The Rational Creature, Volume 2 by The Rational Creature

VOLUME 2

NYU's Feminist Arts Journal

FALL 2017

Cover Design by Rachel A.G. Gilman Cover Photo by Grace Halvorson Book Design and Layout by Rachel A.G. Gilman and Stasia de Tilly-Blaru Cover Artwork by Rhea Creado The Rational Creature Logo Design by Rachel A.G. Gilman

Volume 2 Fall 2017

PROSE… 9

Gender Is Amanda Morris

Incidents of a Straight Girl Hannah Calistri

Sundays with Mother Gabrielle Aku

Anjiya Ali Zahra Budhwani

Finding My Way Teagan Rabuano

Pockets and Permanent Partnership Rachel A.G. Gilman

They’ve Been Explaining It Wrong: A Response to “Men Explain Things To Me” Isabel Pastore

POETRY… 7

inspired by the article “Becoming Ugly” by Madeline Davies

untitled first poem

prelude + a world in which someone asks me “did you say ‘no?’” Bella Harris

Bella Harris

12 15

Sam/Sam

Grace Halvorson

A Black Woman Writes Lonely

Look at Me

Postage

Trespassers

Selections from January 21st, 2017

Donna Gary

The Journey Kate Tell

To My Mother

Persist Pele

how to be soft like you

To Younger Beth

Gardens

Untitled

Sydney Brinker

Women Bethany Sattur

Kinds of Beautiful Bethany Allard

Amber Salik

Dream Girl

Jeannie Morgenstern

Jacqueline Yang

Real Things Men on Tinder Have Told Me Behind the Protection of Their Computer Screens That Made Me Feel Cheap

Or It, For Lack of a Better Word Cooper Carrington

Amber Salik

Tife Oluwo

Emma Ragusa Elise LeMassena Emma Indelicato Stasia de Tilly-Blaru Bethany Sattur Virginia Zhang Amber Salik

PHOTO…

VIDEO…

Good Hair Natalie Harris

Emily Figueroa

Women: Growing Old in Havana

Natalie

Ghost Geometry

Women of Houston

Reflect Me, Reject Me

Beauty Is An Art Lindsey Miller

Jasmine Lucy

Casa de Sus Suenos

Sarah Lutzky Sonya Mezhericher Sarah White

Grace Halvorson

ARTWORK… 8

Figure Drawing Madeline Goddard

Soul Sistas DaNai Black

It’s Fucking 2015 Rhea Creado

Woman Somehow Soyoung Elizabeth Yun

Affection Liberation Madeline Goddard

The District Junebug

DaNai Black

Letter from the Editor… from NYU students. Our platform has expanded and so, it seems, too, have overall efforts to talk about these issues. I couldn’t be prouder to present this body of work.

One year ago, the United States was scared. Donald Trump had just been elected President. Politics in the larger world were leaning in equally negative directions. People flooded the streets with their tears and their protest signs. Threats of people losing their citizenship, their ability to marry, and their rite to be recognized as the gender they identify all came into common conversations. 2017 looked bleak, to say the least.

Thank you to everyone who submitted, and to those who resubmitted, for hopping on this ride with us. Thank you to Gallatin for recognizing us as an official club and sponsoring our big, crazy ideas. Thank you to the Gender and Power Society, Voices for Planned Parenthood, Polychrome, and all others groups we have co-sponsored events with at NYU who have welcomed us with open arms. Having people who love our publication almost as much as we do is the coolest thing in the world and I’m privileged to have experienced it.

Last year was also the year when Creative Director, Stasia, and I were informed that The Rational Creature would be funded as a project through NYU’s Gallatin School of Individualized Study. Knowing we were about to embark on something that would support many of these voices that were being threatened by the incoming political administration made us hopeful. We crossed our fingers and worked on the assumption others would feel the same.

And above all, thank you to those of you who continue to be interested and supportive of artists who use their voices to speak out on issues of gender roles and equality in our society. Without your passion, our publication would have no purpose. I hope you enjoy this issue as much as the entire Editorial Board has enjoyed curating it.

Flip through The Rational Creature, Volume 2 and you’ll see we were right. The themes explored in our first issue have carried over into our second: what does it mean to identify as female and what stereotypes does that bring? What limitations must be overcome with the label? How have all of these changed overtime and across race and cultures? While it’s somewhat troubling to see that the progress made seems to be moving at a snail’s pace, it remains positive to read and see so many young people working toward progress. This issue includes not only writing and photography but also original artwork and videography work

Rachel A.G. Gilman Creator/Editor-in-Chief View all of our content on our website, www.therationalcreature.com

inspired by the article Becoming Ugly by Madeline Davies

i will rub my eyes until my mascara circles them and makes me look bruised (because that’s what i am) i will pull the trimmed tresses out of my head so hard patches of my brain will show maybe then they will see i can think too i have the mechanism i will so aggressively be NOT what they made me they will do nothing but stare maybe they’ll listen to ugly maybe they’ll listen to a monster maybe then i’ll sleep a little later !

Bella Harris every morning i wake up earlier than i’d like i clean my face toner serums oils moisturizer the works i think it’s fun it gives me a routine makes my skin smooth, no roughness to touch no warning signs in the form of red bumps no one fears my face (because whether i think it is fun or not) i work every day to make sure they don’t. so why is it that when i say excuse me or pardon me or i’m sorry they talk over me like apologies are silence like my breath didn’t reach their ears i’ve worked my whole life to be smooth but when i watched a journalist from teen vogue speaking against trump on fox news and they told her she should “stick to writing about thigh high boots” because of her blown out hair because of her eyeliner because of her manicure they won’t listen to words when they’re coming out of lips covered in revlon. they taught me warriors don’t have time to moisturize so i will become what they fear i will dig my manicured nails into my cheeks and peel my flesh back to reveal sinew and teeth

dress up and sit pretty. The powdered stockings and shiny black flats made it hard to run after my brothers when playing games, and so as I ran the flats would fly off and the stockings would run and the clothes would be ruined by my own motion, my actions despite them. I started to steal my brother’s clothes. It started off innocently, with me agreeing to take the T-shirts that he had outgrown, until I had a drawer stuffed full of loose fitting yellow iguana shirts and Jurassic Park tees that plastered roaring T-rexes over my chest. The unraveling of my gender happened slowly and then all at once. Suddenly I was actively going into his room, sneaking around to steal brown cargo shorts that he hadn’t worn in a while, or tan rope belts and baseball hats. Then there was the spring-cleaning of my fourth grade year. Every year we’d get rid of the clothes that didn’t fit or that we didn’t want anymore in order to make way for new clothes. I sat in my room and really thought about whether I wanted to wear the purple striped turtle-necked sweater my mother had given me for Christmas the year before, and I decided I didn’t. I decided I didn’t want any of it. None of it fit me, not truly. I remember my mother’s tone when she saw the box of clothes I had tossed out into the hallway: bitter, confused, and dismissive. “But you love purple!” her rebuttal came swift, “and it’s a waste of perfectly good clothes!” My mother knew something was breaking; this wasn’t how she had behaved with her mother. Following that year, I traded shaking pom-poms and cheering at the top of my lungs for beating my sneakers against the track to try and beat the boys. My body was strong. I loved beating the boys. I loved the surprise on their faces when I flew past them and reached the

Gender Is “…My sex forced me into a gendered existence, one in which I could no longer hide my physical differences from interested eyes…” Amanda Morris Gender is an unwanted constriction, a tight, spotless, massproduced, white shirt that makes it hard to breathe, and the type that you have to slowly peel off by bending your arm backwards at the uncomfortable angle where your shoulder pinches, to expose the infinitely speckled, varied, and irregular skin below. If the shirt is removable at all. Clothes have always felt like an enemy to me. They’re picked out for us before we even come into this world, determined the minute the ultrasound revels our biological reproductive organs to our hopeful parents. That tiny out-offocus white splotch on a sonogram, or lack of one, instantly launches visions, hopes and expectations for our personhood, fantasies of playing catch with good old dad or shopping with mommy-dearest, taking us from the land of infinite possibilities and fantasies that occur when our parents first find out that they’re pregnant and pushing us into fenced-in fields of pink or blue painted walls, ballet recitals or football practices, and names like Brittany or Brett. I remember the clothes my mother picked out for me, the ones that tried to determine my identity before I had even considered it myself. They were laughably girly – the big poofy sleeves, the little pink bows, the sparkly sequined skirts. They were an exercise of her uninhibited imagination, as if I was a real-life doll to

finish line first. I loved putting the cocky ones in their place when they thought they could throw snowballs at my friends then get away. I caught up to them and wrestled them on the ground, getting covered in mud and feeling bruises swell with pride. Then my body betrayed me. Through my biological sex, my body screamed out a gender to the world when it refused to grow past five feet five inches and insisted on giving me breasts that I kept trying to hide with baggier and baggier t-shirts until the hems flirted towards my knees. The day I got my period, I cried at the embarrassment of being a woman. There was no going back. My sex forced me into a gendered existence, one in which I could no longer hide my physical differences from interested eyes. The boys got bigger, inherited more space, and they beat me. There was no longer anyone to keep them in check. There was no one to keep him in check when he assaulted me. Not even myself. After that I hated my body. My body wasn’t able to protect me, it only limited me, subjected me to stares, catcalls and assaults. My gender constricts how much space I take up on the subway, as I sit with my thighs pressed together between two men whose legs are a foot apart. Gender causes me to slouch and become smaller, as small as I can. I’ve always gotten the sense that women are supposed to be as small as possible, as constricted as possible. Some force themselves to be smaller, eating nothing but a bagel all day and curling up on the couch from the pain of shrinking away, the danger of evaporating from existence. Our gendered clothes constrict our bodies to take up as little space as possible: corsets pressing

our ribs together, shirts compressing our chest and arms, our skinny jeans leaving angry red marks running up our legs as if to say, “How dare you try and take up any more space!” The scarlet streaks punish our flesh for pressing outwards against the denim fabric, imprinting us with a reminder to be skinny, be small, and stay powerless. Gender presses my hands at my sides, crosses my legs and keeps my chest concaved. It’s the only space the world, my society, and its norms, want to give me. Gender constricts my words. “Act like a lady,” chided my Uncle Danny when I was growing up. I spoke too much and I never outgrew it, long past when I was supposed to. There’s a nagging mantra in my head, inherited from those around me: keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet. At work, I disagree with my male colleagues, keep quiet keep quiet keep quiet. At parties, I want to crack a joke, keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet. Even about my sexual assault, keep quiet, keep quiet, keep quiet. My words take up too much space. Gender constricts my possibilities. If I had been born a boy, my parents would have placed me in hockey just like my brothers, and I would have learned how to stop on skates. Instead I was placed in ballet, then tap, then jazz, where I didn’t learn a damn thing that I still remember. If I had been born a boy, I would have opened up gifts of Legos, chemistry kits, and Harry Potter books. Instead I opened stiff fine china unicorn figurines, American Girl dolls, and delicate glass carousels that I accidentally broke the next day. My toys were designed to keep me still, to teach me to sit, silently. I watched while my brothers built cars out of interlocking red bricks, dug up dinosaur bones on fake archeological explorations, and shot off rocket ships in the backyard that left a

trail of baking soda and vinegar, foaming with possibility. Then when they were done and tired of their toys, I came in to explore. My possibilities were limited by what my brothers gave to me, what men allowed me. Even now, entering journalism, society tries to tell me what it is possible for me to do in my profession. I get into the CNN van and I’m told, “Bundle up buttercup,” by the van driver. When I tell the crew my dreams of being a foreign correspondent, they laugh. The producer in the back says I won’t last in that environment. I’m told I’m too delicate. What they’re really faulting me for is for being feminine, being a woman. Gender constricts my freedom. My own father tries to talk me out of foreign correspondence. He doesn’t want me living abroad alone. Six months before I studied abroad in the Czech Republic, my brother went backpacking solo through Europe, no questions asked. As I packed my bags to leave on my own globetrotting adventure, my parents came into my room to talk to me. They forbade me to travel solo. They told me to always have a friend with me when travelling. They said they were concerned about my safety. Though I tried to protest, they remained firm: it wasn’t safe to allow me the same freedoms as my brothers. Purely because I was woman, I am feminine, I am thought to be unsafe in my own world. The world has no safe space for my kind. The smaller I become, the less noticeable, and the safer, I’m told, I am. I went travelling alone anyway. I went to Belgium and stayed with a strange man that I didn’t know and drank cheap, boxed white wine with him. He hit on me as he tried to dance in the kitchen with me, yet I emerged unscathed. I learned how to play sports anyway. I begged my father to take me outside, then borrowed

hand-me-down baseball mitts and caught baseballs until my palm throbbed red underneath the worn-down leather. I stretched and bumbled around anyway. I spoke anyway, and loudly. I identify as female because of my experiences throughout life, yet my gender is a constant opportunity for defiance, to expose the cracks below the presumed monotone that is “female.” I push back against, sneak around, and break my gender constrictions. No one perfectly fits into the t-shirt picked out for them, and some even take it off. I am masculine, I am feminine, but above all, I am rebellion. !

Sam/Sam Grace Halvorson Sam she held my hand he pulled my hips towards him Sam he said “please stay” all I could think of was her Sam she kissed her soft lips against the palm of my hand he splashed me with stinging jacuzzi bubbles and warm beer Sam he said “please stay” all I could think of was her Sam she let me rest my hand on her knee and pretended not to notice how shaky I was he firmly grabbed my knee so that I had to reach into the water and move it away Sam he said “please stay” all I could think of was her Sam I don’t know his last name hers, Frost, like how I feel when winter kisses my nose all I can think of is her !

Incidents of a Straight Girl

Soon I was spitting these words too, an unconscious sprinter. As if expelling their foulness would make myself more clean. Stains Once, my best friend, Maggie, left lipstick stains on my cheeks and forehead. We thought it was cute, trying on all the different shades and smacking our lips like our Old Aunts would do on holidays. I didn’t understand why my Mom grabbed my wrists when she saw them, my glowing cheeks beneath cocktail reds and fruit punch pinks. Although the anger seemed senseless, she left an infallible imprint when her soft hands closed around mine. Her fear seeping through me, it became my own. The Other was an intangible predator, waiting to steal me from my mother’s shackle grasp. Waiting to take me beyond, to open lands. Free, but desolate. At sleepovers my friends and I were never allowed in the same bed.

“…Only men and women can have children. Only men and women can make love… “ Hannah Calistri A First Kiss I was born under spacious skies and amber waves of grain. Just another healthy, normal American girl. Naturally, my first kiss was in my church preschool where we would cut paper white doves with mini scissors. We thought they would fly like Noah’s and bring us back branches of hope. My best friend, Jack, was Luke Skywalker and I was Princess Leia. We saw it in the movies, so it was okay. A few years later I cut my own hair, the scissors slightly larger, but it hurt when people asked, “Are you a boy or a girl?” Of course I was a girl, but there was standard dress for that role. I was always waiting in a costume that wrapped me like swaddle cloths, so tight I never realized it wasn’t my own skin. When I cut it up and let it go no branches came back to me.

A Good Girl I grew like I was supposed to, and I grew into boys. I didn’t wear lipstick when I kissed cheeks, and in the corners of Bat Mitzvahs and the throngs of school dances I knew I was safe. I knew I was good. My Mom didn’t care about the sleepovers anymore. She was proud of me and my boyfriends.

Indoctrination When I was 10 my brother’s favorite words were fag and dyke. He sang them at the end of a joke or howled them at the beginning of an insult. He picked them up like dead bugs on the sidewalk and left them on my pillowcase to scare me in my sleep. The taunting was meaningless, which made it all the more powerful. My naivety provided me no definitions, but my fear was a pocket knife, whittling down the words to their harshest intention. I was Weird. Wrong. Disgusting, with all these taunts spat like vomit on my shoes. So of course I bottled them up for later use. Perhaps swallowing them myself would make me seem Normal. And wasn’t normalcy just the distance you run from the Other? Nothing could make my Dad laugh or my Mom’s eyes darken like talk of the Other.

Only men and women can have children. Only men and women can make love. A Photograph I used to walk through my neighbor’s back door when I was three, demanding a Candy Land partner and a bowl of Lucky Charms. Alex and I always played, always danced. We even took ballet together. On Halloween I was a princess and he was a butterfly. I remember my Mom pinching all the old pictures like she pinched up her nose. His mother forced him to dress that way. She raised him to be gay.

It was purely for attention. How could someone so young, so naive, know they like men? How could he do that to himself? I was in preschool when I first kissed a boy, but a teenager when I began to see beauty in everyone. But I was so young, how could I know? How could I do that to myself? Unrevelation I saw the Other in high school, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria. Brave to have entered the Rubicon, but dumb for crossing alone into such barren lands. Clinging to the fears that bore me up kept me safe, afloat. It was easier to think not as a mind, but as a body. A female body. I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember the exact moment I realized I had one, or that this body had me. Perhaps it was one of those midnights where I saw a flash of it in the mirror, wild, unhinged. And I shuddered closer in the half-dark as if meeting my savage eyes for the first time. Maybe I stared for too long, too wide, and suddenly I knew I was in there. A conscious and flesh, I learned, are two separate things. The divide is a void I dare not look into. I walk the world a straight female, on a sloping and linear path (whether this path is sloping up or down I am not quite sure). Beneath this veil my mind navigates only circles. I see a specter in the passing windows, a haunt in dark store fronts. A silhouette like the mannequins standing beyond it. Static bodies, stacked bodies, adorned but decapitated. Perhaps the whole world is just walking around me. Perhaps I am not walking at all. !

A Black Woman Writes Lonely Amber Salik Somewhere in the corner of the earth There is a black woman Holding herself together Through stubbornness alone She sits with no one I am so lonely She whispers out To no one in particular Her voice cracks slightly, so quietly That you wouldn't be able to hear it Had you not known the sound of it From your own heartbreak She raises her palms out Says please, I am so tired of it all Writes lonely across her chest As the world turns it back on her Shields its eyes from her pain Unable to witness her rawness Unwilling to do anything about it Lonely. Alone. I am alone in this. Flashes across the screen Who supports me? Who loves me? Is written over and over on every inch of her skin. Somewhere, In some corner of the world, A black woman writes lonely And it is nothing new Nothing anyone will bat an eye at Nothing to write home about Nothing but something else For her to swallow There is a loudness A violence that she must confront But again, The crowd is silent There is a quiet that echoes around the world !

Postage

Promises pictures.

Donna Gary

[Click] Blow out the candles, make a different wish this time.

Freeze frames of all the memories he's missed.

She writes about specifics

[Click] Big sis with the baby cradling his body close he's got the same brown eyes.

her pen scrapes away at the obvious and writes about the weather

[Click] Big brother hasn't finished high school yet, one more year won't matter -- wait I didn't mean it like that [Click].

--It's cold out, you could even say cloudy-high winds chills bite at my cheek

Send you some money this week?

nipping at the fire in my throat. Im screaming on the inside

i'll tell mama, auntie, uncle,

but my voice is honeysuckle mamas milk, ignorant

I'm working on it, they haven't written in a year or two

she writes about the everyday nothings like

they're working on it.

he can have it too.

[Click] Stop sending your brother so many

she doesn't know how to make him less jealous

pictures honey the men in there haven't seen women in very long time.

how to be the only one who writes back a brother who thinks my choice of pen, paper, stamp colorare luxury.

Oh I'm sorry, I'll stop acting like I want him to remember me.

She writes like his life

I'm sorry I'll stop acting like I want him to remember me.

depends on her guilty scribbles her unwritten I'm sorries

While you seem comfortable forgetting he ever existed.

her unforgivable weekend that let her forget him.

It doesn't matter what he did,

Pretends her days are agony when she forgets talking about him in past tenses where he is in a cave.

your was's and had's are like bad letters of recc

Lets her mind compartmentalize

NO THANK YOU,

his existence

I'll ask someone who cares about me

between four

and what I stand for.

gray walls.

Stamp four I've written him almost everyday

this week.

and my letters were his way out,

Used to get offended when he didn't reply for a month

my voice on the other end of the line, his honeysuckle mamas milk

--couldn't reply for a month. mama wouldn't write him Found out later he didn't always have the pen and paper those things aren't cheap.

sister didn't have that kind of money auntie didn't have that kind of time

Expensively stupidly missing phone calls because of the weird area code.

but trust they're all working on it. ! [Ring ring] thats me calling back and a machine (answering) ‘If you are calling securus technologies you may have received a call from a correctional facility don't call again we won't give them the message that would be just too human.’ I once asked if I could make him a bracelet braid some time spent outside pen and paper into knots and send him the only gift i could afford-‘happy birthday.’ He said they didn't let that kind of stuff slip through. Sympathy is very slippery, can't be too careful. I didn't ask about the inside after that To me he was at camp on a trip visiting a relative

The Journey

every good grade, every hobby, every joke, all of it was spoon-fed by sadness and choked down by hatred. For hating the world made you an artist, and pitying it made you stronger. And I yearned for both, I had visions of a powerful self, one who towered over all and was loved so intently and purely that she had no reason not to be angry or alone. Who had the answers at her fingertips so as to never need help from anyone again. Who could dream and fight and sing and laugh without fear. Who was

Kate Tell I felt that hatred and sadness were friends of mine. I’d invite them over and let them overstay their welcome, while my family noticed uncomfortably that we were getting on a bit too well. They’d steal out of my purse and think I didn’t notice. They’d drink cups of tea without washing their dishes. They’d mock things I couldn’t ever change and brush it off with a laugh. But all that didn't matter. Because they were going to make me

interesting. The line connecting hatred and sadness is neither art nor violence, but apathy. Investing your heart and mind into something was a recipe for destruction, one that involved cultivating my interests and finding out who I was. A long, winding path of self-discovery that involved heartbreak, broken bones, rejection letters, and fighting with the people I loved. So, I opted for the shortcut. One that I was petrified to walk but felt I had to do it not for myself, but for everybody else.

interesting. Obsessed with being captivating, I turned towards the feelings that glued people to their televisions as police searched forests for children, as couples cried their eyes out for Rose, as men stood up for their loved ones through violence and threats, the very same feelings that fueled forbidden love and every war. This goal motivated me in all I did, every white lie, every panic attack,

For people who would cheer me on from the sidelines, proud but equally as frightened. I could crawl over the finish line, bruised and battered and broken, but as long as the people who invested in me had a smile on their face, it would have been worth it. I would dedicate myself to the feelings of other people, sacrificing my health and happiness because that’s what heroes do. They walk the treacherous path so it may be easier for those who follow. That’s why heroes are who they are, why they are

a voice in my head whispered, ‘look at what a failure this has been, you tried everything for them and they still don’t find you

interesting do they?’ the fear continued and i pushed the voice outside of myself, until i realized i was the one who had let it settle in the first place, that it was my own. i pressed my hands against my ears and screamed to block it out, cried to help me melt away, but it was only after the panic had reached its peak, and i’d thrown myself through the trees into a clearing, and inhaled deeply before pushing out a sob, that i realized, i didn’t want them to find me, i didn’t want to be interesting, i wanted to be. i had jumped at the chance to be someone i wasn’t for people who had no reason to care. and i hated them for it, i hated them for being themselves, for minding after their own well-being rather than paying attention to mine, how dare you? i yelled, i did this for you. i lost myself for you. while sadness and hatred laughed,

interesting. But, nobody cared. Nobody laughed and smiled, only offered concerned looks once in a while and calls that went unanswered. Assured by my new friends, I continued, but people continued thinking that this was just who I was rather than something I was trying to be for them. And by the time I realized this, I was horribly lost among tall, dark trees, ones that seemed endless against the starless sky, and as my heart beat faster and my knees started shaking

you shouldn’t have.

and for once, they were right.

and you did it for others rather than yourself. your empathy is what will save you, not your apathy. your heart is what will save you, not your head. you are so much more than the box of sadness and hatred, for you are you. a girl. a woman. you have no need to be interesting, for you are

i knelt to the ground, collapsed in a heap of myself, the most unfamiliar substance, and wished everyone else had realized what i had realized. i had been tricked, lured in by a fake wish to gain what could never have been given by sadness or hatred. and suddenly, amongst the quiet of my regret, i feel their fingertips on my cheek and another voice whispers:

human. i look up to them and ask, who are you? and they smile and i know that they are love !

you are not a fool for wanting what you could never have. it is only natural to think beyond oneself and yearn for greatness, but it is in realizing that it is impossible to be anyone other than yourself that you achieve what you have wanted. you are not alone when you are lonely. the passion and joy others feel for you does not leave on bad days, it carries them to your door but only matters if you answer. you are not a blemish people have to pick away. you are not a weight those you care about must carry. you may have walked this path alone but you have made it out alive,

Real Things Men on Tinder Have Told Me Behind the Protection of Their Computer Screens That Made Me Feel Cheap

We should get to know each other. It only makes sense right? Hey beautiful, You know what goes really good with a marshmallow? Chocolate - you look like a nestle girl. How much do you love nuts? Or look, are you a pizza box? Because I can’t wait to get your top off! Sorry, I’m not good with chat up lines. Hey wait, R u gonna answer me or what? I’ve been messaging you I just want to talk- promise It would be an honor to get to know you Guess no lunchtime playtime for me today Can I call you caramel? I love a lil caramel in the morning Or are you more of a moca? Give me diabetis Do you like gettin’ eaten out? What can I do to make you snap me tonight? I’ll literally make a fool out of myself. I want to see you. Show me dem titz And then if you sit on my face I’ll eat my way to your heart I don’t know you, but I’ve never felt this way before You seem different than the rest Can we go out sometime please? If you were a fruit, you’d be a fineapple You trynna fuck tonight? Because I can make you pornstar famous Looks like we both did the RIGHT thing when we swiped I’m tired of the games being single I’m just a nice guy looking for a mean girl to corrupt me I love having a beautiful woman around to try on. Come cuddle babe Let’s get drunk and make out We should definitely meet up something !

Amber Salik Good morning, lovely It’s nice to meet you We matched so I had to say hi because cute girls like you are few and far between Thank God, I was wondering when I’d see a beautiful girl You have a gorgeous smile How’s your weekend going? You wanna eat cookie dough together sometime? I would love to take you home baby Lemme get your number. I like you If you were a triangle, you’d definitely be a cute one! You’re pretty cute for a black chick. Are you Jamaican? Because you’re Jamaican me horny. Your mother must have been a beaver Because DAMMMM girl You know, I’ve never been with a black girl before Tell me about yourself. Hopefully you’re as interesting as your picture.

Dream Girl (Featuring real things a 15-yearold boy said to me)

So I said. I'm having a panic attack because I think I’m depressed and my step dad left so now I don't get to build things with him anymore and I’m worried my dog is suicidal and my hair doesn't brush right I always end up pulling some out and I think I have an infection because the internet told me so and everything feels overwhelming and I think that was Too Much. At 15, you not wanting

Emma Ragusa

me anymore

You liked to say I was different

felt like millions of bees

I pulled you out of yourself

stinging my unkissed lips

I made you fun I made you bold.

until they burst into nothing.

In my room once

I guess I should’ve stuck

you looked me in the eyes

with different, right?

and said you couldn't believe

Because a good Dream Girl

no one wanted to fuck me except you.

is focused on you,

Only you.

records, books, sex,

Oh I’m so lucky.

dresses despite bleeding thighs

We never even kissed

and pretending she’s

but I remember so clearly

Oh so lucky. !

your pale skin inching next to mine whispering in my ear “I like you better in dresses” But dresses make my legs chafe thick thighs thrashing together burning red dots I couldn’t wear dresses not at 15.

Sundays with Mother

man would stare at her she’d flash her brightest smile, not too wide though. “We want to seem available, not desperate” she always said. Eventually one man would stop. They always stopped. He’d offer to buy us a drink. “Perhaps some ice cream for the little one?” he’d always say once he saw that my gaze was fixated on the ice cream cart. To which mom would always reply in the most flirtatious manner, “Oh, you’re too kind. Sure, if you insist.” She’d flip her hair and give me the look, letting me know to leave the table. I’d take the money that the man would give me and get my scoop. After that, I would just walk on the sidewalk that surrounded the Café, back and forth, observing families eating, laughing, and making memories, all while eating my ice cream slowly until it was all gone. Then I’d count the things I saw on the sidewalk. Cracks, cigarette butts, little sprigs of weeds growing between cobblestones; stuff like that. By then, Mom had already sealed the deal. They’d agreed to meet sometime and somewhere elsewhere later in the week. She’d give a quick goodbye and we’d be back on those two buses and one train to get back home. Then everything would be fine. She’d go on a few outings with the man. Lavish dinners, shopping sprees, romantic boat rides on the Seine, I heard about them all. It always seemed like things were going to be different. She’d wake me up with and tell me all about her day no matter how tired I was. Dressed in a grin that was way too wide and the same hopeful glint in her eye. The glint that said, “This time, for sure.” It fooled us both. One day it stopped. It always came to an end. That was the only constant. The worst part was that she never knew why. Maybe she said the wrong thing? Maybe she said the right thing, but at the wrong time? It didn’t matter. We’d always go back to the beginning. Me and her dressed in looks we couldn’t afford. Sundays at the Café de la paix. Waiting for someone. Who? I don’t know. I remember the noise. The clangs of the Café’s dishes. The laughter of tourists. The car horns and bike bells. My mother. !

“…When a man would stare at her she’d flash her brightest smile…”

Gabrielle Aku I remember the noise. I would wake to her clattering in her closet and fussing over which outfit to wear. Hear her mumbling to herself on what she planned on achieving that day and giving herself a mini pep talk. For the brief and frantic time that we lived in Paris, the one thing that was certain was Sunday. Mom would wake me up every Sunday morning and put me in the same poufy white dress with blue ruffles and socks to match. I also wore the same black flats that were too small that had clear tape on the soles in case Mom ever needed to return them for the money. Always Sunday. She would dress in some lavish summer dress that she bought at a boutique the day before. She would always keep the tags on so that she could return it the next day. We would always do little things like that so that we looked like we had more money than we did. The Café de la Paix was open only for three hours on Sunday’s. “Three hours is all we need,” she always said. We’d take two buses and one train to get there. We always needed to be there right when it opened until the moment it closed. We would sit outside right under the awning overlooking the busy intersection. Mom would order a single espresso that she made last for the full three hours. She’d slowly smoke a pack of cigarettes the whole time. I would always stare at the ice cream cart that sits right on the curb, begging mom for just a small scoop. She always refused. To pass the time, I’d stare at the street, listening to bits of conversations uttered in different languages. I’d watch the tourists hop across the street with their heads darting both ways, hoping that no car would hit them. One by one, she’d observe the men that walked by. “All we need is one.” When a

To My Mother Elise LeMassena My mother sizzles wherever she walks Crackling through school hallways Microwaved meals and cinnamon rolls Candy corn and dolphins Frumpy clothes and three pairs of the same shoes “You make the tiredness so easy to carry” Her eye-bags whispered to me As she bent down to say goodnight Two kisses wrapped in one; “sweet dreams, sleep with the angels” An empty chair beside her At every conference She was so good at explaining Where she was and where she wanted to be Tired but never weary My first Valentine “I love you” in sign language The reason I am where I am And going where I’m going Tired but never weary

Persist Pele

adorned by malignant crystals sutured in her skin she cuts away with a scissor tongue of lava and heartache hot like cut glass she is an enemy in a battle she was born fighting and the fight never ends as long as the earth drifts onward and oozes her soul syrupy and scalding and any sugar-cane-sweetness turns to ashes in her teeth gnashing while hoping to breathe a sigh instead of a scream !

Emma Indelicato The volcano survives because she is desperate climbs out through the crust when the continents grant her the opportunity a narrow crag the window to burst through molten shards against the seas sharp like fire against the current with magma and strife flailing her molasses limbs screeches like clanging metal blacksmith sweat and blood turns boiling metal into a brimstone weapon into basalt armor iridescent axes and onyx swords into a new creation stronger heavier and more dangerous than anything before her persistence it is violence The living is attracted to victory of anotherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s war forests and beasts and gods chase at her skirts cling to her as if to keep from drowning she is driven mad from mothering being the only home in the middle of a blue wilderness but when she is at her highest the erosion is most rapid frost and sun ice and wind and the rain tear her down and ebony tears tangle with dirty hair manically forged and ripped out noosed by a moss-green collar

how to be soft like you Stasia de Tilly-Blaru

how to be soft like you finally feeling cool sundays are a mess of tears meeting boys to love for years meeting boo who doesn't know he's your boo yet projecting subjective ideals on boys you are perfect, why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t you love me? you are Apollo from a dream golden tresses conjures fantasies sexual fantasies erupt in dust count the feelings of lust counting the pulses of your magnetic brain my loneliness is all that remains lying in bed meditation is what refrains me from falling asleep crying i open up, you're unaware you donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have it all figured out !

To Younger Beth

When you hook up with that girl, don't be afraid of what will happen. Be proud of it. When you don't get into the Ivies, life will go on. When you get accepted to NYU but can’t afford it, just go. When your Calculus teacher fails you for the last marking period of your senior year in high school even though your grandfather died and you had been wishing to join him for the better part of a year, don’t give a fuck. Seriously, no repercussions will come from this. When you steal the honor stole at graduation, never give it back. When you wanna fuck him, do it, and fuck the consequences, too. When four guys yell at you at the park for twenty minutes, telling you to “suck my dick, bitch” and “she definitely hears us, what should we do next” and you’re scared out of your mind, don't be. You’re something that they could never understand, never touch. When you need to be right about everything, that’s okay. When you want to die, don’t. When men try to tell you what you know, tell them to go fuck themselves. When someone, or many someones, call you a whore, be proud of it. When that stranger says he wants to taste you, tell him the next thing he’ll be tasting is blood in his throat. When Trump wins the election, it’s okay to cry about it. Then give him hell. When you see a homeless person, give them a dollar, without expecting thanks in return. When your brother stabs your Mom over Thanksgiving break, it’s okay to go to the mall with your friend. You deserve a normal life. When your friends inevitably read this poem, they’ll still love you. (Probably.) When you get the B+, forgive yourself. When you've asked me, many times, to give you a hug and tell you things will be okay, know this: I can’t hug you. But things will be okay. !

Bethany Sattur When your middle school friends leave, let them go. When you think you have a crush on that girl, you do. And that’s okay. When the teacher mocks you, stand up to her. She only did it because she knew a thirteen-year-old couldn't fight back. When you want to wear that shirt, do it. When your gym teacher says you can’t wear a tank top because boys will get “hot,” do it anyway. When your first boyfriend hurts you, tell him he did. When you have to change in gym class, hold your head up high. When you have to attend gym class, don't give a shit about what happens. When you fail your first, your third, your twentieth fencing tournament, let it hurt. Then sign up for the next one. When it’s your eighth-grade graduation, don't let your “friend” hold your honor cord. She’s going to “accidentally” break it. When anyone insults you, use all the venom and power your tongue has. Be angry. Be a bitch. When you lost your popular friend group in high school, let them go. Don’t continue to sit at their lunch table every day for the next few years. When you have to attend that rally about how you should never have an abortion (even in cases of rape or incest) stand up on your chair and yell at that woman. Detention is worth it if you saved a girl’s life. When the administrator makes fun of your ripped jeans, tell her you couldn't afford regular ones cause your Mom was too busy paying the school tuition. When the same administrator tells your Mom she should’ve ironed your robe at inductions for National Honor Society, tell her your Mom isn't a wind-up maid with a real working vagina.

Anjiya Ali

doing the talk is fat, and therefore, that she cannot be beautiful. Anjiya Ali feels hate burning up her insides as she watches the talk. She imagines how great it would be to take out her brain and replace it with a fresh, sparkling new one. Anjiya Ali feels as if she is going to vomit.

“…Anjiya Ali feels like a bad feminist…” Zahra Budhwani In the grainy third grade sandbox, Colin Stanford tells Anjiya Ali that her eyes are the color of poop. Anjiya Ali looks up and notices for the first time a fact that she will lament for years to come, that unlike Colin Stanford and the rest of her emerald-eyed peers, if a novel is ever to be written about her, her eyes cannot be likened to any natural entity besides tree bark, wet stone, and feces.

Anjiya Ali has her first screaming match with her mother at age sixteen. She finally has a date, and when John Stein comes to pick her up at the door, the spicy scent and entanglement of airy words in Hindi leave him confused enough to step in. Anjiya Ali’s mom offers him a pani puri. John Stein smiles kindly and takes it. Anjiya Ali sees the tips of his ears turn pink as he attempts to digest the snack. Anjiya Ali rolls her eyes at him knowingly. He relaxes. Later, when Anjiya Ali’s mother shows him videos of a classical Indian dance performance, he catches her eye and mockingly imitates the dance, wiggling his arms and crossing his eyes. Anjiya Ali cries that night in her bed.

Anjiya Ali will spend her next seventeen years thinking about what it would be like to have art created after her. Anjiya Ali will stand in front of the mirror, turning in circles and wondering what poetic string of words a man could possibly use to cover up the parts of her body that jiggle when she jumps up and down. Anjiya Ali’s fingers will traipse across her goose-bumped tan skin. She will wonder if the man will call her skin “chocolate” or “caramel” in his novel.

Anjiya Ali has always been attracted to white men. Her friends will laugh and tell her that they’re her type. Anjiya Ali laughs with them. Anjiya Ali wonders if she has internalized some sort of colonialism, the kind that Carol Zhou talked about in hushed, angry tones during her sophomore women’s’ studies class. Anjiya Ali does not really know what Carol meant.

Anjiya Ali is painfully aware that her last name puts her in a specific box. Anjiya Ali knew this when the grumpy mustached security guard at LaGuardia stared at her as if she was a ticking time bomb. Anjiya Ali tells people she chooses not to care about this. Anjiya Ali sometimes finds herself tossing and turning on her sheets late at night, wishing her mother had married someone named “Smith.”

Anjiya Ali does not like that all her guy friends call her “bro.” Anjiya Ali knows that they do not call any other of the girls “bro.” Anjiya Ali sits in the grimy school bathroom, feeling petty and hating herself for feeling petty. Anjiya Ali feels like a bad feminist.

Anjiya Ali is part of the body positivity club at her school. Anjiya Ali leaves notes in library books reminding people to love themselves. Anjiya Ali cries in the bathroom stall because she feels like a fraud. Later that day, she smiles at the little girls at her mosque who come to her feeling too fat and later refers them to a TED talk about the word fat. Anjiya Ali watches that TED talk the very same night. She does not believe a single word. Anjiya Ali still believes that the lady

Anjiya Ali hates Brandy Melville out of principle. Anjiya Ali says this to her friends, but really she hates that their corduroy pants won’t squeeze up over her thighs. Anjiya Ali pictures a board of white-haired 70-year-old executives at Brandy Melville with a full body picture of her on a conference table, using a

red marker to cross out the parts that are too big. Anjiya Ali is at a party on the most important night of her life. Anjiya Ali is dancing drunkenly when Colin Stanford comes up behind her. Anjiya Ali hears him whisper in her ear with whisky-laced breath and feels his fingers trail across her goose bump-covered skin. Anjiya Ali agrees when he asks her to go up to a room with him. Anjiya Ali rolls her eyes as Colin Stanford tells her that her dimples could make anyone melt. Anjiya Ali will trace the curve of her dimple with her pinky finger forty-seven times that night in bed. Anjiya Ali closes her eyes as Colin Stanford takes off her clothes and moans her name. Anjiya Ali rips off her own clothes as she gets home that night and dances around her room to AC/DC’s “You Shook Me All Night Long.” Anjiya Ali falls down and opens her diary. She wakes up the next morning to a heading entitled “The Day I Stopped Hating My Body.” Anjiya Ali looks down. Anjiya Ali still sees her doughy rolls of fat and her too brown skin and her chubby thighs. Anjiya Ali rips out the page. Anjiya Ali laughs wryly at herself for being so stupid. She is suddenly painfully aware that somewhere in her mother’s hometown, at this very moment, a woman is being killed or raped, while she is in her bedroom lamenting a one-night stand. In the midst of July before her senior year of high school, Anjiya Ali receives a knock on the door from Colin Stanford. He invites her outside. She closes the door behind her. The air is thick, and Anjiya Ali cannot stop talking about how she feels like she is breathing in soup. Anjiya Ali barely hears Colin Stanford when he tells her he has written a poem about her. Anjiya Ali takes the poem and unfolds it. Colin Stanford has written her a love sonnet in typewriter letters and has used a thick black sharpie to draw a box around it. Colin Stanford lingers around as she reads it. Anjiya Ali finishes it and runs inside without another word. She runs into her bathroom and throws up. !

Finding My Way: How I Conquered Heartbreak and Fell Back In Love with Myself

down my face, a box of Insomnia cookies at my side and Legally Blonde playing on my laptop, I couldn’t help but wonder: what the fuck do I do now?

I came to college in a relationship, and a very dependent one at that. My partner and I went everywhere and did everything together. My friends were our friends. My life was our life. When it really started to sink in that I was on my own, I couldn’t help but feel completely terrified. If we were both half of a whole then they were the better half: smarter, kinder, more capable, more rational, better looking. So much of my energy had been depleted by the stress of our relationship and the sparkle that I once had was so dulled at this point that it barely glimmered. They were given a fresh start at a new school and I was left to pick up the broken pieces of a life that we built together. How could I face my friends? My family, even? How could I write papers for class without having them proofread for me? How would I buy the right clothes without their approval? How would I navigate New York City alone when I could barely drive 10 minutes in suburban Ohio without getting hopelessly lost? I started to spiral into depression: was I enough on my own, or was I destined to be nothing more than a supporting character in someone else’s story?

“I thought losing your love was a blow I could never withstand. But look how far I have come without anyone holding my hand.” - Elle Woods, Legally Blonde: The Musical Teagan Rabuano Heartbreak often comes without warning. I certainly didn’t receive a warning in late November of 2015 when everything I thought I knew about my life came crashing down around me. I remember waking up the morning after and forgetting it had happened. For a brief moment, just before I fully opened my eyes, everything was the same as it had been for the past 3 years. From Ohio to New York City, we had been the couple that defied all odds. We had weathered so many storms together that by the time the clouds finally parted we realized that we were completely different from the two people who fell head over heels in love at 16. I was different. I glanced over at my closet: full of long, flowing black dresses. I looked at my desk: an array of makeup products littered over its surface. I had come out as trans 2 months earlier, and I was still figuring out the language of my identity and my body. It was all new to me, but I hadn’t been so happy in years. My excitement for life had returned just before my partner left. The events of the last few months, the last few years, whirled through my mind. As I sat in my bed, tears streaming

The months that followed were difficult. I was in a state of transition. As I simultaneously explored my new gender identity and relationship status, the stress eventually wore me down. I felt like I was suffocating. Everywhere I went people looked at me with pity in their eyes. I knew that my friends and family meant well, and that they were simply worried for me, but I hated feeling like a piece of collateral damage. I refused to be the broken half of something that was once whole -- I had to escape. I had already been planning on studying abroad at some point, and now seemed like the perfect time. After a semester of sleepless nights, I

packed up my favorite dresses and left to participate in a 6 week acting program in Florence, Italy, hoping to leave my broken heart and broken life behind in Manhattan.

with who I was at my core. It was a fresh start.

I don’t regret being in love. I don’t look back on what we had with anger or spite. I had to find my way, and I’m thankful for everything that relationship taught me. Getting my heart broken was an important part of my journey. Now, however, I see that it wasn’t my defining moment. I’ve come to realize that I don’t need someone else to proofread my work, pick out my clothes or point me in the right direction (although, I must admit, I’m still a perpetually lost person). I am capable on my own. I am enough on my own. I suppose I always have been. !

I was through being apprehensive, and I dove headfirst into this new experience. Italy, it turned out, was a breath of fresh air. For the first time in months, I could breathe again. I knew only some of the other students who were my peers that summer, and it was almost exclusively women. Nervous, at first, that I would be deemed an outsider, they embraced me as one of them, never making me feel that my transness was something that separated me or made me less than. It was the first group of people I had met at college who did not know me as half of a relationship and the first group who met me as an out-trans person. I didn’t know exactly who I was on my own, but now I had the space to figure it out. I started to find myself again. I discovered that I was still funny and likable, that I had my own interests and goals, that I was talented. I had spent so much time after my break-up envying the life of my partner, feeling as though I could never measure up. During that summer, I realized I didn’t have to compete.

I spent those six weeks laughing instead of crying, drinking wine with friends on my bedroom floor, perfecting my makeup skills, taking selfies everywhere I went, reading for pleasure and enjoying my own company again. I had forgotten that not only did other people like me, but that I liked myself, too. I had previously avoided alone time, fearful of my own emotions, but now I was able to find peace, and even joy. When I came back to the city in the fall, I sparkled again. I traded in my predominantly black wardrobe and decorations for the all-pink world I had always dreamed of. I took on more leadership roles and continued making new friends. Strangely, though everything in my world had changed. I felt more like myself than I had in years, as if I had reconnected

GARDENS Virginia Zhang “All that is very well,” answered Candide, “but let us cultivate our garden.” – Candide, Voltaire If his confessions come in forms so impersonal and short lived as flowers This person can’t claim to be sincere If the flowers are red roses This person can’t claim to be unique He can give you more He can give you everything But not even an endless garden of every type of flower in the world Will be enough for you If you didn’t learn to cultivate it yourself !

Untitled Amber Salik For years, I have sat and watched the women I admired be torn apart by the men they loved As if their ruining was a sacrifice they had to pay for his happiness. I waited, anxious and trembling, For the day a man would come knocking to break me open into a quivering, unconditionalloving mess And when the day finally came, I was ready for him. I bared my teeth And tore him apart instead !

untitled first poem Tife Oluwo The power can be in the hands of a woman As long as it is just a pretty accessory She can hold it but must never learn of it God forbid a woman uses the power she holds God forbid she knows she is beautiful and acts like it She can be a witch A sorceress She can do tricks and illusions With her face and body She can entertain you But if she uses those skills for herself If she is beautiful and knows it If she smart and acts it If she is witch and likes it Damn her Burn her !

i swallowed him and he is still inside me swishing in my stomach lifting my soft palate i didn’t think it was that until after i stopped pretending

prelude Bella Harris

i think about having to tell the story what will i have to explain what can i say to not have to tell the story

i had rules which i followed and ticked off every time talk to them for a few days meet in public any weirdness, leave

did you tell him no i couldn’t why not i was physically unable what does that even mean i was in a compromised position couldn't you havewhat do you want to hear, you wanna hear the grimy details that i resisted with my neck that he kept pushing that i felt him in the back of my throat for too long that not being able to breathe means yes that vomiting means yes that silence means yes that not asking means yes

i never got past that, what if i had not seen the weirdness because there was none?

a world in which someone asks me “did you say no?” Bella Harris he asked me out we split a mac and cheese we saw a movie he didn’t hold my hand until after the movie walking me home i put the kettle on because he doesn’t drink coffee we talked outside of my bedroom for thirty minutes before entering then we did he called me beautiful and i wanted to

i followed the rules like the good thing i was taught to be that they expected me to be still you are taken i learned that outside of school, they don’t care about the rules !

i asked him out i put the kettle on we talked outside of my bedroom for ten minutes before entering he cornered me in this was when i didn’t want to or rather, wasn’t ready the whistle of the tea kettle shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh he wouldn’t let me take the kettle off now, my room isn’t mine, my mouth isn’t mine

Pockets and Permanent Partnership

picked up and purchased for reference, bridesmaids. This marital theme for girls doesn’t stop in the book section. Look at the feminine LEGOs, the Calico Critters, and even the My Little Pony displays. They all have a wedding play set. Barbie has numerous wedding dresses and a whole wedding party. Her brand even replicates her dress in a child’s size for young girls. Right behind it are the baby dolls, cooking sets, and the sleepless nights, too, I would venture. But I never played with this stuff when I was younger. My mother supplied me with markers and construction paper to tell my own stories that were influenced by playing with dolls that looked like and did things like me (like children), and reading historical picture books examining the accomplishments of Juliette Gordon Low, Bessie Coleman, and Mary Anderson. None of my toys ever talked much about weddings, so I was never a fascinated advocate for them. The concept of marriage hardly ever entered my mind. In the planning of Elizabeth’s wedding, my cynicism for the subject frequently flamed, especially the closer we inched toward the big day. The extravagance of preparing for the display of tulle tablecloths and skirts and searching for antique vintage teacups simply as placeholders was mindboggling. I thought about the excuses that arose for people to spend money in wedding planning – venues and dresses and music and a personal photographer and a cake and tiny cakes to sit around the big cake so it wouldn’t feel lonely. They were all paychecks embodied in frivolousness, money I would’ve more happily seen distributed in a budgetary spreadsheet allotted for things like electric bills and property taxes, the hard realities for the couple following the frilly forty-eight hours after “I Do.” The Catholic values rooted in Elizabeth and her fiancé, Elliot’s, particular ceremony only heightened my being perturbed. Catholicism is a religion I had refused to touch with a ten-foot pole after enduring four long years of school drenched in the beliefs that arguably set the grounds for

“…My lack of understanding of why smart women buy into what I consider a ridiculous charade dissipated with whatever sunlight was left in the autumn day…” Rachel A.G. Gilman My high school best friend, Elizabeth, has been getting married almost as long as she’s been my best friend. Over a whopping seven years, there have been a plethora of discussions of veils and flowers, rings and cakes, and learning the difference between ivory, white, and whatever one might guess is “rose beige.” The whole process gave me a new but fairly useless vocabulary. Wedding education, admittedly, has never been my cup of tea, even after being named Maid of Honor. The title was one I accepted with as much enthusiasm as most people have toward going to the dentist to have their teeth cleaned, or meeting with an accountant during tax season. The only differences being that those activities are actually necessary. Weddings, despite what the Hallmark Channel and Martha Stewart would like us to believe, are not. This ideology, nevertheless, is engrained in young women, starting in childhood. All you have to do is walk down the aisle of a toy store to understand. Start in one, small section like the sticker books and look at the traditional options for girls. While dinosaurs, military branches, and any sport played with a ball is marketed for the boys, the pink and purple covered selections are littered with things focusing on family and relationships, including oh, so many for weddings, honeymoons, and the one I actually

my adamant feminist principles. Most of what I could remember from Bible class was the well-spread idea that women ultimately became men’s playthings, property, and seemingly rightfully so. Blame Eve, they implied, who was put on this earth to keep Adam company, and when her interests grew outside of that singular focus she was punished and the cause of sin being brought down upon everyone’s heads for all of eternity (this reaction on God’s part always led me to question the validity in the common prayer response, “The Lord is kind and merciful”). These sorts of sentiments flood a Catholic wedding. During the rehearsal, the priest ran through the ritual prayers and promises the couple would make to each other. They would be faithful, through it all, sure. They would accept whatever children the Lord “blessed” them with, fine. And the wife would honor, serve, and obey the husband. I waited to hear what the husband would do in return, but the priest flipped the page in his marriage ceremony manual, moving on. I curled my toes inside my heeled shoes and internally revolted at yet another principle in this institution that made my skin crawl. What a ridiculous sentiment, I thought, to honor, obey, and serve somebody? It sounded like a promise someone would see on a contract for a foot soldier or an adoption certificate for a labradoodle. It was just plain silly and unrealistic to boot. My tolerance entirely faded the rest of rehearsal. My anger only subsided slightly at the post-event dinner under the indulgence of two blood orange margaritas and a bemoaning session with my fellow bridesmaid, Yasi, who felt no more charmed by the institution than I was. On our drive home, we, two bright, accomplished young women, ranted on the lunacy and sexism laced in what we were about to participate in, from the creepy Best Man who had joked to us about owning furry handcuffs to the sleeveless dresses and heels we were about to endure in muddy, fall weather. That alone was a symbol. The men had soft suits with layers and pockets. My God, pockets, pockets! The closest any of the

women in the wedding party came to having a pocket was on the blazer one of the junior bride’s maids would wear, and as soon as Yasi and I were prepared to celebrate the success, the hope turned false with the realization it was nothing but a flap for vanity’s sake. Was that not the message, though, of modern day wedding culture? Weren’t women, from the time they were girls, supposed to buy into this notion that their wedding day was meant to look and feel “special” – if not the most “special” – out of all the days in their lives? Didn’t the capitalist economy and primitive social sectors of society hope this would be ignored in their marketing ploys of draping pretty pink, floral fabrics over these problems and that women everywhere would simply accept this oldtimey practice of giving up part of themselves for an overall better outcome? If yes to all this, then I asked, “for what?” These questions floated into the next day, while pinning Elizabeth’s hair back, then nudging Yasi to smile during what felt like endless photo sessions, and even as I watched the misty-eyed crowd at the arguably too opulent Catholic church in a tiny upstate town where Elizabeth and Elliot finally made things official. It was pretty, for sure, but I still cringed at the vows without remorse and longed for a pocket, if only to make a point. I couldn’t look back at Yasi from my seat to the left of the altar, but I had a feeling she probably felt the same way, too. We escaped another round of photos between the ceremony and the reception to pick up a change of clothes and purchase $2 pizza slices to ease our grumbling stomachs, our conclusions remaining, bluntly, that weddings were unjustly ridiculous. We itched to take off our dresses and heels and make-up and, while still remaining happy for our friend, we disregarded much of the overall process. That evening when the reception was in full swing, Elizabeth and Elliot had their first dance to that Ed Sheeran song, “Perfect.” I realized she had walked down the aisle to the same song. I’d heard it earlier in the week, too, Tuesday night at Patsy’s on University Place in Manhattan while sitting in awkward

silence with a boy after trying to convey how deeply I cared for him only to be met with nervous conversation changes, avoidant eye contact, and the general ticks that come when someone can’t admit to you that they don’t feel the same. When I heard this song – when that same boy’s texts lit up my cell phone during the dance (“Are you surviving?”) and I itched to answer; when another young man’s messages came in immediately following to ask similar questions in kinder, more thoughtful ways; when the non-predatory groomsman met my eyes across the table and winked after I said something amusing about the lack of knives in the place settings to help cut barbequed food; when the bride’s older brother walked by in a frenzied hurry and I remembered spending nights telling him jokes and editing lengthy papers on computer coding language I did not nor would ever care to learn (something I did without the foresight of knowing he would grow a ponytail longer than my own one day and inevitably never grow beyond a man child); when all of these people had at one point, even if extremely briefly, caused a specific, intoxicating yet addictive feeling of combined joy, nervousness, and excitement in my stomach – my lack of understanding of why smart women buy into what I consider a ridiculous charade dissipated with whatever sunlight was left in the autumn day. I watched the couple dance and I turned and twisted my bride’s maid gift, a rose gold ring formed from a loose knot of metal. I wore it on my left ring finger, the only finger I usually leave without something adorning its base. This wasn’t complicated. It was really all very simple. Love feels good, sometimes even great. It’s something the deepest, most stubborn contrarian sides of me won’t try to deny. It’s worth arguing, though, that it can usurp the feeling of independence or of individual accomplishment. Receiving joy from completing and saying you do great work is wonderful, but all wonderful things on their own fade and sort of feel the same after they do so and you’re left sitting at home alone, do

they not? Does it not feel better to share that joy with someone else, and who better than a partner through everything who you know is yours alone, kind of like a personal cheerleader? It’s not a progressive idea in the least, but it’s enduring nonetheless: people enjoy being and feeling loved, and if solidifying such means capitulating to a framework of semi-foolishness and sexism, then so be it. Anaïs Nin, the lover of Henry Miller, observed in her journals that women had become “overly strong.” I’ve highlighted, underlined, and starred this passage because it bewilders me. Is it a feminist statement acknowledging power, or a sad look at how gender roles can wear us down? It’s usually the kind of thing I think about lying in bed in my studio apartment, along with how loneliness is never synonymous with happiness. Most people understand this. That’s why most people go ahead and get married, despite the issues. Even Yasi and I had curiously phrased our comments earlier in the day. People can wear jeans – because they have pockets, There will be donuts, It’ll all be done in an hour, tops. What always followed these things was At my wedding, as if it never occurred to us not to participate in the thing we were critiquing. There was no desire to be absent from it. My thoughts remained scattered like the children running around the bonfire just prior to my departure from the ceremony and new questions were left unanswered like the text messages on my cell phone. Yasi continued her mental list of wedding “do’s” and “don’ts” on the drive back. We were in jeans and flats, having shed our formal attire hours earlier (though I was not as bold as her to leave it on site). I agreed with her comments about the bouquet toss as a hard pass, and I would be fine if I could stay out of Catholic churches unless visiting them for some historical admiration forever. Other things were murky. Thinking about toasts from family members and loved ones or imagining a few selective photos of hugs and happiness brought about as much excitement as they did discomfort. Those things felt like

they could be spun to embrace a sense of empowerment. The concept my mind could not escape from obsessing over was the vows, the thing that had deeply soured me toward marriage to begin with, and how I wanted next to nothing of the original content. If I was going to proclaim that traditional madness, a wedding might as well be a funeral for my identity, not a celebration. I would never be able to say those things to someone, look him in the eye and repeat, because regardless of whom that individual might be, I could never attest to such a statement honestly. I wouldn’t be able or want to follow through on it. But there were other things I could image myself saying. I could foresee looking someone in the eyes and saying that he helped me to understand the good and bad parts of myself without sacrificing the complete package that they jointly compose, and I was thankful he had accepted that often confusing bundle. I could say that my partner was supportive and understanding and some other words from a similar realm that I would have to look up in the thesaurus in order to sound like I was as smart as I try to assimilate, but that he would know I had done all for presentation’s sake and would appreciate that part of me wholeheartedly. I could go on for an hour or more about the things I liked and the things I loved and even the things I hated because they all would add up to a person who felt good to be around and made me glad each and every day that I was waking up to him in the morning, but all I’d probably say would be something along the lines of gratitude for having him help me to feel like the best possible version of myself, always. I could get through it without crying, too. Above all, I knew I wanted to be able to tell him that I was certain I would be fine on my own, of course I would be and he’d know that, but that I was glad he had shown up so that it was not my only option. Perhaps we wouldn’t even want to call it marriage, more like a permanent emotional partnership between just us two. Perhaps

that’s the way we should progressively start thinking about marriage in general. But whatever the name or the silly ceremony, it didn’t manner as long as I could say all of that with no problem. It was the important realization for me to take away from the dated information at the end of the entire affair. That, and how whatever I would be wearing would have to have pockets, if only to have a place to keep these vows, and all the other important things. !

OR IT, FOR LACK OF A BETTER WORD Cooper Carrington Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m batting bashful lashes All sheathed in muck Falsehood on these bloodshot Man eyes feigning Laughable feminine fuck No one bothers to stoop to care Not even myself To recognize my personhood With solecism Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m mistakenly themself And in a howl Embarrass my pride In my dangly earrings. They snide and pretend Too condescend while They choke bewildered Giggles !

Look at Me Jeannie Morgenstern You call my breasts “The twins” And that makes my smile curdle. We do not have children together. What you said makes my hands withdraw a little closer to my chest And my heart sink a little more into the bottom of my feet. The moment dies Right there. To me, “The twins” are not my breasts, They are two succulents planted Outside my backdoor That you have never walked out of; They are two little green stars in the soil that look at me, unblinking, with their gentle Green color and unparalleled Symmetry, the same that Hail from my grandma’s garden, Although you wouldn’t know that, Because you haven’t been there, Either. Sometimes my sister and I are “the twins”. I know you know that; How many times have I heard you joke about how it’s every guy’s dream to “do twins” (You’re every guy, it’s your dream too) My breasts are not twins, they are not The same, at all, They are human and imperfect and They do not mimic the symmetry of the succulents. They are definitely Not any offspring of ours, Nor are they the pair my sister and I make. They are different from these things, Although you wouldn’t know that Because it’s not as if you’ve ever really Actually Looked at me anyway. !

I wonder if these insignificant moments can together answer questions of a greater significance. !

Trespassers Sydney Brinker I wonder if the cigarette salesman who followed me on St. Marks Place has ever called his mother because he didn’t feel safe walking alone at three in the afternoon. I wonder if the teenage surfers who whistled at me have ever sprinted back to their cars to relish in the comfort of locked doors. I wonder if the pimp who handed me his business card has ever had to explain to his third grade daughter why she was being recruited for a strip club. I wonder if the older gentleman at Trader Joe’s who asked where I lived has ever reread the same ingredients on a packet of guacamole to avoid making eye contact. I wonder if the high school freshman that reassured me it was a good thing I didn’t look like all the “anorexic bitches” in his grade has ever starved himself until his heart was too weak to beat anymore. I wonder if the politician who kissed me on the cheek and called me babe when I was fifteen has ever mistaken an opportunist for a lover. I wonder if the taxi driver who was the first to “compliment” me from the street has ever struggled to determine whether or not to take a compliment himself. I wonder if the biker who meowed at me has ever thought of himself as a pussy.

Selections from January 21st, 2017 Jacqueline Yang Here is a sea of salmon-tipped spears, of furious fuchsia and scarlet sashes worn like breastplates. Like soldiers marching for solidarity. And yet we are not an army. We are an impassioned plea. Hear our cries: the chanting crowds and righteous anger of five million voices across the globe. !

Women

he is told it’s creepy he becomes angry and insists that you’re offended for no reason, and this is a “welcome to the real world”

Bethany Sattur

Being a woman, having your best friend

Women

incessantly harassed at work by a coworker,

Characterized by fragility, frailty, always

and when she told someone and he was fired

something about us is there to suggest

she was too afraid to go to the back room

weakness

knowing he'd be sitting there, waiting

What we like; makeup, clothes, romance, are

Women, birthing every human being that has

frivolous things, something a woman who is

ever existed, only for our sons to crawl out of

an intellectual will never touch, and if a man

our wombs and beat us into submission, if we

does he is gay, or a top earner in the field

survive childbirth

A woman, who dares to like what a man does;

Women, our number one threat is men, yet

a video game, for example, has to hear death

men look away as the problem continues to

and rape threats if she turns on Xbox live,

exist in front of them; in their streets, in their

while boys complain they can never find a girl

homes, in themselves

who loves video games

Women, earning less than a man in almost

Women, we are not frail, we are born

every profession, working twice as hard to be

screaming, in blood, and our growth into

thought half as good

womanhood is characterized by the flow of

Women, characterized by sweat; of physical

blood, every month until we are too old to

labor, of natal labor, of exercise to be thin, yet

create life from our bellies, our wide hips

curvy enough to ensure we are pleasurable

giving way to aging

Women, whose next president had double-

Women, every day is a battle, every move we

digit sexual assault accusers and admitted on

make to avoid men; wear a different top, walk

tape

a different route. Say nothing when you're

promised to defund women’s healthcare

called a bitch, a whore, a slut, when men make

Women, who are told when we beat a boy at

vulgar propositions, when they follow you and

sports that he “let her win” when we are

yell, “You think you can just walk away from

merely eleven

me girlie?” when they sit in your class in

Women, listening to rape “jokes,” to men

college and roll your eyes and tell you that

discuss how PC culture is ruining America,

sexism doesn't exist anymore

and no one has a sense of humor anymore

When one, two, three of your friends, men

Women, who now have a 9-5 job but are still

and women both, even your own mother was

expected to do all the housework and raise the

sexually assaulted, and none of them have

children

received justice, and in most cases they have

Women who love other women, who fuck

not even tried

other women, being an insult to men

A woman, told by a friend of the family he’ll

Women who are black, brown, Latina, Asian,

spank you if you get married early, then when

who are only showed in TV as irrationally

groping

women,

who

actively

angry, conservative nerds, sex kittens, or submissive nerds Women, who contributed so much to human knowledge

while

being

banned

from

education, and our contributions still being erased from most textbooks to this day Women, whose genitals are mutilated to keep them from experiencing pleasure in sex, lest we cheat on our husbands, baby girls who are killed for the burden of being a girl, or punished by being burdened with the weight of men’s burdens Women who are murdered by lovers or rejected suitors, in a “passion crime” as the media says, as the man is handed down a sentence of five years in jail by another man Women, who cannot drive or travel without a man’s permission Women, who are alternately forced to cover our heads or remove that covering Women, who are kidnapped and sold to men for sex and physical labor every day, every country Women, who are abused in every way by men, denied opportunities by men, put down by men, invalidated by men, hurt by men. Women who don't want feminism, who insist that we aren't “victims,” that their individual lives are just fine, thank you very much. Women, who attack other women for being whores and stay with their cheating husband, who say the other woman is a slut because of how she dresses, that this individual woman sporting a low-cut top has caused the downfall of all womankind. Women, who are not victims, but there is no shame in being one. We are not less to admit we have been oppressed. We have endured. We will endure, stronger. !

They’ve Been Explaining It Wrong: A Response to “Men Explain Things To Me”

but feel a pulsing connection. I’m sure I’m not the only woman who has ever felt stiflingly silenced and belittled by men in my day to day interactions. It happens everyday in the street, the classroom, the workplace, even at restaurants where we too often hear the classic, “She’ll have the salad.” Unless salad is code for literally whatever she herself had wanted to order, then no, she will not have the salad. This essay got me thinking; why do men assume they’re always right? How did this weird injustice happen? Sure, men may have a technically “stronger” build. Big whoop. And sure, women didn’t get to vote for the LONGEST time. But did we change that? Well yes, yes we did. Believe in whatever you believe in, but I think whatever force created us created women to be the strongest of us all; it created them to OVERCOME. Overcome the bullshit thrown at them, overcome the stereotypes, overcome the constant chatter telling them not only that they are lesser than men, but that they must tear other women down to, I don’t know, become less lesser? See how this theory makes no sense? In my head, it all roots back to the creation story we all know (and some love). God created the world in a week. He built everything; the earth, the sky, the moon, the stars. He created fine scenery and impressive natural masterpieces. Then he thought, let’s make a man! Adam was born. Then he did what he could to please Adam; he created animals so the guy could have company, and an impressive garden that probably outdid the NYU Florence campus altogether (those of you who have seen it know that this garden must have be impressive). But this was not quite enough, as Adam had needs that animals are now legally unallowed to fulfill. So God created a woman, out of Adam’s own rib mind you. Let’s get this straight; in order to create a woman, the man was in searing pain. No wonder the woman of a relationship is always considered the “ball and chain”; she got a bad rep from the start. Also the idea of women as a people coming from men is rich, considering it is us who pop them out like crying

“…No wonder the woman of a relationship is always considered the ‘ball and chain’; she got a bad rep from the start…”

Isabel Pastore Imagine a world in which we spoke of what we knew and listened to what we didn’t, regardless of gender and age. If you think I’m describing the world we live in, you are painfully ignorant to what’s really going on. Like Rebecca Solnit has masterfully noted, what prevents us from this idyllic world is not so much an effect of the coined term “mansplaining” as it is many men explaining things, well, incorrectly, and often times to women they see not as peers, but inferiors. In her essay “Men Explain Things to Me,” Solnit delves into a hilarious encounter with “Mr. Very Important,” a man who thought it his solemn duty to educate his lesser female peer. He cut her off while she was in the middle of answering a question that he himself asked her, and, asserting his manhood, started lecturing her about a book that she simply must read. A VERY important book, he repeats again and again. Little did he know that she wrote it herself. And he wouldn’t listen to her friend try to tell him just that point-blank, as she too was a woman. When it comes down to it, it turned out he had never even read the book he so patronizingly preached; he merely only read about how great it was in the Times Book Review. What a dumbass (pardon my French.) After putting down Solnit’s well-put essay, I couldn’t help

watermelons and raise them, hoping to the God that created us that they won’t grow to be men who explain things they have no place explaining to any “lesser” being that will listen. Here’s the thing though; this is not the only creation story in the Bible. In fact, it’s not even the one that comes first. And I’ll be honest, I much prefer, (and a part of me genuinely believes) the one that comes first. I’ll tell it to you, because it’s quite beautiful. God created the world in a week. He created the earth, the sky, the moon, the stars. He created the plants, the animals; everything we know and love about Mother Nature. But something didn’t quite seem complete. So he created men AND women; you heard me correctly. Not men, a few playthings, then women. No, men and women were created equally, at the same time, and most importantly, in the likliness of God. Take that homophobes (and all other shitty people who discriminate against people who aren’t just like them). And to all the people who argue that God is a white man with a Jesus-like beard, I’m here to say that you are sadly mistaken. You want to know what He looks like? Look at your mother. Your father. Your friends and teachers. The people you don’t understand and the people you don’t want to understand. Believe it or not believe it, you must admit it’s a beautiful concept. We are only mirrors of the best and worst in each other. So there you go. Men and women should have been equal from the start. But some jackasses only looked at the second story like a high school junior in a hurry to read Shakespeare from Sparknotes and decided to run with it. Like, really run with it. So where does that leave me, a young woman in the 21st century? Not an easy position. It is nearly impossible to be taken seriously. In order to earn her stripes, it seems a woman must jump through ten times the amount of hoops a man does, all to be told that she is too bossy and a bitch. Generally not even to her face, but behind her back. Yes, this seems logical. You’ll find in later posts that I love to talk about feminism, a word that scares most

people. Feminism does not mean man-hater. It means equality, whether you’re a man, a woman, someone with or without leg hair, brown or blue eyes, black or white; it doesn’t matter. Feminism needs to reach out beyond just man vs. woman and extend to human and human. That’s the way it’s meant to be, and if we aren’t putting our energy into that, then what hope do we have to stop Trump from ruining the U.S. as it is today? !

Kinds of beautiful Bethany Allard today I’m feeling acne scarred too big tummy frizzy hair and bushy eyebrow kind of beautiful feeling like the city on a Sunday morning before the world wakes up you can hear the soft steps of your boots kissing the concrete good morning love knowing that there’s now and tomorrow and the next day you can reach out and embrace whichever you like it’s that wind knocked out of heart ripped out of where’s my breath whole hole in my chest im not the best wrong answer cheeks red shaking head nevertheless getting up again because you’re crying because you’re laughing and don’t you know your smile is the closest you can get to touching the sun some call it being over emotional but I can’t remember a time when apathy was worth aspiring to it can be a look or a feeling but really it’s a state of being and damn is it good being beautiful !

Gabrielle Aku is a junior in Tisch School of the Arts, She is majoring in Cinema Studies with a minor in Creative Writing and is from Atlanta, GA. She is a staff member in the Submission department of Tisch School of the Arts’ Fusion Film Festival, NYU’s premiere film and television festival dedicated to celebrating women in film, television, and new media. Gabrielle is an aspiring screenwriter. Her interests include writing and reading poetry and fiction and binge watching television shows in her free time.

Bethany Allard is sophomore studying English. Her interests include contemporary literature and its intersection with social justice issues such as feminism. More recently she’s developed an interest in poetry, which started after a friend introduced her to the wonder that is Sarah Kay. She also enjoys cooking, listening to podcasts, and admiring the dogs of New York. This is her first contribution to a publication and she is thrilled to be a part of The Rational Creature!

DaNai Black is a born and raised Georgia Peach. Black received her undergraduate degree in Economics at Spelman College, an all-women’s Historically Black College in the heart of Atlanta Georgia. Post-undergrad she spent some time traveling as a Delta Air Lines flight attendant Two and a half years into being a flight attendant, Black quit her job to attend NYU to receive a Masters in School Counseling. Since her childhood, she has always been one to scribble little pieces of art on anything within her reach. She has no formal background or training in painting and is self-taught. Sydney Brinker is a freshman majoring in journalism and art history and minoring in creative writing and politics at CAS. She was the kid who was told by all of her teachers to stop turning in novels for essays. Her main goal in life is to move into a cute penthouse in New York, become a writer/director/editor of one of her favorite fashion magazines, and travel the world wearing Moschino. She's passionate about Disney, coffee, glitter, Sephora, and 2000s pop culture, but also is a huge politics nerd who regularly attends panels for fun and procrastinates by reading The New York Times. She believes in unicorns, the magic in Harry Potter, and always dressing for yourself. Zahra Budhwani is a freshman Drama major from San Jose, California. She enjoys dogs in Halloween costumes and a good block of cheese. She is incredibly passionate about making art to make people feel less alone, and she hopes to one day write her own comedy special.

Hannah Calistri is a freshman in Liberal Studies and plans on majoring in Anthropology. She writes short stories and personal essays but mainly focuses on poetry, which draws inspiration from Sylvia Plath and T.S Eliot. Her ultimate goal is to become the female Indiana Jones and perhaps a published poet.

Cooper Carrington is an experimental musician under the pseudonym I Hate It Here. You can find her music on Spotify, iTunes and Bandcamp. Cooper is a freshman that is hopefully going to study radical politics in music.

Rhea Creado grew up between Dubai, and Sydney, Australia with Indian parents, before she eventually moved to Los Angeles and now New York. Her experiences in these vastly differing areas of the world have been influential in shaping her world view, along with her artistic practice. Issues of discrimination, inequality and privilege became largely apparent. The imagery of bodies, mainly, non-gendered bodies is largely apparent in her work as she attempts to educate people not to look beyond differences, but rather to embrace difference, in order to develop more accepting mindsets towards those who do not fit into the traditional norms of society so often bestowed upon us. Donna Gary is an African American femme queer poet that calls Chicago’s NorthWest and Southside home. She is currently burrowing into her newly proclaimed concentration at NYU Gallatin, focusing on Poetics of the Body: The Ways Marginalized Folks Re-Imagine Their Value with a cross-school Disability Studies Minor. She is an events intern at New Women Space in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, NY and the Resource Center Assistant at Gramercy Residence Hall. She has performed and competed on the Goodman Theatre Louder Than A Bomb and Slam! At NYU CUPSI poetry teams on stages like The Metro, NYU Skirball and The Nuyorican Poets Cafe. Madeline Goddard is a sophomore at Tisch studying Production & Design for Theatre. She transferred from Parsons School of Design where she studied Fine Art. She is fascinated by the relationship between feminism and intimacy and is always thinking about what being a “woman” means in today’s social structure. Attraction - Liberation is inspired by one of her favorite artists, Joan Semmel, who explores the portrayal of the female body as landscapes or landforms and forces the viewer into a first person perspective, giving the illusion that you are looking down at your own body in an intimate setting.

Grace Halvorson was born and raised in sunny San Diego and is currently studying Media, Culture, and Communications at New York University's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development with a minor in Producing through Tisch School of the Arts. She is a writer, traveler, activist, creator, and artist who is passionate about making the world a better place.

Bella Harris is so honored to be published in TRC for the second time! She has performed many of her works at various poetry readings across Los Angeles (Mason's Noise Parlour, Library Girl). Bella is currently a junior at the Tisch School of the Arts studying musical theatre at the New Studio on Broadway and she completed her primary training at The Lee Strasberg Institute. In addition to studying drama, she is minoring in Psychology and Child and Adolescent Mental Health Studies. She is inspired by Andrea Gibson, Rupi Kaur, and her grandmother Paula Morgan Harris (a self-published poet). This is for her (again). Natalie Harris is a social-justice oriented filmmaker and artist from Silver Spring, Maryland. She is currently a sophomore student at NYU majoring in film and television. Allowing her art to serve as activism, Natalie often incorporates themes of identity and social justice into her work. When she is not creating, Natalie enjoys reading about astrology, drinking tea, and photography. Her artistic influences include Zora Neale Hurston, Ava DuVernay, and Mara Brock Akil.

Emma Indelicato hails from Rockaway Beach, New York. She is a junior at Gallatin and her concentration focuses on Animals and Writing and is an e-board member of NYUâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Pre-Vet Club. Emma began writing poetry in middle school and playwriting in high school. She has had her work produced by the Gallatin Theater Troupe. She takes inspiration from science, psychology, and unseen beauty and strength.

Elise LeMassena is a senior studying Media, Culture, and Communication at NYU's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development with a minor in Creative Writing. She plans to pursue a career in young adult publishing, and believes that books are an incredible source for social impact. Her passions include: The 1975, pug Instagram accounts, and browsing local bookstores.

Jasmine Lucy is currently a senior at NYU. She is studying acting at Tisch School of the Arts. The first play she was a part of was in 3rd grade. Ever since then, she knew that she wanted to be an actress. Last semester she studied abroad in Florence, Italy. She also visited Paris and Berlin. While in Florence, she experimented with different lenses literally and figuratively). In Havana, Cuba, she studied photography and it was there where she really was able to hone her photographing skills. Both acting and photography have become ways of expressing herself through art. Sarah Lutzky is a dancer, choreographer, and photographer currently pursuing a BFA in dance at the NYU Tisch School of the Arts. Her film photography is focused on the subject of dancers in their most internal, personal, and pure state. She believes that the raw quality that film photography accomplishes showcases the real, human qualities that the dancers she photographs possess. Overall, she is passionate about merging various art forms with dance.

Sonya Mezhericher is originally from Vladivostok, a town in the Russian Far East, but spent her whole life in Moscow. Currently, she is studying Media, Culture, and Communications at the Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development, and is thinking of a career in museum curatorship, specializing in contemporary art. One of her biggest interests is photography as it helps her reflect on the moment she is photographing and therefore get closer to people, but what Sonya really loves is really bad romcoms and the Eurovision song contest. Lindsey Miller is a passionate Music Business freshman. She runs her own company, Otherways Music, which manages and books shows for up and coming punk rock artists. She loves music (obviously), film, fashion, equality for all, blogging, and makeup. You can find her at your local DIY show or making endless Spotify playlists in bed.

Jeannie Morgenstern is a sophomore at NYU, most likely majoring in Global Liberal Studies with a minor in creative writing. In the past, she has written for The West 4th Street Review, as well as NYU's Journal for Human Rights. She is interested in the role gender plays in literature and poetry.

Amanda Morris is a senior at New York University graduating with a doublemajor in Journalism and Media, Culture & Communications. She is a tom-boy with three older brothers, and three sports she loves: hockey, running, and swimming. She dreams of being a foreign correspondent and getting closer to the heart of the world through her reporting. She decided she was a feminist the first time she ever heard the word. She dances every chance she gets, and she feels most free on speedboats in turquoise waters, looking for coral reefs under the sunshine. Tife Oluwo is currently a sophomore in liberal studies who plans to become an architect. Writing has always been a recurring and persistent wave in herself and her expression but she has never considered herself a writer until recently.

Isabel Pastore is a twenty-one year old writer and singer based in New York City. She loves to challenge the â&#x20AC;&#x153;angry feministâ&#x20AC;? archetype as well as empower other women (and men) to understand feminism for what it really is. In her writing she strives to analyze why we think the way we do and get to the root of common misconceptions in a light, humorous manner that can help connect the reader to the subject.

Emma Ragusa is a freshman at NYU majoring in English and planning on minoring in Creative Writing. She is an avid feminist and believes female and non-binary voices are exactly what the world needs to listen to right now. Her hobbies/passions include young adult literature, dog Instagrams, french fries, and rejecting the patriarchy.

Amber Salik is 21, a Taurus, and a New Jersey creative currently studying Creative and Alternative Healing at New York University with minors in Child and Adolescent Mental Health Studies and Creative Writing. Her concentration focuses on the practice and study of various art forms, both literary and visual, as tools for healing and growth. Her art has been featured in the Gallatin Arts Festival, Confluence Mag and the Gramercy Arts Showcase.

Kate Tell is in her third year at CAS, studying Comparative Literature and French Studies. Originally from New Jersey, she spends most of her time working with NYU IT, reading, watching Friends, and hanging out with the people she cares about. She is extremely excited to be a part of TRC's second volume, and ultimately strives to be a better writer and person.

Sarah White is a freshman Film and TV Production major at NYU's Tisch School of the Arts. She was born and raised in a small, conservative town outside of Houston, Texas where voting for a woman to be president was beyond out of the question and studying film was "a waste of time." This energy fueled her passions for women's rights and created a goal to prove them wrong. You can find her eating Joe's Pizza for every meal and quoting Pulp Fiction on the daily.

Jacqueline Yang is a freshman at NYU studying business and political economy, hopefully with a minor in creative writing. She wrote for the school paper and literary magazine, the Loch and Quay, and was an editor of both. She also writes plays, and had a one-act comedy performed by NYU's Broke People Theater Company. On the side, she enjoys knitting, cats, and knitting hats for cats.

Elizabeth Soyoung Yun is a graduate from Hankuk Academy of Foreign Studies in Seoul, South Korea. After the graduation, she went to Den Internationale Højskole in Helsingør, Denmark to study Danish modern art and architecture. Yun is currently studying at New York University, majoring in Cinema Studies and minoring in Digital Art and Design.

Virginia Zhang is a junior studying sociology and economics. Her poetry takes concepts like love, personal growth, and individuality, and explores all the different ways we can think about them. Because these concepts can’t be universally defined. Because our understanding of the world is always evolving. And because we can only make progress on issues like gender equality if we push past the confines of traditional thinking. She is happy to have her first poetry publication be among such expressive feminist voices in The Rational Creature.

EDITORIAL BOARD FALL 2017 Rachel A.G. Gilman, Creator/Editor-in-Chief Rachel is a senior in NYU's Gallatin School concentrating in The Evolution of Female Sexual Narratives. Her prose has been published in journals on- and offcampus. She is a columnist for Popdust as well as WSN's The Highlighter. She has been a contributing writer for TV Insider, part of TV Guide Magazine. She is also the General Manager of WNYU and hosts the award-winning talk show, "The Write Stuff." She's originally from New York's Hudson Valley and is currently at work on a memoir regarding gender politics.

Stasia de Tilly-Blaru, Creative Director Stasia de Tilly is currently studying music business and post-communist culture at Gallatin. She hosts a new music show on WNYU Radio 89.1FM & writes about the music she loves for Alt-Citizen. She hopes to use her voice to continue to draw focus on female art in all mediums. It's about the girls!

Amanda Choy, Photography Editor Amanda is a San Francisco Bay Area native currently studying Journalism and Media, Culture, and Communications at New York University's Steinhardt School of Culture, Education, and Human Development. When she's not lost in a VICE documentary or researching the wingspans of flying dinosaurs, you can find her risking her life for the best camera angles or sitting shotgun with her entire torso sticking outside of the window.

Emily Figueroa, Videography Editor Emily is a senior at Gallatin studying human rights and film production. Most of her work pertains to the portrayal of minorities on and off screen and how these views shape the implementation of laws. She is an avid weightlifter and rock climber but also enjoys to stay in and read fiction. She's originally from Los Angeles and will always prefer the Dodgers over the Yankees!

Mia Jacobs, Assistant Photography Editor Photographer, journalist, and an avid admirer of the everyman - Mia features and showcases ordinary creatures. She is a junior at NYU Gallatin School of Individualized Study, focusing on Journalism and Photography.

Teagan Rabuano, Copy Editor - Prose Teagan, originally from Toledo, OH, is a Drama and Gender & Sexuality Studies double major at NYU’s Tisch School of the Arts. Teagan is a passionate advocate for the trans community — something they bring to their roles at NYU as an RA, Admissions Ambassador and President of T-Party, and the a cappella group, the Vocaholics. A lover of all things pink & sparkly, Teagan can most likely be found in Sephora or watching their favorite film, Legally Blonde.

Maddie Howard, Copy Editor - Poetry Maddie Howard is a sophomore from Chicago double majoring in English and Journalism. Her work has been published on a number of platforms such as HuffPost, bSmart Guide, and NYU’s student-run publication Washington Square News. She loves city exploration, empowering women, and reading lots of books. You can find her wandering around The Strand and sipping an iced coffee.

Alexandra Delyanis - Treasurer Alexandra is a senior at NYU's College of Arts and Sciences with a double major in journalism and French & linguistics. She's been an Executive Producer of WNYU's "The Rundown" and was formerly a host of WNYU's "Political Corrections." Alexandra regularly contributes to Festival Peak and has worked for the publications Saveur and Complex. She is from Tacoma, Washington and spends her free time hanging around musicians and playing all kinds of instruments for the band Social Atrophy. Bethany Sattur - Social Media Director Bethany Sattur is a senior at NYU studying English and Creative Writing. She writes for The Blotter in the English department, interns at Prose Media and does photography as a hobby on the side. Her dream is to be able to write freelance someday or perhaps work as a journalist for The New York Times.

All rights revert to the contributor, whose authorization is required for reprints. The Rational Creature was made possible by NYU's Gallatin Student Resource Fund Grant.