Issue 9

January 2016

University of Michigan

What The F

Your Monthly Periodical Issue 9

Stretch Marks This publication is meant to start conversations—it’s an open channel for all voices. The more voices, the richer the conversation. Because of how we’re raised and who we are, it can be difficult to see past our own experiences. So if, when reading anything in this magazine, you find you have a disagreement, a critique, or another viewpoint, write to us and we’ll publish it.

Stretch marks: Stretch past your own head.

Talk to us at WhatTheFMag@umich.edu.

President: Jacqueline Saplicki Co-Editors in Chief: Hannah Engler & India Solomon Blog Editor: Hannah Gordon Creative Head: Erica Liao Layout Editor: Taylor Landeryou Business Manager: Tori Wilbur Social Media Coordinator: Allie Rubin Campus Coordinator: Becca Langsam Social Chair: Miranda Hency Community Outreach Chair: Molly Munsell

What The F is a non-partisan, non-profit publication operated by students at the University of Michigan. What The F’s purpose is to

encourage discussion on significant issues of campus, national, and world interest. The magazine, the executive board, and our sponsors do not endorse the ideas presented by the writers. We do, however, support and encourage different ideas into our community and into campus discussion.

All writings depicted in this image are real, found in bathrooms on campus.

Because sometimes we just need to talk to each other.

January 2016

What The F

Your Monthly Periodcal Issue 9

Letter from the Editor 01 Woman of the Month 03

Health 04 05 06 Opinions 08 10 12 14 16 18 Poems 20 21 22

Janet Jones Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor Issue Nine Playlist Women’s History Month Dear John Mellankamp Advanced Style What to Do with a Vagina Poster Harassment in the Workplace Isn’t Your Fault (so why do you feel guilty about it?)

Ace In Existence Do My Shoulders Turn You On? I Walk With Purpose Him Blame

Sources and Sponsors 23

Funny, Fresh, Fearless, Feminist, & Fuck Contributing Illustrators Angelica Esquivel, Cheryll Joy Victuelles, Eliza Jarman, Erica Liao, Eva Roos, Molly Munsel, Sareena Kamath, Tara Lewis, Taylor Landeryou Contributing Writers Allie Rubin, Angelica Esquivel, Grace Prosniewski, Hannah Gordon, India Solomon, Josephine Brown, Maris Harmon, Miranda Hency Keep the conversation going online!

Visit our website at WhatTheFMagazine.wix.com/umich Like our Facebook page at Facebook.com/WhatTheFMag Follow us on Twitter @WhatTheFMag and on Instagram @WhatTheFMagazine Find our Tumblr at WhatTheFMag.tumblr.com

Letters from the Editors

Welcome to What The F, your feminist periodical!

One of my favorite quotes is by Zora Neale Hurston: “There are years that ask questions, and there are years that answer.”

Those words seem to get truer and truer as I get older.

I think it’s safe to say that for all of us at What the F, the 2014-2015 school year was one that asked a lot of questions.

How do we keep this organization afloat with so many new e-Board members? How do we make sure we have the best possible content for our magazine and blog? What can we do to attract writers and artists from all over campus and from all walks of life? How do we stay relevant when what it means to be a feminist gets more complicated every day?

Where’s our money going to come from? Why is it so much harder to do something right than just to do it?

We didn’t have a lot of answers. We were a young e-Board.

We were all busy. We were figuring it out: trying to pay homage to our What the F foremothers, and frankly, trying our best to stick with what we knew. We struggled with womanpower and even more with funding. We decided, given the circumstances, to cut back to only one magazine a semester instead of two. We ended up putting out only one new issue the entire year.

It was frustrating: great submissions languished in our inboxes. We languished our office on the 4th floor of the Union. Though we pulled together some events we were really proud of (like the V-Day party last February), and our blog remained active, we knew we were capable of so much more. And we still are.

ent, and patience of our contributors gave us the answers we so desperately needed. We are so grateful for the support and tough love from our community, and we dedicate this long overdue (but still fabulous!) issue to all of you.

Already, this school year has asked more questions. But they’re questions that excite and inspire us. How do we help What the F be more intersectional? How do we provide a safe space for emotional and explosive narratives, but also a space for fun and self-care? What matters most to our readership in 2015, and into 2016? How do we grow?

We’re making some changes this year. We are growing every day. And we are so, so thankful for everyone who continues to take this journey with us. Enjoy issue 9!

Love,

Hannah Engler Editor in Chief

Issue 9 represents a tumultuous time in What the F history, but you know what? We’re happy about that and we’re proud. The passion and commitment of our e-Board meant that we didn’t give up, but more than that, the strength, tal-

P.S. Want to get involved? E-mail WhatTheFMag@umich.edu.

We would love your brilliant minds to write and create with us.

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Woman of the Month

Janet Jones: Mindful in the Moment

by India Solomon

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’m always on the move,” Janet said, adjusting her sleek, black fitness bracelet while power walking between bookshelves.

When I entered Janet’s bookstore for the first time, I instantly felt at home. She greeted me warmly and graced me with tea, cookies and good conversation. A group of students and I, freshly inaugurated into the University’s Semester in Detroit program, sat in awe as Janet reflected on her life in the city. It was at that moment, under the influence of Janet’s gentle command, that all my reservations about returning to Detroit – the city that has shown me so much love yet so much grief—drifted away. After that day, I knew I would find myself back at The Source Booksellers; maybe for a book, but mostly for Janet. Luckily, she was only a block down the road in the heart of what newcomers know as Midtown, but what the oldies like to call Cass Corridor.

I returned to Janet’s bookstore first for Origins of the Urban Crisis, second for Eric Mann’s Playbook for Progressives and a third time for a blank journal. Each time, I walked away bearing bit more wisdom than I had before I came in. Within the time it takes to locate, flip through, and purchase a book, Janet made me back-track on whatever thoughts I was entertaining that day, flipping them around and twisting them into something revolutionary.

Janet is a lifetime resident of Detroit. She went away to Spellman College for her bachelor’s, and when asked what made her return to the city—as if there were a number of reasons why she shouldn’t have—she promptly responded: “I didn’t come back. I never left.” It was only natural for her life to follow a path that would lead back to her people. Disillusioned by the trendy narrative of Detroit as a “blank slate,” pseudonym for a capitalist carnival of opportunity, we must not forget the for so many, Detroit is— and more importantly, always has been—home.

Janet and I sat

down during store hours, interrupted by the occasional browsing Midtown dweller.

I say interrupted because Janet sure does make a fuss over her customers, and it keeps us running back. First-timers can certainly expect a congratulations!, applause and all, for stepping foot into Janet’s oasis.

The bookstore owner was well prepared for the cliché questions I might ask and the formalities I might request. After forty-one years working in education, I should’ve known she’d had my number.

“I’m gonna record you to ensure accuracy. Is that ok?” I asked.

“Oh nooo,” she objected. “Just write and listen! You’ll get it all down.”

She was right. Sure enough, my ears and racing pen did not fail me. And when my palms began to scream for mercy, my thoughts outracing the thick lines of ink streaming from my pen, it was my mind— in which Janet perhaps had more faith than I—that stood up to the task.

At this point, I should’ve known not to ask this spiritual encyclopedia of a woman the most generic question in the book. But I did, anyway.

“What’s your favorite thing about the city, Janet?”

“The climate,” she said, as she went on to explain why she enjoys Detroit’s literal atmospheric climate, praising the clearly defined seasons. Perhaps she was genuinely trying to adhere to the rules of your average interview, where the interviewee navigates the mind of interviewer in search of the most socially auspicious answer. Finally, she gave up.

“I don’t do favorite things,” she concluded. I cracked a smile. I knew it was coming. “Right now, you’re my favorite person,” she laughed. “I don’t use the word favorite.

I think it’s discriminatory. I’m mindful, not just stuck on one particular thing; I’m mindful in the moment.”

Throughout the interview, Janet brushes over her life experiences in favor of emphasizing the wisdom she picked up along the way. Part of the reason she returned to the city was because of her brother’s fatal diagnosis. Janet did not dwell on her sorrows but instead extracted from this tragedy the belief that “things we think are negative are often our most beneficial experiences.”

Janet’s smooth words, un-rushed demeanor and minimalist lifestyle suggest that she seeks lessons and inspiration from all that surrounds her and from everyone she meets.

“Everything you do in life, you bring to the moment,” she insists. The past, I learned, is inevitably ever-present. We can, however, control the way we allow our experiences to shine through our present encounters.

In just one meeting, it became clear to me that Janet has chosen to transform the past into present teachings and timeless inspiration.

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Health

Sh*t I’m Afraid to Ask My Doctor: Celebrity Bullshit

by Allie Rubin

C

elebs can make some bold claims that may sound a little wonky.

Are their recommendations proven or are they bullshit? Read on to find out!

Shaliene Woodley’s Vag Catches Some Rays In an interview with Into The Gloss, actress Shaliene Woodley explains the importance of getting vitamin D from sunlight, specifically on her vulva. In the same article, she also recommends eating clay, but I’ll let you look into that one on your own. Anyway, Shaliene deserves some credit: when UV rays are absorbed, your body makes vitamin D. Very few foods contain this vitamin which promotes bone health and immunity, and one of the easiest ways to get it is from direct sunlight. You can also get it by taking a supplement. While it’s important to try and get some sun, especially during the gray blob known as winter in Michigan, the parts of you that never see the sun are more sensitive and more susceptible to sunburn. Shaliene is onto something with this vitamin D/sunlight business, but watch out... a sunburnt vulva is probably even worse than it sounds.

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Kourtney Kardashian’s Kleansing Oil Enema In one of my personal favorite episodes of “Kourtney and Kim Take New York” (the spinoff of the best show to ever grace television, “Keeping Up With The Kardashians”) Kourtney Kardashian gets an oil enema at an alternative spa as a way to “get toxins out of the body.” For those of you lucky enough not to know what an enema is, it’s a treatment for constipation which entails injecting liquid into the rectum. While an enema might not produce many bad side effects, using one just to cleanse the body of toxins is completely unnecessary. Our bodies are perfectly equipped to cleanse themselves of toxins through sweating, peeing, pooping, and other natural processes that happen without our conscious effort.

Tia and Tamera Split Tamera’s Placenta For Dinner Viewers had the pleasure of hanging out with Tia and Tamera Mowry as they ingested Tamera’s afterbirth blended with brandy in the season finale of their reality show, “Tia & Tamera.” Other celebs, including January Jones, Mayim Bialik, and Alicia Silverstone have also shared their placenta eating stories with the public. Of course, these celebs weren’t the first to do something about their placenta: various cultures around the world and throughout history have a wide array of rituals/perceptions of placenta (anyone who’s taken Women’s Studies 324: Childbirth and Culture probably feels me on this one). People have been known to eat placenta smoothies, sauces, and have even had it made into pills.

There’s very little scientific or clinical evidence to back up any claims about the benefits of ingesting afterbirth, but those who have ingested it experience a wide variety of effects such as feeling energized, decreased postpartum depression, and increased milk production, touting the high nutrient content. Not everyone reports such positive experiences, though.

Whether it’s beneficial or not, then, appears to depend on the individual.

Get Hair Just Like Blake Lively Clearly all you need to look like Blake Lively is one thing: coconut oil. In an interview with New York Magazine, the girl I’ll always remember for changing my life in “The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants” tells us that putting coconut oil on the tips of your hair retains moisture and protects the ends. And she’s right. Coconut oil is actually an awesome, inexpensive product with a million cool uses, not just hair care. This natural oil works as a moisturizer, makeup remover, lubricant, cooking oil, energy boost, and more.

Depending on which kind you get, it also smells delicious. For a real treat, I recommend heating it up in the microwave until it’s completely liquid and slather yourself with it after a shower..

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Women’s History Month

by Grace Prosniewski

W

hat comes to mind when you think of the month of March? Spring break? NCAA basketball? Shamrock shakes? How about women’s history?

For those of you scratching your head in bewilderment at that last one, wonder no more. March is officially designated as Women’s History Month in the US, the UK, and Australia. Women’s History Month celebrates the all too often overlooked accomplishments and contributions women have made throughout history and in contemporary times in all fields, including science, government, medicine, art, literature, and sports.

Beginning in the late 1970s, feminist educators and historians began mobilizing support for curricula focused on teaching women’s history. In 1980, President Carter issued a Presidential Proclamation declaring the week of March 8th( known as International Women’s Day), as National Women’s History Week. Through the tireless lobbying efforts of individuals and organizations like the National Women’s History Project (NWHP), Congress finally declared March as National Women’s History Month in 1987.

Along with other months dedicated to the achievements and influences of marginalized groups such as Black History Month in February and Hispanic History Month in September/October, Women’s History Month has come under fire from certain political factions for being “discriminatory” towards-you guessed it-- White men, that most vulnerable and underrepresented population.

Firebrands and fringe bloggers alike take up the embarrassingly predictable and ignorant refrain, “Well why isn’t there a Men’s History Month or a White History Month?”

Why? Because white, men’s history is the mainstream history we’re already taught in school, from the story of the Founding Fathers to Manifest Destiny. Should we learn about these things? Of course.

But it should not be at the exclusion of other narratives.

On its face, history can seem deceptively objective. Names and dates are all concrete facts, right? But history does not exist in a vacuum. Who chooses which facts are deemed important enough to learn? What ideas and values does this chosen history put forth to us as students? As citizens?

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Mainstream history is the creation of hegemonic power structures that have systematically invalidated, appropriated, and ignored the triumphs and contributions of marginalized groups, including women and people of color, in order to assert and justify their own right to power. History is kind to those who write it, and for centuries it’s been white men holding the pen.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise, then, that the rest of us are starved for our own stories. As Gloria Steinem states, “Women have always been an equal part of the past. We just haven’t been a part of history.”

While understanding women’s history may not change the outcome of any great battle or move the borders of an empire, it can raise questions about both historic and contemporary cultural norms in respect to gender. Part of envisioning the future comes from reflecting on the examples of the past, and for far too long girls and women have not been able to see themselves in either.

Gaining knowledge of one’s collective roots and finding role models from one’s own community is essential in identity formation and the development of self-respect.

Perhaps the most egregious attempts to ignore and discredit the work of women have come from the field of science. It’s a phenomenon so well documented it’s even got a name: the Matilda Effect, named after women’s rights activist Matilda J. Gage, who commented on the plight of women in science in the late 19th century.

Ask someone to name a male inventor and you’ll get an Edison, a Bell, and a Tesla in less than a minute. Ask someone to name a female inventor and you’ll likely get blank stares.

Is it because there just haven’t been enough important female inventors? No! It’s because we haven’t been taught that they matter.

Women in science are often reduced to one lone figure: groundbreaking chemist Marie Curie. But hers is just one story out of many. Chein-Shiung Wu was a Chinese American physicist who worked on the Manhattan Project and discovered parity violation, though only her male colleagues were awarded the Nobel Prize.

Ada Lovelace, daughter of poet Lord Byron, wrote the first algo-

rithm and is widely considered the first computer programmer. Oh, and she did it in the 1840s. Hedy Lamarr, known as one of the most glamorous movie starlets of the 1940s, co-invented the technology for frequency hopping, helping pave the way for Bluetooth and Wireless Internet.

Women have also been instrumental in the field of medicine. While many of us may know the contributions of figures like Clara Barton and Florence Nightingale to the creation of modern nursing, some other important names are often overlooked. If you’ve ever had a blood transfusion, you owe a lot to Rosalyn Sussman Yalow. She developed radioimmunoassay, the technique used to screen blood donors for diseases like hepatitis. In the 1940s, microbiologist Hattie Alexander reduced the mortality rate of Haemophilus influenzae from nearly 100% to less than 25%, and did pioneering research on antibiotic resistance. She was also the first woman president of the American Pediatric Society. If, on the horrendous off-chance, you ever experience carbon monoxide or cyanide poisoning, Matilda Moldernhauer Brooks has had your back since the 1930s, when she discovered an antidote.

Women have also had an indelible mark on education and the arts.

While many of us know that for a long time, teaching was the only societally sanctioned career for women, how many of us know that a Muslim woman founded the world’s first university? Her name was Fatima Al-Fihri, and she established what would be the University of Qarawiyyin in Morocco in 859. Or how about Japanese writer Murasaki Shikibu, who penned what is considered to be the first novel, in the 11th century?

And while we can all no doubt rattle off a perfunctory list of great women writers (Jane Austen, the Bronte’s, George Elliot,

etc.), there are even more just waiting to be discovered.

In case you doubt the power of rediscovery, look at the case of black writer Zora Neale Hurston. Hurston’s seminal novel “Their Eyes Were Watching God” is a staple of high school reading lists today. But at the time of her death and for decades after, Hurston was virtually unknown, and was even buried in an unmarked grave.

It was not until the research and work of Alice Walker that the mainstream literary community finally accepted, and subsequently lauded, Hurston’s work.

Above all, we need to remember that the lack of women’s presence in history is not accidental or inadvertent, and it is certainly not inconsequential. Each of the women named above, as well as countless others, had to fight against a constant wave of sexism and prejudice for every step forward that they took. They were told that women had no place outside the home, that they didn’t have the intelligence for higher education or the fortitude to lead. And when women smashed barrier after barrier, society immediately conspired to sweep these achievements under the historical rug or to treat them as aberrant. God forbid their wives and daughters get such ideas. But we need these ideas now. Girls discouraged from going into STEM fields need to know about Ada Lovelace and Hattie Alexander. Jerks at ComicCon need to know we owe the existence of science fiction and superheroes to writers like Mary Shelley and Baroness Orczy. Women who hold up “I don’t need feminism” signs need to know the hell their predecessors went through. If we have the slightest hope for a more equal future, we need to remember. As Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” No more.

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Dear John Mellankamp, Here I am sad in my car and I look you for solace. Your song Hack and Duane speaks to me. Yes I found it through some modern lens that takes your classic Beats and adds a synth and some rap and changes music into synthetic tones used to beat box the masses.

But still that song. For those of you music novices who hasn’t heard the classic Jack and Diane. It is about two Americans, a boy and girl.

They court each other at the local drive in. For all intents of the song they fall in love but it’s not enough. Cause you know “live goes on long after the feeling of living is gone.” It’s sad. It’s a sad song but I didn’t realize it till now. Mellankamp is telling us that life continues long after the thrill the enjoyment of new experiences ends. So what’s the moral? I’m a junior in college I’ve made new relationships I’ve gone new places and now I am fucking bored. Am I through living? Am I gone past the thrill john?!? Please tell me. Is this the hurt that should feel so good? Is that sex? Cuz let me tell you John call me a woman but that does not “hurt so good.”

It just hurts. My life hurts. I am a white upper class female and my life hurts. Help John why doesn’t it “hurt so good” I don’t haves guy that will do that. Is the “thrill of living” gone? Have I peaked and not known it? Should I live to settle to pacify? Help john help.

Where are the lyrics to guide me? Where the fuck is John Mellankamp where you fucking need him?

A Sober Response: Here I am sober in class and I will try to give you some insight and background to my drunken ramblings.

I remember the gist of the night and very much remember the tears. It’s sad to read the note and see how deeply affected I was by the lyrics of an 80s pop singer.

Listening to this ditty about Jack and Diane, it feels like Mellancamp is telling me my life is over.

It sounds like he is telling me enjoyment is sex, love, or affection from a boy. I had thought that John was reaffirming that this pain in my life was love. So when I got home that Thursday night after yet another unsuccessful sexual endeavor, I went straight to John. In my drunken/sad state I misunderstood his song, Hurt So Good, which is clearly about S&M, as a song telling me that love should hurt. I immortalized Jack and Diane (not Hack and Duane) as the prophets of love.

But my life is not a love song and it’s about time I stop expecting it to be. It’s not that the thrill of living is gone, it’s that the thrill of getting drunk and looking for the affection of some drunken male frat boy is WAY gone. I should look for the thrill in things I like, not in people who like me.

Jack and Diane, like many other songs, is a song about love.

I’ve learned since I wrote that note that my life is not a fucking love song and I shouldn’t want it to be. I’ve learned that I’m not alone even though I can feel lonely; I’m not Diane and I’m not looking for Jack. That night, with the help of Raspberry Smirnoff and a few douchebag guys, I crossed the line between analysis and delusion, between a metaphor and a prophecy. I don’t have to be Drunk in Love to have a good sex life and it doesn’t have to Hurt So Good to be true love. The songs and lyrics I hear throughout the day aren’t recipes a perfect life. Any song has 2, maybe 3 minutes to express some heartache or struggle. In most cases they use degrading language and describe some ridiculous situation that I accept because it’s set to the backdrop of a decent beat. It’s like just watching The Notebook; it’s easy to get caught up in the 8

romance and mistake these stories as the rule when they truly are the exception. John can sing to his heart’s content about the thrill of living, but a 4 minute and 18 second song could not possibly contain all the answers to the questions in my life. That night I took his words as gospel and forgot about my own thrill, my own song, and my own voice.

So, to John Mellancamp: I’m sorry that the thrill of living for you is represented by the fleeting fuck of a one-night stand. And to the girl who wrote that note: I’m sorry that in that moment you didn’t realize that your thrill is yet to come. Finally, to everyone else listening to music and feeling bad for themselves: be brave enough to turn that shit off. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not the worst thing in the world to grab a bottle of alcohol, blast the tunes and have a good cry. But remember: don’t let John fucking Mellancamp or any other person tell you how to live your life. Play that music, let it end, and then live your life how you choose.

FORGET YOUR KITTEN:

a variety show offering a sanguine blend of stories, dance sequences, and hi-def female friendships. Directed and written by Gabrielle DeCaro (pictured on left). Gabrielle is a senior BFA Interarts Performance major, pom-pom queen and feminist concerned with the progression and promotion of women in entertainment.

Premiering at The Michigan Theatre on April 14, as a part of the Stamps School-SMTD thesis showings.

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Advanced Style

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don’t know if I’ve had an eating disorder. I was disordered, for a brief time in early high school. Food became hard to swallow. Mirrors were the enemy. Egosyntonic is the word given to disorders that feel like a part of one’s identity. I don’t know about my identity. I do know that whatever it was just seemed to be a rite of passage.

A few weeks after I turned twenty I watched a movie on Netflix called Advanced Style, a documentary about Ari Seth Cohen’s blog of the same name. Cohen photographs older women (aged fifty and above) who love fashion, and aims to show that style does not have to be restricted to the fine-boned teenagers who populate the runways.

In the first scene, Cohen approaches a woman on the street: “You look so elegant. I photograph stylish women in New York, and I was wondering if I could take a photo of you, you look amazing.”

She grins. “Really?”

“You really do.”

(She does. She is a thin Black woman, wearing a scarf tied on her head, leather pants, red lipstick, and cat-eye sunglasses.)

Cohen digs around his bag for his card, saying, “you’re gonna be one of my younger, I usually photograph women past fifty…”

She leans forward, conspiratorially, laying a hand lightly on his arm. “Sixty,” she confesses.

“Wow!” I wondered if this is part of Cohen’s regular routine – if, in other words, I should be irked that a documentary celebrating age begins with flattery that revolves around youth.

When I was little I used to watch my mother get ready for parties: blow-drying her hair, applying her lipstick. As she worked (and it was work) she would make the mirror-face: lips pursed, a line between her eyebrows, nose inches from the glass.

As you get older, of course, things change; you realize your mother is a person and not a princess. The mirror-face is revealed to be an expression composed of nerves and self-consciousness.

She will complain about how none of her clothes fit, how her haircut makes her look like an old lady.

“Careful, Ma,” I’ll say. “If you’re too self-deprecating you’ll injure my confidence! I’m very impressionable, you’ll affect the way I look at myself!”

She’ll sigh. “Sadly, I think that ship has already sailed.”

Ilona Royce Smithkin cuts snippets of her red hair to make herself a pair of custom false eyelashes. She teaches an art class and performs in cabaret shows. She is ninety-four years old; she has a Zsa Zsa Gabor accent and a bit of a hunchback, and everybody who sees her falls in love with her.

Ilona is sort of the heart center of Advanced Style, serving as mascot and occasionally, voice of reason. Just as the success of Cohen’s blog begins to liven things up for the other stars of the film, Ilona begins to wind down - she is, after all, the oldest.

Towards the end of the film, Ilona visits her best friend (whom she calls darling).

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“You know what?” says Ilona. “You make me feel so young.”

Darling (whose name is Karen) turns to her, with her puckered face. “I make you feel like spring has sprung?”

They break into the song, clasping hands: “’Cause you make me feel so young…” Karen holds those last few notes, and ends with a low laugh, hey hey ho.

These two old ladies: one stooped, the other losing her memory.

Surely this scene was included to remind us of the flip side of all that fabulousness – age. Even this movie wants to remind us that getting old, while adorable, is not good news.

The revolution of Advanced Style is that it takes three concepts that we as a society have mashed up into one (fashion + beauty + confidence) and separates them again.

Actually, Frankenstein aggregation of these concepts is actively harmful. Fashion is not the same thing as beauty – far from it. We have a notion of a “slave to fashion” – the woman who obsessively follows trends, who lets the clothes wear her. Amazing that we don’t say someone is a “slave to beauty.” After all, which is worse: someone who can’t pull off culottes but wears them anyway, or someone who whittles herself down to nothing?

(People who begin to starve themselves are often encouraged by their loved ones to continue. This is a marked part of the cycle: when a person drops the initial weight and is told “you look great!”)

Fashion in its purest form is about taking command, is about art, is about self-expression and joy. I would not be so naïve as to suggest as that is what it’s always about, but for the ladies of Advanced Style, who are not beautiful (because beauty = youth, too) it is. Joyce, a former opera singer who at one point drapes her bracefaced teenage granddaughter in vintage Chanel bags, utters this line: “I never wanted to look young. I just wanted to look great.”

The message is clear: at some point you are beyond hope for beauty, and this can set you free.

But many (even most) women are excluded from our notion of “beauty”: women of color, trans women, fat women. Maybe in some cases this is liberating. Does the idea of beauty really need to change if we decide we don’t need it at all?

The answer, of course, is yes. Because of that third piece: confidence. “Confidence is sexy,” says every women’s magazine ever, but where does all this come from? Self-esteem is framed as yet another quality a woman must have in order to be truly beautiful, and this is one of the great ironies of the situation.

So sometimes, for those “non-

“I never wanted to look YOUNG, I just wanted to look GREAT.”

beautiful” women, self-esteem is political. And sometimes it’s just something else you’re missing.

I have a memory of me from when I was about fifteen, sitting in my mother’s bed with the electric blanket on when suddenly I was overcome with anger and sadness. I had that feeling of my skin not fitting, that sickness of being weighed down by my body. My mother said: “I wish you wouldn’t compare yourself…all those girls you see on television don’t really look like that, it’s all this Photoshop… you’re so beautiful, I wish you could see…”

I got out of bed, pulled her laptop towards me, and found a homecoming picture of some of the girls in my grade. “These are the girls I’m comparing myself to,” I snapped.

My mother paused, then said. “Well, you’re prettier than all of them.”

Was that really what I had wanted to hear? It didn’t make me feel any better. Neither did daily affirmations of “you are beautiful!” taped to my mirror. We are living a paradox: the same magazines that tell us how to look are also trying to tell us how to feel better about not looking that way. My mother told me not

to compare myself, and then she did it for me.

In psych class, we are taught to see patients as people with illnesses – in other words, to see them as more than their bodies. How rare a thing this is.

I don’t know if I’ve ever had an eating disorder. At the risk of romanticizing pathology, or pathologizing culture, I think of thinking of beauty as an egosyntonic disorder.

That is to say that my short life has been unshakably colored by worrying about my looks. It is part of who I am. I wish this were different certainly I have tried to make it different. The best I can hope for is to reclaim, in smaller ways and then larger ways, at first, the part of my brain that has been eaten away by these thoughts. Or at least, turn more toward fashion: to fret less about control, to strive to take command.

However, on this topic I have far more uncertainty than conviction. Did I learn my insecurity from my mother, as I’ve joked, or is it inescapable? And, is the notion that older women don’t have to hide or feel shame really so radical – I mean, haven’t we earned it by then?

Ilona Smithkin photographs beautifully. It is interesting to go through pictures of her and the others as a twenty-year-old. Is this who I want to be? I think, I can’t wait to feel like that. I think, only seventy more years to go until I do.

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What to do With a Vagina Poster

by Maris Harmon

H

ave you ever experienced that moment when you’re at a party and you look around and think what the fuck is anyone even saying? Few people are willing to entertain conversations about what they really want to talk about with people they don’t know very well, and perhaps with whom they are trying to share a little lip smacking or sheet tumbling. But what if we simply asked the questions or told the stories we were really thinking about, instead of the ones we thought others might find charming or mysterious?

This past spring term I enrolled in a class called Western Sexuality, and for the final project, I opted to research everything I could find about the female orgasm and then create a poster about it. My poster featured a big, beautiful vagina equipped with felt labium in different skin shades and fun facts about orgasms written around it. To my dismay, I left my poster behind in my old house during move-out.

On one blustery night, the house hosted a party and my friends and I decided to embark on Operation Find Vagina Poster. We scurried through the house down to the basement where we found the poster within minutes! Victorious, I marched out to the lawn with my poster for all the world to see.

Come see a vagina!

Slowly, people started to gather around the poster, intrigued and inebriated. This, I explained, is a vagina. I turned to a boy standing next to me, closely examining the felt labium. Can you show me where the clitoris is? I asked.

From there the night morphed into a travelling educational seminar. I explained to group after group about the role of the clitoris, how far it extends into the body, the fact that Freud was a fraud and that the vaginal orgasm indeed does not exist, and that if you enter a girl before making her come or at least stimulating her clit you certainly aren’t what we’d call good in bed.

The most compelling facts for onlookers started with the idea that the clitoris extends into the body and wraps around the vaginal opening; what you see sticking out of the body is only the very tip. Most did not know that the seemingly vaginal orgasm was in fact a clitoral orgasm, for it’s evoked by the entering object rubbing

against the vaginal wall which then stimulates the clit from the inside of the body. Many were surprised when I explained the three points of orgasm – the clit, the G-spot, and the U-spot. I indicated and used my vagina diagram. I explained that many people with vaginas fake orgasms. I explained the orgasm gap between heterosexual and lesbian sex; two people with vaginas statistically have a much higher orgasm success rate.

I talked to a lot of people that night about the vagina. I observed that it was mostly men who were interested. They flocked to the poster like geese to a football field or Greek life to Ricks.

I learned that when someone speaks candidly to audiences while referring to the clit and penetration without giggling or going bashful, they’re ready to listen. Surprisingly to me, as heterosexual sex has the greatest orgasm gap, the seemingly hetero, cisgender boys I talked to that night asked questions, participated, and stuck around. I learned that being frank about sexual health as well as accepting of others’ lack of knowledge helps people feel less afraid to talk about these issues themselves.

So many women I know feel uncomfortable instructing their lovers on how to give them proper orgasms, don’t know how to create an orgasm, or have never experienced one themselves. So many men I know have much trouble with the idea that sticking a penis in a vaginal opening does not simply make a woman explode with arousal, stimulation, and ecstasy (as indicated in the movies).

It’s about time we start getting over the stigma that surrounds female pleasure. We see the act of sex in movies, TV shows, art, on the internet – this is an age of free porn and HBO. Yet we often do not see a real side to sex – a side where there’s a little more time between clothes off and screaming orgasm. A side where things may be a little awkward, where a male penis is shown and not just female breasts, or where the clitoris is given attention. Perhaps we can start with showing the clitoris in diagrams of the vagina in basic sex ed. Maybe we need movies that show foreplay, or more women-directed porn. While I’m not sure of the answer, I know that we can start by understanding that the orgasm gap isn’t inherent – it’s (un)learned.

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Harassment in the Workplace Isn’t Your Fault (so why do you feel guilty about it?)

by Hannah Gordon

T

he first few jobs I worked, I was blessed with wonderful, strong, and encouraging female employers. They made me feel safe and integral to the success of the business, and they instilled in me a strong work ethic. I’d rarely worked with men, or even boys, in high school or early college. My high school job—a dinky little ice cream stand that earned me enough to fill my car with gas and go to the movies on the weekends—was run by high school and college aged girls. My first job in college—a campus bookstore that earned me money for textbooks and cheap liquor— had a few college boys in its employ, but they mostly hid behind the books they shelved, so I rarely associated with them.

The first job where I ever actively and frequently worked around men was a fine dining restaurant that earned me rent and booze money. Upon my hiring, I was handed a stack of paper with all the new-hire procedures: tax forms, a copy of the menu, and harassment policies. Though I’d seen harassment policies before, I’d never needed to read them. Until the restaurant.

The harassment was slow. Insidious. It crept up on me.

Nearly half of all women in the workplace experience some form of sexual harassment, and I, sadly, was no exception.

At first, I laughed it off. I laughed it off when a fellow server would slap my ass on his way out of the kitchen. I’d laugh it off when my coworkers, fully-grown men, would ask me, a twentyyear-old girl, what I was like in bed. I’d even laugh it off when they’d tell me I only earned my tips because my lipstick was a little slutty. Because these things were all jokes between friends—right?

Every shift I could expect comments like this. As I befriended one of the line cooks, I learned that all of the cooks openly talked about the waitresses’ asses. Who had the best one? Whose jeans were a little tight that day? Who would they like to fuck the most?

The breaking point came when a manager--my superior, not coworker--crossed the line. During a Halloween party, when the waitresses came to work in their Halloween costumes, despite the half-assed protests of our general manager, I was washing some glasses in the kitchen when my manager appeared behind me. He was drunk, as our Halloween party was fully under way, and he’d decided to partake in the festivities rather than do his job.

“Your outfit is amazing tonight,” he slurred. “Seriously, if you were allowed to dress like that every night, we’d make way more money.”

After several more comments like this, all inappropriate, some bordering on vulgar, about myself and other waitresses, the bartender decided she’d had enough. So, around four AM, as the party died down and we were left to clean sticky floors and vomitspeckled toilets, I was pulled into my other manager’s office to discuss what had been said to me.

“Did he say anything inappropriate to you?” my manager asked.

The manager in question was also in the room. My face

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grew red as I stood before them, two men with authority over me, and I was being asked to turn one of them in.

My voice was small as I stuttered, “No he—it was—it was fine.”

“Well, what was said?” he asked.

The manager on trial stared at me with bleary, drunken eyes.

Swaying on his feet, he added, “Yeah, did I say anything to you that made you uncomfortable?”

I have to admit to you that I didn’t act the way my logical, feminist self would like.

Looking back, I wish I would’ve been honest. I wish I would’ve said exactly what had happened, exactly how it made me feel, and how inappropriate it was.

I didn’t, though.

Instead, I replied, “I’m fine.

Can I go back to work now?”

The truth is, in that moment, I felt so incredibly small. Belittled. And even though there was my way out, my redemption, my vengeance—I couldn’t take it. Because if I said yes, you made me feel uncomfortable, that would have given him a sick power over me. I didn’t want to admit that I could be made uncomfortable by a pathetic, drunken old man.

And, beneath that, I felt guilty. Guilty that I had somehow allowed this to happen. If only I hadn’t worn that outfit, if only I hadn’t worn so much makeup, if only, if only. There I was, a feminist who abhors victim blaming, blaming myself for being the victim of a crime that happens to too many women. Blaming myself for one man’s actions that wronged me. Blaming myself for a man trying to make me feel less than I am.

The bottom line about workplace harassment is this: it’s wrong and it only furthers the idea that women are lesser, merely there for aesthetic, merely there for male enjoyment. Whenever a male

coworker makes a comment about a woman’s appearance, it serves to remind her that the workplace is a man’s domain, and he’s simply allowing her to be there. Whenever inappropriate things are said, the woman is to blame for looking the way she does. It puts her at a disadvantage, makes her appear weaker, susceptible to these kinds of things. It makes her somehow lesser in the eyes of her employer, because she’s just a lawsuit

waiting to happen.

After my experience in the restaurant, I promised myself that I will no longer feel guilty—I will fight back, I will shut it down, I will make them regret opening their mouths against me. When something inappropriate is done to me, I will not laugh it off—I will stand up for myself, destroying their patriarchal idea that I am there for their pleasure only. I will be a force to be reckoned with, and I will make them regret every time they thought me too weak to fight back.

I shouldn’t have to do this. Ideally, none of us should have to fight back when we’re only trying to do our jobs. We shouldn’t be the ones to put an end to this because it shouldn’t be happening in the first place. Ideally, we wouldn’t have to face workplace harassment at all. Workplace harassment is not your fault. It is the result of the ugliness that has permeated the institutions in this country. It is a result of the fucked up patriarchy. It is no way reflective of you or your worth. You are a force to be reckoned with. If you choose to be in the workplace, that is exactly where you belong, and no one can make you feel otherwise.

“Workplace harassment is not your fault.

It is the result of the ugliness that has permeated the institutions in this country.

It is a result of the fucked up patriarchy.

It is no way reflective of you or your worth.”

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Ace In Existence

by Angelica Esquivel

I

was at a bar in Chicago with some friends and I was chatting with a guy. Once he knew I was friendly and conversational, he took it as a sign of romantic interest and became very flirtatious, so I told him, “You should know I’m not into guys.”

He leaned back and replied, “So you’re into girls then?”

“I’m not into either.”

The look of confusion on his face was not unfamiliar to me. When I came out as asexual in high school none of my friends even knew it was an orientation. Coming out as ace (an abbreviation for asexual) inevitably turns into a long explanation and explaining all different possible romantic and sexual orientations.

While I personally identify as grayace-- meaning that I can experience mild sexual and romantic attraction, but that those feelings aren’t compelling enough to act on-- there is a whole spectrum of asexuality that lacks mainstream visibility.

Because most of the population is not asexual, it is not common to find ace representation in the media, especially because we live in such a heteronormative society. The belief that true happiness is only attainable through a romantic relationship saturates television and literature. Society is just beginning to be more accepting of same-sex relationships, but asexual identities are entirely erased because they do not involve the finding of a soulmate.

A common misconception is that asexuals are emotionless robots and prudish. The fact of the matter is, we simply don’t experience sexual attraction. Asexuality is also not an automatic lack of inclination towards romantic relationships. For example, someone could identify as asexual heteroromantic. This means that they

don’t experience sexual attraction but are still romantically attracted to members of the opposite sex. Another important distinction to make is that asexuality and celibacy are not the same thing. While asexuality is a lack of sexual attraction, celibacy is a lack of sexual activity.

I told my friends I was ace when I was seventeen, and it was nerve-wracking, especially because I knew asexuality was a foreign concept to my friends. But they were understanding and said that it made sense. I have yet to come out to my parents who believe that I am just not interested in dating right now. It’s tough being constantly asked if I am a lesbian, or being told that getting a boyfriend will make me happier, but I know that the longer I remain “single”, the less they will badger me.

Telling people I’m ace doesn’t always go as well as the first time I came out.

Some of the worst things I’ve heard are, “you were probably sexually abused as a child and just forgot,” “he broke you,” “or “you simply haven’t met the right person yet.” Statements like these have no bearing on the legitimacy of the identities of those who are asexual. If someone tells you they’re asexual, don’t be an insensitive a**hole. Just because an orientation is not mainstream doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist. Most people don’t know how broad the ace spectrum is, so below I have included an infographic detailing some of the romantic and sexual orientations an asexual could identify with, but keep in mind that this graphic is by no means comprehensive.

Two great resources on learning about asexuality include: asexuality.org and asexualawarenessweek.com/asexuality-101

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Do My Shoulders Turn You On?

by Josephine Brown

S

how your mind, not your behind.” A faculty member said these words to the student body at my high school about a dress code incident that occurred earlier that day. Countless girls, including myself, were forced to change, or even miss class in order to go home and get “appropriate” pants because teachers sent them to the office on dress code violation, telling them that they were distracting other classmates. I came to school that day in a respectable outfit: black pants, a blouse, and a cardigan, but was told to go down to the office, even before I made it to first hour. They told me that my pants were too tight but that I could keep them on as long as I put on a longer sweater that covered my butt. I had to miss the first part of my class, walk out to my car in 30-something degree weather (luckily I had a long sweater in my trunk). Other girls had to call home, call parents at work, drive home, or even put on baggy pants that the office provided for them. I just happened to luck out that day, but other girls were frustrated and even embarrassed, especially the ones who had to walk around for gruelling 7 hours in a pair of baggy men’s pants most likely from the lost and found.

When does dress code go too far, degrading young women and also hindering their education? Which is worse: that these young women supposedly distracting young men, or that women are taught that their bodies are sexual objects and that they must cover them up? Dress codes can be conducive in certain workplaces to promote professionalism or a uniform look. But, it seems like nowadays principals, teachers and other staff in schools are using them to police young women’s’ bodies and shame them.

I first noticed this when I was around the age of 12, the age when young girls are entering puberty and start to become self-conscious about their bodies. This is also a prime age to teach young women positive body image and self-confidence. This becomes extremely difficult when they live in a world where they want to dress in a way that’s comfortable and makes them feel confident but where authority figures are degrading them, telling them that their butts, legs, shoulders, and breasts are dirty and shameful.

After trying to argue this point so many times in middle school and high school, I heard the same excuses over and over - there’s a male section of the dress code too, girls clothes make it harder to follow the dress code, it’s easier to have the girls cover themselves up than to try to stop the boys from fantasizing - all excuses that seem pathetic and goddamn sexist. As a student, I never felt like I could defend myself in these situations because whenever I tried to argue my case, the teachers and faculty members always got their way. They had all the power in their hands, and the students were powerless. No one wants to fight a battle that they know they cannot win, and at the end of the battle I either ended up with a detention or a trip to the office to call home in order to get appropriate clothes. Dress codes are so inherently female oriented, stating things like no midriff, no sleeveless tops, no leggings or skinny jeans. We used to always joke about it, saying things like “do my shoulders turn you on?” but, now that I think about it, this was a very valid point. If my shoulders were to cause sexual arousal in a 18

young male or, god forbid, a male teacher, that is not in my control and would be a bit concerning. What is so bad about showing shoulders or wearing skirts above the knee? If a male is distracted or has a problem with it, he should be the one to leave the room or receive the detention, not that hard working female student that is trying to get an education.

A year ago today I would have been only half confident in these convictions but now, as a college freshman, my convictions have been strengthened. There’s no defined dress code in college but yet, magically, the males aren’t distracted in class. The girl to the right of me wearing leggings and the girl to the left of me wearing baggy sweat pants are both respectable young women, both learning the same thing regardless of the tightness of the fabric covering their legs. They come to class comfortably dressed in clothes that make them feel good, just like those middle and high school students, and yet aren’t forced to change their clothes, call home, or get a detention for it. I think we as teachers, students, mothers, fathers, or anyone with a relationship to a young woman, need to take a stand against this unnecessary body policing. We can start by contacting school staff and also publicizing these incidents among the community to raise awareness of this issue. We need to teach young women and men that this sort of shaming is not acceptable, not now, not ever. If we take these steps, we can create a comfortable and fair environment in schools for young women and also destroy this cycle of body sexualizing and shaming.

“I think we as teachers, students, mothers, fathers, or anyone with a relationship to a young woman, need to take a stand against this unnecessary body policing.”

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Poems

I Walk With Purpose

by Miranda Hency My feet are rough now with hardened heels that give blazing stride Why expect softness when an unfinished bramble has an artistry like no other Because smooth does not indicate blooming elegance or a loveliness so pure My feet are rough now and carry me with support enough to stabilize a skyscraper The ridged existence is an intimacy with the world harsh with character We move forward through niche, time, and place expanding like the universe My feet are rough now and I know better than to let them be torn apart

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Him by anonymous I thought it would be glamorous to be the type of woman who left him before he left me to ensnare him with my wine dark lipstick to ignite him with unsaid promises of my secret curves to let him want me then leave the job unfinished I thought I would feel powerful when I allowed him to touch me in ways that fulfilled my whims when I feigned indifference the next day When I felt the heat of my desire and knew his to be the same I thought I would be confident after I crossed into this new territory after I affirmed my need to have him after I smelled him on my shirt the next three days But all it is is fantasy and all I feel is empty and all I am is vulnerable when I remember his hands in my hair on my hips when I recall the urgency with which he moved against me when I see him and know how it feels to lean against his chest and slide my hands down his thighs when I run into him and the silence speaks for itself when I feel like a shameful object that he won’t allow to see the light of day I may have liked it at the time But I am not glamorouspowerfulconfident in control of this relationship I allowed him to touch use me

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Blame by anonymous I started it.

Faltering from the throat: difficult to swallow.

The words don’t fit between my white-girl teeth because they haven’t slipped out before— this isn’t the dance I’ve learned, it’s a lone candle of rebellion interrupting obedience with new, sharp life.

With adulthood comes a need, a small glow of dark to keep the rainbow quiet.

And here, it has come, swallowing whole into a purpling kaleidoscope blackness that feels just right and endless, scraping what was left of baby fat from my sides turning me softly to woman.

With beautiful comes slut and don’t talk too much, don’t talk too little, remember. You are female.

So I started the battle that brought the war, lovers turned animal by pointed fingers and accusing eyes, stripped of all sanity. Painted purpling blue.

He played along, held hands in the early dawn—waiting to turn prey.

But I began it all to prove them wrong.

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Sources Cover,

Dear John Mellankamp, pg. 8,

List of Editors,

Advanced STyle, pg. 10-11,

Illustration by Erica Liao

Photo by Alex Boscolo

Bathroom Confessional, Illustration by Erica Liao

Letter from the editor, pg. 1, Illustration by Erica Liao

quote, pg. 2,

Design by Eliza Jarman

Illustration by Eva Roos

Illustration by Taylor Landeryou

What to do with a vagina poster, pg. 12-13, Illustration by Sareena Kamath

Harassment in the Workplace isn’t Your Fault (so why do you feel guilty about it?), pg. 14-15, Illustration by Molly Munsel

Ace in existence, pg. 16-17,

Illustration by Angelica Esquivel

Woman of the Month, pg. 3, Photo by Dominick Duldulao

Sh*t I’m afraid to ask My Doctor, pg. 4,

http://ods.od.nih.gov/factsheets/VitaminD-HealthProfessional/ http://intothegloss.com/2014/03/shailene-woodley-hair/ http://health.usnews.com/health-news/health-wellness/articles/2014/05/09/momsshould-you-eat-your-placenta http://guardianlv.com/2013/08/kim-kardashian-to-join-five-other-celebritieswho-ate-their-placenta/http://wellnessmama.com/5734/101-uses-for-coconut-oil/ http://nymag.com/thecut/2013/12/interview-blake-lively-on-pixie-cuts-cookies. htmlhttp://www.digitalspy.com/celebrity/news/a353309/kourtney-kardashian-oilenemas-are-life-changing.html#~oUcFece1ykAdXcmous-was-a-woman

https://www.nwhm.org/education-resources/biography/biographies/ zora-neale-hurston/ Illustrations by Cheryll Joy Victuelles

Playlist, pg. 5,

Design by Jacqueline Saplicki Illustration by Angelica Esquivel

Do My shoulders turn you on?, pg. 18-19, Illustration by Erica Liao

I walk with purpose, pg. 20, Illustration by Erica Liao

HIM, pg. 21,

Illustration by Tara Lewis

BLAME, pg. 22,

Illustration by Erica Liao

Back Cover

Illustration by Erica Liao

Sponsors

Women’s History Month, pg.6-7,

http://www.nwhp.org/about-2/why-womens-history/ http://www.elle.com/culture/celebrities/news/a15345/gloria-steinemcelebrates-eightieth-birthday/ http://sss.sagepub.com/content/23/2/325 https://www.nwhm.org/education-resources/biography/biographies/ chien-shiung-wu/ http://www.computerhistory.org/babbage/adalovelace/ https://www.nwhm.org/education-resources/biography/biographies/ hedy-lamarr/ http://www.jewishvirtuallibrary.org/jsource/biography/Yalow.html http://www.faqs.org/health/bios/2/Hattie-Alexander.html http://siarchives.si.edu/collections/siris_arc_290429 http://www.alfihri.eu http://www.womeninworldhistory.com/heroine9.html https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/1858-for-most-of-history-anony Illustration by Erica Liao

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