(Okay)
Larry Dembski, class of 2017
Boy in tight jeans. Boy with long, green hair in tight jeans. Boy with big hips and long, green hair in tight jeans. Boy with breasts. Boy who is a girl. Boy who is me. Boy in an art museum. Me in an art museum. I am in an art museum. The grey cement walls are clammy to the touch, and a cuttingly sharp array of red Paintings clings to the dull walls. My legs are wide and they get tangled around each other, but I can't focus on anything other than the Paintings.
Paintings with heavy, oil paint. Thick, ochre paint making up thin, naked bodies of Spanish lovers whose breath is rose petals and pottery. Man and woman with gentle curves, caressing each other with slender, eager hands. His hipbones jut out-reaching and begging to be kissed and held (and maybe she will). His dark hair hangs like a curtain, his ribs are peachy and delicate, and his chest is a flat line. I am not like him. No master of medium crafted me. Short, stubby fingers, swollen stomach, sour smelling breath. No harsh jawline or stubble or gaze ready to entice maidens. My eyes drop to the ground, and I let my legs drag me away. I don't want to be surrounded by beauty anymore.
Looking up, the silhouettes of a boy and a girl are on the two doors in front of me. Perfect (bathrooms are never beautiful). I push through into the boys' room to be greeted by stained and graying black walls. Layers of graffiti have been scrawled and etched into every surface then haphazardly covered. The air is overbearing and pungent. And men. Too many men, I can't find somewhere to stand without touching a stranger's skin. All the stalls are locked tightly, leaving me to hover in the middle of the boy's bathroom. I do not belong there. I can't take my eyes off my clownish shoes at the risk of meeting a stray gaze, as if I am invisible as long as I don't look at anyone else.
After a small eternity, a stall opens and I scramble inside. And then outside. Wash hands. Don't look at the mirror (you are not a Painting). Careful, to avoid contact, leave the bathroom. Once outside, I resurface and take my first breath, sighing. I look up to survey the gallery again. There's a boy this time, short hair dark hair and tan skin, my age I think. His glacier, blue eyes run over my skin, like I am something to marvel. A spectacle. I shift my weight behind my (large, clunky) feet, but his eyes are still on me. I feel a smile dance around the edges of my mouth. And then.
"Faggot," he spits.
And he's gone.
Oh,
Okay.
Larry Dembski, class of 2017
Boy in tight jeans. Boy with long, green hair in tight jeans. Boy with big hips and long, green hair in tight jeans. Boy with breasts. Boy who is a girl. Boy who is me. Boy in an art museum. Me in an art museum. I am in an art museum. The grey cement walls are clammy to the touch, and a cuttingly sharp array of red Paintings clings to the dull walls. My legs are wide and they get tangled around each other, but I can't focus on anything other than the Paintings.
Paintings with heavy, oil paint. Thick, ochre paint making up thin, naked bodies of Spanish lovers whose breath is rose petals and pottery. Man and woman with gentle curves, caressing each other with slender, eager hands. His hipbones jut out-reaching and begging to be kissed and held (and maybe she will). His dark hair hangs like a curtain, his ribs are peachy and delicate, and his chest is a flat line. I am not like him. No master of medium crafted me. Short, stubby fingers, swollen stomach, sour smelling breath. No harsh jawline or stubble or gaze ready to entice maidens. My eyes drop to the ground, and I let my legs drag me away. I don't want to be surrounded by beauty anymore.
Looking up, the silhouettes of a boy and a girl are on the two doors in front of me. Perfect (bathrooms are never beautiful). I push through into the boys' room to be greeted by stained and graying black walls. Layers of graffiti have been scrawled and etched into every surface then haphazardly covered. The air is overbearing and pungent. And men. Too many men, I can't find somewhere to stand without touching a stranger's skin. All the stalls are locked tightly, leaving me to hover in the middle of the boy's bathroom. I do not belong there. I can't take my eyes off my clownish shoes at the risk of meeting a stray gaze, as if I am invisible as long as I don't look at anyone else.
After a small eternity, a stall opens and I scramble inside. And then outside. Wash hands. Don't look at the mirror (you are not a Painting). Careful, to avoid contact, leave the bathroom. Once outside, I resurface and take my first breath, sighing. I look up to survey the gallery again. There's a boy this time, short hair dark hair and tan skin, my age I think. His glacier, blue eyes run over my skin, like I am something to marvel. A spectacle. I shift my weight behind my (large, clunky) feet, but his eyes are still on me. I feel a smile dance around the edges of my mouth. And then.
"Faggot," he spits.
And he's gone.
Oh,
Okay.
"Standing Woman"
Unknown |
"Standing Woman"
Lyla Hyman, Class of 2017 Figure of a standing woman Stiff with ivory Bold with curves Glowing with passion Glowing from speckled diamonds Figure of a summer’s day Warm, shining, radiating Figure of the city night’s landscape Figure of sunlight in rays Still but empowering Faceless, armless, footless Figure of a cracked, Standing woman Broken, upright, strong Figure of an fragmented bone structure Of a body Hardworking and ambitious Figure of a girl Who is a woman Who is Middle Eastern Who is empowering Who is bold Who is ivory Who is radiant Who is faceless |
In the Age of Nasty Women
Julianna McCann, class of 2017
Don’t tell me a woman
must be a damsel in distress,
when we alone win a war every minute,
every moon.
From pink nails
flows fearless femme freedom,
poems pouring from the tips
of pithy pigtails.
Don’t try to tie our waists,
our dreams cannot be bound.
I dream. I grieve. Ashamed
for all the times I didn’t stand with my
Sisters. But we are ever together in blood.
Marching onward through fear
and through frost.
The only distress we afford is that which we
conceive. So tell me how you think of me?
A whisper of wind? Or a tempest?
Julianna McCann, class of 2017
Don’t tell me a woman
must be a damsel in distress,
when we alone win a war every minute,
every moon.
From pink nails
flows fearless femme freedom,
poems pouring from the tips
of pithy pigtails.
Don’t try to tie our waists,
our dreams cannot be bound.
I dream. I grieve. Ashamed
for all the times I didn’t stand with my
Sisters. But we are ever together in blood.
Marching onward through fear
and through frost.
The only distress we afford is that which we
conceive. So tell me how you think of me?
A whisper of wind? Or a tempest?