own misery.”
FEMININITY | 20
where a food tray was dropped in April. Wow that walk was quick today. I think I’ll just go up to her window to scope things out before I go inside and introduce myself. “NO, NO, NO!” Where is she? This cannot be real. She can’t just be gone. She’s always here. I mean for God’s sake I’ve only seen her bat her eyelashes in half a year. “Oh NO.” She must have seen me. “Yes. Yes.” She saw me. She saw me. She must have known I was coming to see her today. Yes that’s it. She knew I was coming to meet her and get her off of her couch, so she decided to surprise me at my house. She has felt the same connection I’ve felt. It all makes sense now! She followed me home last night to get my address and is now waiting for me back home. I have never run this fast in my life. My ribs are tightening around me and I can hardly catch my breath. I know after all this time I’m finally going to meet her but she’s not here. I’m at my apartment and she’s not here. I’m not running anymore, but my chest continues to tighten and my head is going too fast and I feel like I’m spinning. I think I’m going to……. “Sadie, honey. It’s time to take your meds.” I’m conscious but I’m not sure where I am. “You escaped and had been sitting outside of your old bedroom window for two days. Thank goodness you came running back here last night in a hysteria. You were telling us about a girl sitting alone and completely still everyday in the Upper East Side. You’re not that girl anymore. You live here now. The Sanitarium is your home. You just had another one of your episodes. You remember now?” the lady in the scrubs says all of this in a familiar voice. I miss the breeze and heavy traffic of a Manhattan afternoon. I sit here every day. g
FEMININITY | 21
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
Ethbat Makanak: Memoirs in the Reclaiming of Identity and Self-Worth in the Coming of Age of an Egyptian Neuro-Divergent Woman.
Written by Nour Sarah Mansour Illustrated by Sam Anderson
FEMININITY | 22
-Ethbat Makanak by Cairokee
“Look me in my eyes, tell me everything’s not fine” At youth, you had me in a predetermined kangaroo court led by children following the commands which parental and societal norms demand. They spit words of aesthetic, grandeur masochistic excuses, formed from malicious arrogance only they could comprehend. Within the mindless thought process and garbled insults, chaining the liberty of the imagination of the child who lived and breathed life into the lines and pages she cherished, which became her only lifeline and voice. Words that were a heavy, washed-out tune became the catalyst of the slow murder of a child who could not even comprehend yet the burden of societal conformism of her perceived limitations.
“Or the people ain’t happy, and the river has run dry” For you see, this world was not made for the headspace of children Who recited calculations out loud, just for them to get by. The ones who held dear the companions within the colours and the lines, And those whose movements you deem neurotic and mad, Is true self-expression and everchanging sentiments that evoke baseless mockery and childlike playground affairs. Those people you irrationally shun and despise do not merit or should withstand the brunt of the sickening gavel of countless sickeningly sweet excuses to cover up corrupted, money-filled alibis. What baseless hypothesis do you claim When you exclaimed the obtuse assumptions Of forever remaining the voiceless martyrs Of what you assume is our cry of surrender Is just the preconceived shallowness, Of a coward’s core and purpose, And hypocritical scholarly dictators Who demand moulded perfection.
FEMININITY | 23
“You thought you could go free, But the system is done for”
“If you listen real closely,There’s a knock at your front door”
Who are you, to set the trends Of what movements and phrases do not offend. You have subjected me to living with the echoes of the past Haunting the depths and core of the limitations of my perceived self-worth.
Humble yourselves, you are the jester of all that is incoherent and insincere, Dare to peer beyond the sheltered confines of your mansions of delusion. And find that beyond the fog of the close-mindedness Lie people with crowns made of their predilections, keepsakes, personalities and virtue With inconceivable potential and value beyond compare.
The limitations of my abilities are not ruled by a mark, Rather rumours of minds who cannot see beyond the treachery of preexisting narratives My life path not yet truly begun. For that, you spent life perceiving just who would make it up, the bourgeois’s sparkling gold bridge while holding entitlement and silver spoons as crowns. But it is truly a charismatic and noble democracy, When your people are forced to regurgitate contrived narratives on senseless rumours, Made to stand as the farce and face of depraved laws of being and the self.
Oh, how the turntables, when you placed me as a predetermined, unwitting pawn in your ruthless game of identity thieves. For their so-called ill-perceived idiotic idiosyncrasies Will be the implicit promise of the underestimated soulful martyrs The stakes claimed for a neurodivergent rebellion for the right of passage To reclaim the utmost self. “I live my life in shackles, but I’m borderline free I used to be blind and I still can’t see And I won’t get around to a change of mind As long as nobody breaks my stride” - Borderline by Tove Stryke g
Credits Partial title: “Ethbat Makanak” by Cairokee Preface song lyrics: “Ethbat Makanak” by Cairokee Song lyrics in the main piece: “Blood//Water” by Grandson Endnote song: “Borderline” by Tove Stryke
FEMININITY | 24
feedback: theindependent@rollins.edu
THE INDEPENDENT IS A MAGAZINE THAT SHOWCASES THE VOICES OF WRITERS, ARTISTS, AND INTELLECTUALS AT ROLLINS COLLEGE. THIS MAGAZINE SERVES AS A FORUM FOR STUDENTS, FACULTY, AND MEMBERS OF THE LOCAL COMMUNITY TO SHARE THEIR RESEARCH, ARTWORK, TRAVEL EXPERIENCES, POLITICAL OPINIONS, AND MUCH MORE. WE STRIVE TO PUBLISH ARTICULATE, AUDACIOUS JOURNALISTIC PIECES THAT WILL BOTH EDUCATE OUR READERS AND MOTIVATE THEM TO FORM THEIR OWN INDEPENDENT WORLD VIEWS.