Haiku

JAMIE WATSON

Don't try to tell me 

rape is your biology.                                 

You're not a damn dog.                                                                  

If you can't control the urge 

to be a monster                                                                     

what makes you a man?                                                                 

And for that matter                                                                                

I know my dumb, mixed breed mutt

has more class than you

Inverted Introvert

SARAI ALLEN

I learned how to turn myself inside out...

I ran my fingers through my hair and then cut it all off in an attempt to find someone new, someone who was living here all along...

I shook out every good idea I had and ran with them, clutched close to my heart like a small child because they need help to grow. I need help to grow… 

I have tripped and fallen more often than not and every time I have lain there, sometimes crying, sometimes smiling up at the ceiling, caught in this daze of purple smoke and Percocet pills.

I learned how to turn myself inside out and now every passing year is wrought with consequence, cause and effect. My decisions bite back all over my body and I am scarred underneath these clothes, it gets up under my skin. But beneath this layer of brown stretched over bones, I am hiding waves upon waves of emotion peeking out from under my sleeves. I will roll them up and expose myself to anyone willing to see, anyone willing to listen, anyone quiet enough to hear what I’m trying to say…

I’m trying to say that I went inside myself and this is what I found: a little girl masquerading in big girl shoes, a mother afraid of her own creations, a desperate friend in need of a prayer and a woman, who looks just like me. She is made of fire and elegance, like the kind I’ve been searching for. She is Bright eyes and elephant skin and I scarce believe she is real. I turn inside out and there she stands, radiant, ready to show me how to live. Ready to help that child stop growing up so fast, ready to tell that mother to love what she has made, for her creations will be her memories. Ready to hold a candle up to the dark heart of that fiend and pray she finds something that keeps her warmer than whiskey. She is so becoming, and I'm becoming her. I'm getting hotter and hotter and more elegant each day. My eyes are lighting up and my skin's getting tough and I am becoming her. I am no longer that little girl looking for her lost childhood. I've learned to love and be loved. Whiskey still warms me and it takes time for dark hearts to heal, but the point is I am healing. Sometimes it takes the help of the person living inside of you, waiting to be turned inside out.

Third Wave Feminism Art Review

CALLISTA BARNES

The duality of roles women play may not be the first topic of concern when discussing feminism. However, for Sarah Rowland and Rossitza Todorova, who curated the “Third Wave” art exhibit at Tempe Marketplace Night Gallery, it was a topic that needed to be brought to the forefront of discussion in contemporary feminism and art. The exhibit was on display until Sep. 29. 

During a chance run-in with Rossitza at the Night Gallery, she discussed what exactly the Third Wave movement meant in shaping the role of women artists and modern day feminists. 

“The biggest difference from the previous (feminist) movements is that it’s extremely inclusive and it allows women to decide for themselves what feminism means,” Rossitza said.

Rossitza continued that there is a large range in how women interpret feminism, such as in how they choose to “juxtopositon” their bodies positively or negatively.

“You have women who are absolutely willing to put on lipstick and high heels and that is a feminist movement compared to women who are all natural (with) no makeup, as well as (their) sexual preference or minority inclusion,” she said.

Peering around the exhibit, the space displayed a rich and colorful range of works, some blatant in their feminist statements about traditional female roles, while other pieces were so abstract, it would be difficult to discern any sort of political statement. In pointing out some of the subtleties in these works, Rossitza provided a composed and straightforward explanation.

“I very specifically asked each of the artists to contribute pieces that they were working on currently rather than work that would fit into a theme,” she said. “The point wasn’t that it was feminist, the point was to show what women were doing.” 

In the end, Third Wave wasn’t a collection of paintings about feministic statements so much as it was a group of women who happen to be painters and printmakers balancing the duality of more traditional roles. One of the more fascinating aspects of the exhibit was the subtlety behind its title. If you didn’t know what Third Wave meant, would you be surprised that it is an all women’s showcase? Would that even matter? Should the gender of the artist be considered at all when viewing each individual art piece, determining the message, or judging the quality of the artist? 

“It really narrows it by (specifically saying) women painters and printmakers,” Rossitza pointed out. “It doesn’t work anymore, being pigeonholed. And I did want to point that out, I wanted people to be aware of the term ‘third wave’ and to want to know what it is, to come into this not knowing, but leaving going, ‘Wow…I am part of the third wave.’”

Breaking The Silence

(Trigger warning: depiction of rape)

CHRISTIAN MANDEVILLE

When it comes to the subject of rape, it's almost invariably put in terms of women being raped by men. Women being raped is certainly a pandemic, true, but with news media being what it is today, capable of spanning the world in a few hours, just how often have you heard of lawsuits in cases of men being raped? Some people have never heard a story like that. Others (men and women alike) believe that it's simply not possible.

Because, as every adolescent boy could tell you, we only get erections when we've thoughtfully considered the situation and decided in the affirmative, right? Why do we never hear these stories? As a rape survivor, I would like to share some insight. 

When I was in elementary school, I was unpopular, to put it mildly. I had few friends, no social skills, and a naïveté to take people at their word and to readily believe in second chances. 

After being invited to a house party, I was delighted. I had a chance to make some friends with the cool kids, maybe learn to be normal. There was drinking, crowded dancing, a tropical smell in the air. After accepting a cup of who-knows-what, I wandered about the house. I felt dizzy and someone helped me along to a bedroom to "chill and lay down". I remember a red door, a queen-sized bed with a roll of duct tape on the nightstand. "Listen to him, bet he's enjoying it.”

Afterwards, I never so much as hinted at it for years. I was ashamed. In some unspoken sense, I had failed. I couldn't prevent it, which made me weak, made me a failure as a man. And, after the profound realization that it had happened to you once, there was a fear (or was for me at least) that if they did that to you for fun, what would they do if you piss them off by trying to tell someone?

So you stay quiet. You take scalding hot showers to feel clean. You tell yourself that it never happened. You walk past the same people every day, trying to substitute the fear and shame, the self-blame and self-loathing with hatred and anger toward something else. When that starts to show through, you just swallow it down because it'd be better for everyone to think you just had depression than think you were broken and burned out. 

While some might come to that sense of tarnished masculinity on their own, most of it stems from society. After all, how can you truly be a respected man if you were raped? If your attacker was a woman, you should have taken it as one more notch on your bedpost. If your attacker was a man, you should have killed him or died preventing it. I've heard both of these sentiments over and over again in casual conversation.

The stereotype for men being sexual and brutal powerhouses can all-too-quickly become a gilded cage; where it's better to let them get away than admit to your fellow man the truth. 

It is time to erase that mindset. Pretending you're invincible is for children, and pretending you lack emotions is unhealthy. It will only lead to pain, even if its buried where no one can find it.

It took me two suicide attempts and four years to tell someone about what happened to me. To everyone out there afraid of telling the truth, I hope you speak up. We don't need to let them keep us silent.

Teaching Myself Consent

KHARLI MANDEVILLE

One of the first times in my twenties that anyone ever asked me for consent to have sex, I was flabbergasted. I – regretfully – almost wanted to laugh. 

Two great dates and a heavy make-out session in my bed later, I was “given” the option of opting out of sex if I chose. I said yes, I want to have sex. He pulled a condom out of his pocket without my having to ask if we had protection available. It saddens me that at 25-years-old, being approached with respect by someone I was involved with sexually came as a surprise.

I moved from the suburbs of the West Valley to Central Phoenix following a split from a high school boyfriend of six years. At the impressionable dating age of 22, I was immediately thrust into college and single life. I was naïve and optimistic about the men I would encounter. Now, I’m not so sure I was ready to experience the world of casual sex with men more experienced in that capacity than me. 

My first summer as a single young woman, I worked three jobs, lived alone, and took on a full-time university class schedule. The mere idea of an official, full-time relationship with anyone was off the table. I simply did not have the time to emotionally invest in another human being. 

I spent my precious free-time with friends – getting to know people in the city. There were also bars. Lots of bars. Those first months being single were a haze of faces and sex I hardly remember. My line between consensual-casual sex and drunk-casual sex began to thin and blur. 

By the end of the summer, I found myself questioning the empowerment I felt, notching detached sex off my belt. I learned what I thought was the power of apathy in dating very quickly during this time. No one can hurt you if you don’t care about their feelings or actions toward you, right? 

I discovered this wasn’t the case when I awoke to a partner having sex with me during my sleep. 

I realized being led by the hand out of the bar toward sex was no way to maximize my power over my sexuality. Thankfully, my parents taught me to demand respect and of the value of sex positivity, no matter the circumstance, all throughout my life, so I was quickly able to deem his actions unacceptable. I recognized that I was not in control, and what I desperately, and rightfully, craved was power over my body.  I had to be able to make the conscious decision to say yes, or no with a worthy partner if I chose to really utilize that power. 

That experience, among a few key others during my early twenties, was just one symbol of what is truly wrong with the discussion of sex and consent in our society. I hadn’t said no, but I also hadn’t said yes. Silence is not consent. Ever. Period.  

A respectful partner, casual or otherwise, cares about the before, during and after emotional and physical consequences of sexual intimacy. 

It doesn’t matter where, how, when, why, or with whom anyone has sex. What matters in sex is an equal and respected power dynamic between partners. Following that experience, I now demand my every sexual encounter to encompass these values and my right to my sexuality. I demand it for myself, and I demand it for all. 

Up To Bat: Sexism in the Boys Only Club

MELLIE MACKER

I love baseball. Every year, through 162 games, my emotions rise and fall with the success or failure of my Detroit Tigers. I follow the records and outstanding plays of every team, and adopt an appreciation for the all-stars and rookies who capture my heart with their athletic abilities. I eat, sleep and breathe statistics – AVG, OPS, BABIP, WHIP: I know what they mean and who’s leading in the rankings.

What I don’t love, however, is talking to men about baseball. As with cars, beer, or even comic books – when women cross over into the realm of things that are considered “masculine”, their opinions become subject to severe scrutiny. Sports are the goddamned paragon of this brutal prejudice. 

It would be one thing if I were merely a casual spectator, but instead I am a die-hard fan with an ego that refuses to be flexed with – just like any number of spectators with testicles.

Not all men are at fault; in fact, many of the guys I know and revere for their baseball knowledge genuinely don’t care if I’m XX, because they are too wrapped up in the game to even notice that I happen to have boobs.

So, if I’m talking to a guy, and he puts on that shit-eating grin when I mention that I live and die with the tide of America’s Pastime, I prepare myself to field the barrage of condescending questions and insulting statements that I am 76 percent sure will follow. Note: Statistics are variable depending on how many beers have been consumed and if anyone is in scoring position. 

This usually will manifest in one of two ways:

• He has one or two particular stats or historical occurrences that he has memorized for this particular situation. Usually, he’ll frame this into a question that has a correct answer and if I don’t guess correctly, he wins. If I do know the answer, great. If not, I have an entire arsenal of response questions that he probably won’t know. Sandy Koufax’s ERA in 1965? 2.05. The year Al Kaline was adopted into the Hall of Fame? 1980. 1929 Batting Champion? YEAH I DIDN’T THINK SO. Lefty O’Doul, for the record. I have mastered length and girth in this dick-measuring contest.

• “You only like baseball because you think (insert conventionally attractive baseball player here) is hot.”
  Yep. You caught me. I obsess over a rotating roster of 25 men and their individual performances, and closely monitor the activity of 29 other fully-staffed teams over the course of nine whole months in hope that I will one day have the golden opportunity to put my mouth on some dude’s weiner. RED-FUCKING-HANDED.  The sheer douche-baggery of this cannot be understated. In so few words, I am accused of being unable to properly enjoy an activity unless there is some sort of sexual context introduced – and this doesn’t work both ways. Men are allowed to “appreciate” the undulation of bodies, the grace of on-field motion without being accused of any sexual inclinations (“seriously bro, no homo”). This also undermines my intellect, by suggesting that I cannot actually comprehend the fundamentals and intricacies of the sport, and therefore must be drawn to it by some alternative primal instinct.

It used to flatter me when I talked to a fellow about baseball, and after some time, his skepticism relented and he said, “Wow, you really know your stuff!”

Not anymore. It’s exhausting, and quite frankly, it’s ruining my appreciation of the game because I have to prove that I like something more than someone else in order to be let into the Secret Club of Men Who Know Things About Sports No Girls Allowed. 

If I like baseball, I should be asked normal questions, like: “Who do you think is going to win the World Series?” Not: “Who is the hottest player from 1977?” 

But just because you asked, it’s Bucky Dent from the Chicago White Sox.

Media Defined Identities, Not Just For Women

JACOB EVANS

My arms look like those little noodley strands of goop that you get when you push Play-Doh through a strainer. In fact, overall I look kind of like a wet trash-bag full of mashed potatoes. If society’s ready to start talking about how the media perpetuates unrealistic standards of beauty and gender roles, can we at least mention the fact that society expects the sweaty bean-bag chair that is my body to look like Arnold in his prime?

The arms race that is boyhood is a constant string of unrealistic expectations placed on me for the sole reason that I have a penis. After realizing that no amount of my penis was going to make me Bruce Willis, I kind of gave up on the notion of manhood being something worth achieving.

I was raised thinking that my level of manliness was measured in the number of doors I kicked down and galaxies I saved. It’s really not until you reach your teenage years that potentially achievable expectations are thrust upon you, but they are all absolutely horrible expectations.

Suddenly, your manhood is based on the number of women you sleep with (with no consideration given to whether any of it was actually consensual), your willingness to put yourself in danger for the amusement of others, and your emotional callousness.

Thankfully, I was already convinced I would never be a “real man”, and I never cared as much about those things as my peers did. I may be sitting here typing this with a hand I broke on someone else’s face, and I have all the feelings of a Roomba, but I never really considered those to make me very manly.

Then you reach adulthood, and suddenly, every boy becomes a man, and you realize that isn’t always a good thing. My ideas of what it means for me to be man come from what I learned from my step-dad. To me, manhood is about taking care of those you love even when it’s hard to do. To millions of others, it’s still about how many women you sleep with (or rape), and if anyone wonders why men often act so oppressively toward women and even each other, I can’t help but wonder if it stems from the fact that the only way little boys are taught to behave when they reach adulthood is like monsters.

I get very frustrated when my concerns about how boys are educated about manhood are shut out because “women have it worse”, that may be true, but I really believe that’s mostly because boys are basically trained to make it that way.