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Please Stop Making Feminism All About Men By Kate Hickey QuailBellMagazine.com How we're used to seeing Emma Watson being a badass. I admit I teared up a little while I watched the video of Emma Watson’s lovely speech at the U.N. As a life-long fan of Harry Potter, I felt an immense surge of pride for her. She is doing exactly what Hermione Granger would do. Her speech was detailed, intelligent, and passionate, and I felt the utter sincerity in her words when she said, “I care about this problem.” I felt joy and relief when she outright stated that she lives in a space of privilege. I could tell that Emma Watson knew what she was talking about and believed wholeheartedly in what she was saying. But unfortunately, this speech was not as “game-changing” as the clickbait of Internet news media led me to believe.
Much of Watson’s speech was agonizing the way it structured gendered inequalities. In particular, when Watson pointed out that freeing men from gender roles would, by consequence, free women, I was actually quite angry. Again the need to put men first—by this logic, men must be freed from patriarchy and then women can be free. No. That is not equality. That is not what feminism is working towards. Feminists are not here to free men and then be freed afterwards. It is about freeing everyone, in the same instant, from the toxic cesspool that is the gender binary. By making feminism about saving men, it inverts the entire idea. Feminism is about the equality between the genders/sexes and the reason that there is not equality is because men oppress women. They are not oppressing themselves when they reject socially coded feminine qualities like empathy, compassion, or passivity. They certainly are harming themselves, as Watson points out, but it is not the job of women to protect men from the negative consequences of patriarchy. Women already have enough crap to deal with in relation to negative consequences of patriarchy.
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A Brief Account of My Time in India By Gypsy Mack QuailBellMagazine.com I love to travel. It is what I’m best at. When I travel, I never stubbornly stick to previously made plans. I am open to new situations, I am eager and curious, and I always try to fully experience my surroundings. I observe the people who live in places that I am just an outsider to, and I take note of how they walk, talk, eat, and interact. I try to copy those people, and fully integrate myself into places so very different from my own home. I love to travel because I fall in love with every single place I go. Oftentimes, I take mental pictures of my surroundings, so that I can see those places forever. I try to capture sounds and smells and sensations in my memory, because I love it all so much that I never want to forget. I went to India last December. I was gone for two months. I got back just three days before my fifteenth birthday. That was nearly eight months ago, but it feels so recent that sometimes I still accidentally say, “I just got back from India." Before that, about a year and a half ago, I went to the UK and Ireland with my best friend. And before that, I was seven, hiking the base of a volcano, surrounded by the sound of howler monkeys. I didn't know it then, but I had made the best and worst mistake of my life: traveling. It became an addiction, but I never, ever want to stop. Almost one year ago, my mom and my six-year-old sister River and I went along with my ten-year-old sister Phoenix’s homeschool co-op for a field trip. The co-op, called the Bhakti School, is run by a family that my own family has known for years. We were going to the UVA Lawn for a guided meditation with Deepak Chopra. Since then, I have never seen so many fancy white people interested in yoga at one time! Afterwards, my mom asked me if I wanted to go to India. It was completely spur of the moment. It felt so random, yet perfect. I said yes, but I was nervous. I hardly knew anything about India outside of the small bit of knowledge that I gleaned from geography in seventh grade, and I wasn’t even particularly interested in India. But I wanted to travel, and I was very curious. I was going to go with the Bhakti School family, and be the au pair for the two boys, who were nine and eleven at the time. Back then, I had known the family for a while, but hadn’t really seen them regularly since I was a small kid and did homeschool co-ops. Now, it’s kind of funny to think that I didn’t really know them, because they’re kind of like my second family. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
What the Tooth Fairy Taught Me About Feminism By Sara Leslie Miller QuailBellMagazine.com When I lost my first tooth, I expected the tooth fairy to leave me a dollar or two like she did for all my pioneering gap-toothed friends. A couple of loose teeth would trade in nicely for an after-school TCBY parfait, or so my seven-year-old logic went, because children don’t understand irony. My baby teeth were a little late to the party, but when I finally wiggled one out, I did not get a Washington or a Lincoln. Instead, the tooth fairy left me a large silver coin with a woman’s face I didn’t recognize. Because I knew my mother was the true power behind all fictional visitors, I immediately brought the coin to her and demanded an explanation, mainly, “Does TCBY accept this form of payment?”
My mother sat with me on the edge of my parents’ bathtub and proudly explained that it was a Susan B. Anthony dollar. Minted from 1979 to 1981, it was the first U.S. coin that honored a real, human female figure. (This was a few years before the Sacagawea “golden dollar.”) Susan B. Anthony was as brave and significant as any male president. She was a rebel, devoting her life to the anti-slavery and women’s suffrage movements—Look her up! She’s a total badass. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Yes, Dear, They Are Playing Our Songs Editor's Note: This essay is centered around the narrator's relationship with Albany, New York, state capital and college town. Designed as a mixtape-style EP with four tracks of liner notes, the narrator provides a glimpse into her first year as upstate New York resident and the rights of passage of a woman concluding her late 20's—hitting her stride within her profession, establishing a personal space, and celebrating a life of "single blessedness." “Local Girls” Graham Parker & The Rumour
I return to Albany after a 3-year attempt at domesticity in the Green Mountains. My “lost weekend” a failed experiment. Albany is the city where I grew up. I came here at eighteen—a baby-faced, anxiety-ridden college freshman. I left at 21 with my Master’s degree and mixed feelings. Now 28, I struggle to figure out where I fit in here—I am not a local and my academic days seem far behind me. I travel two to three weeks every month for work—Chicago. New York. Kansas City. Milwaukee. I’m that person who goes “let me check my schedule” before making commitments. People stop inviting you after a while. My apartment is an attempt to define the life of a working woman. An ecru couch and sisal rugs accent restored hardwood floors—only possible within a “no pets, no kids” lifestyle. Rich coffee-colored leather chairs designed for snow days with chai lattes served in hand-thrown pottery. Books stacked on every surface with my own particular logic ascribed their organization. A kitchen island for a desk, the butcher-block top spacious enough to accommodate the latest work assignment. It is my sanctuary. My female answer to the bachelor pad or man cave. I try to invent the feminine term, but all my suggestions sound like slang for vagina. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Banana Boy I ran from my locker and through the empty hallway to the dim nook housing the television studio. As I pushed through the door, a cackle exploded from Felicity*. She and Dorothy* were sprawled on the green corduroy sofa. This was my cue to immediately take the beaten up armchair and have Dorothy bring me up to speed on the latest story. The gossip had already begun, and this was essential knowledge—even if it made me squirm to think about it later.
If you had asked fifteen-year-old me to name the local master of sex, I would've said Felicity. Despite being a brain when it came to school subjects, I knew nothing about sex. I hadn't even had my first kiss yet. Felicity was just the opposite. Two years older than me, she was in danger of flunking out of high school. Yet she seemed to hold the key to the magical, mystical world of sex. My first semester sophomore year, Felicity was my oracle. That's why I tagged along with Dorothy to listen to Felicity's monologues before the first bell rang. Dorothy, a good friend, was in my grade and had met Felicity in an elective class. Dorothy was equally as clueless as I was. We looked up to Felicity because we could ask her anything without fear of judgement. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ladies In Love I read a remarkable article about how saying “I have a boyfriend” to deter unwanted sexual advances is counterproductive. The writer makes a good point of explaining why saying "I have a boyfriend" to ward off unwanted advances implies that you are “spoken for” as opposed to speaking for yourself. In the heat of rejecting strangers’ come-ons, I almost never contemplate the politics of what I’m saying. In that moment, I’m trying to diffuse the situation with a “whatever works” policy. I always thought of the "I have a boyfriend" excuse as a convenient half-truth since it’s not entirely false. An imposing stranger is hardly entitled to any answer, let alone a thoughtful and honest one, which would involve my elaborating upon my sexual orientation. And I admit it: I eventually started saying “I am a lesbian” after I learned the hard way that these abrasive guys mostly disregard what I now call the "girlfriend alibi."
If I tell the guy who won't leave me alone at a bar that I have a boyfriend and there are no men beside me, he’ll usually start talking about how “lucky” he is, how he isn’t there with me and doesn’t need to know, what kinds of food they'd like to eat out of my pants, etc. These lines are all pathetic attempts to convince me that I should choose this deluded crackerjack over my partner. Well, if the boyfriend alibi isn't that effective, the girlfriend alibi is even less effective. These strange men hardly ever accept that I’m with someone, let alone a female someone. But most of the time, an imaginary girlfriend simply doesn't work as well as an imaginary being that they imagine to have a penis. I have a feeling that if I were to tell these suitors about my girlfriend's penis, they would see me as more "weird" than "taken." They'd probably go on about how I haven't had "a real man" and why the live, in-the-flesh man in front of me is the perfect candidate to give me a taste of "authentic" man-meat. #cringecity Besides, to out my girlfriend would risk her life. Imagine an unfamiliar person telling you that they're in a relationship. Now, try to imagine asking them if they have sex together. I visualized this scenario and laughed because it reminds me of how children ask if you kiss your spouse. Let's face it: These guys are not asking me questions like that because they think that I might be asexual or because they have some kind of respectful intention like that. It's a rule of society that's not as unwritten as you think because it is, in fact, explicit. When someone tells you that they have a significant other, it's usually a polite way of saying "no thanks." Until monogamy stops being the norm, it's going to stay that way. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Burlesque Booty Queen Editor's Note: The following was originally an exclusive interview with Luna Luna Mag, but our friends there have been kind enough to let us republish their words with Jan Tina. Image: Michi R. Studio Rezin Hello, Jan Tina! Thank you so much for taking the time to talk with Luna Luna magazine.
Ok, so I’m going to be totally honest from the get-go. I saw you perform at #whatdatbootydo2 and I was blown away by your performance. And since then I’ve pretty much been lurking on your Facebook and taking notes. This is for a professional interview. I am notthat creepy! But I thought a disclaimer might be in order since some of the questions I have for you come directly from things I saw on Facebook. LYNSEY: So first question: are you totally freaked out by people lurking on your Facebook? (I really hope not.) JAN TINA: Not really…I have learned to look at lurkers as admirers. I am flattered actually! Thank you. LYNSEY: All right, now that the air is totally clear! Tell me about yourself, Jan Tina! I hear that you are originally from the Detroit area. What brought you to New York, and how long ago did you arrive? The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
How One Haircut Changed My Perspective On Girly By Kate Hickey QuailBellMagazine.com When I was twenty, I cut off all of my hair. Granted, I’d never had super long hair, but it usually fell to about my shoulders. But one day I walked into the salon, clippers were applied, and I walked out with my first pixie cut. It was a strange feeling. I’d never realized how much of my own personal femininity was bound up in my hair. Immediately, I felt as though I had to compensate for that femininity in ways I never had before. In those first few weeks without much hair, I learned a lot about make-up, blow-drying, and accessorizing—all things I’d never really given much thought to before, when I had girly hair. I’d never considered myself to be a particularly feminine person. I generally preferred pants to dresses (although that has changed…), didn’t wear a lot of make up, and chose comfort over style. But suddenly, with my safety net femininity blanket completely gone, I had some soul searching to do. The year I spent actively keeping my hair short was a time of personal growth. While I buzzed my hair down as far as I possibly could, I was figuring out a lot of things about myself. I wore more dresses. I bought nicer shoes. Most importantly, to me, I learned that I should focus my make-up on my lips rather than my eyes. I grew into a sense of style that was ultimately shaped and cradled by having short hair. Femininity is something that is a part of me in a way I can’t explain. Sure, I pick and choose which aspects of femininity are more or less important to me, but in general, I adhere to most of the standards. Realizing that femininity is a part of who I am made me feel better about doing things that I previously thought were “too girly”—like caring about clothes or liking the color pink. A lot of feminine things get a bad rap these days. For some reason, people have decided that it’s better to make bimbo jokes about put-together women than to take a moment to think about the role femininity plays in our society. I think it would be healthy if everyone out there who reads this takes a moment to think about something feminine you like. Something downright girly that makes you smile. And don’t be ashamed of it. #Real #Femininity #SelfLove #Hair #Buzzcuts #ShortHair #BodyImage #Womanhood #Feminism #Haircuts #Hairstyles Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Things You Must Start Doing By Your First Period Catch your first crimson wave? It’s time to put your grandma panties on and grow the fetch up. If you haven’t already accomplished these things, your life is basically over and no one will ever love you, except that mangy cat no one else would adopt and that girl at Sephora who’s paid to feed on your insecurities. (Seriously, someone tell me. Is my skin really beautiful or do I need primer? I’m so confused, Sephora girl.)
• Stop wearing full-coverage grandma panties, even on your period. You’re a total dirty slut if someone sees your panties on your period, but everyone can tell. It’s panty science. “Laundry day” isn’t real. Erase these words from your vocabulary or no one will ever love you. • Find a fattening ingredient to be allergic to. Gluten is a little passé, but like I said, you should’ve done this by now. If you admit you’re on a diet, no one will ever love you. • Look like you woke up airbrushed without makeup and shame everyone else for not being “natural.” Extra points if you post a #nomakeup selfie to IntaFaceTwit #innerbeauty #nofilter #flawless #boyslikeitnatural #Idontneedadermatologist #toobadifyoudontlooklikethis #insertcomplimentsandotherthingshere #TELLMEIMBEAUTIFUL #IknowImhot. If you act like you care about your appearance, no one will ever love you. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
You Have My Bow By Fay Funk QuailBellMagazine.com The year was 2001. I was eleven years old, and still very much a child. A dorky child at that. My uniform of a baggy yellow sweatshirt and too-long sweatpants complimented my lopsided mullet and crooked glasses perfectly. While my old elementary school friends were joining the basketball team and going on awkward first dates with boys, I was drawing myself as a Sailor Scout and listening to Linkin Park. The naughtiest thing I ever did was sneak into the TV room past midnight to watch Inuyasha. I was, without a doubt, the most non-sexual creature on the planet.
2001 was also the year the first Lord of the Rings live action movie came to theaters, and like any proper dork I went with a few of my equally dorky friends a few days after the release. With our parents as chaperones of course, since the movie was PG-13. I knew nothing about the Lord of the Rings going into the movie, but the enthusiastic squawking of all my friends told me that I was in for a treat. As the lights dimmed and the story of the One Ring began, I felt a tingling of excitement rush through my body. This was going to be awesome. It was so fucking boring. The hobbits didn’t do anything! They just bumbled around and hid from the bad guys. That’s all they did. Aragorn and Gandalf could at least fight the Nazgul, but after that all they did was brood sullenly and speak cryptically about what was coming, respectively. Super dull, the whole thing. I spaced out for most of the first half of the movie. By the Council of Elrond, I was ready for a nap. This movie was a huge waste of time. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Shit My (Non-biological) Kids Say I am what I like to call a “Professional Child.” I work with kids, and I take the business of play pretty seriously. My old boss used to love to say that we get paid to play, and the phrase has definite weight. I’m in the business of fun, but that doesn’t mean all I do is giggle and supervise. When working with such raw flows of imagination, shit can get real.
There was the time a grinning kindergartner who fancied himself clever drew 9/11—a plane crashing into the Twin Towers—during a game of Pictionary, and the time another child with golden brown skin asked me, “What’s white?” in reference to race. I’ve worked with kids wrestling with culture and gender identities, kids with autism and ADHD, adopted kids and kids with parents who won’t even look at each other anymore. Kids who fight non-stop with their siblings and kids who are dealing with the everyday struggles of figuring out what it means to be alive. I've worked at a couple of private schools in different cities, both in and out of the Bay Area. Being in such close proximity to some of the most liberal and progressive minds around, you'd expect a Bay Area private school to be extraordinarily forward minded—and you would be far from disappointed at the phenomenal way some of the societal issues that accompany race, gender and sexuality are taught there. Other schools I've taught at desperately need to reimagine what an inclusive community looks like however. This past summer I returned to an old camp I used to work for out of love for my kids and coworkers. It's a camp at a school with so many aspects that I love; a school that has extended arms of graceful acceptance and I have returned that kindness with gratitude for my employment. Unfortunately though, frank discussions about the social constructs is not among the aspects that I can claim takes place there. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Too Busy of a Bird By Naomi Yung QuailBellMagazine.com My friend and her boyfriend are extremely devoted, despite going to two separate schools, an hour away from each other. It amazes me, really, because I don’t see how anyone has the time to commute to a different city. I tell her that if I was ever in a relationship with someone who went to a different school, I probably wouldn’t have the motivation to visit them every day. “I’m busy,” I would say. And it’s true. I would be busy. “I’m tired,” I’d say. And it’s true. I would be tired. And she tells me, “Well then, if you’re always too tired or too busy to go and visit them, then you probably don’t actually want to be in a relationship with them, and you’re not committed enough.” And I nod, because it’s true. I’m a noncommittal person, and it makes me disappointed that I can’t be any more than that. I know that the time will come, however, when I will actually want to commit myself, and it scares me that the feeling will not be reciprocated. In my mind’s eye, I will have been dating them for about a month, and I will be foolishly in love with them. And then one day I will ask them if they want to visit me, and there will be a thread of déjà-vu running through my head that my brain does not grasp until much later when they say, “I’m busy.” #Real #Love #Commitment #Relationships #Sex #Dating #LDRs #Boyfriends #Girlfriends #CollegeRelationships #TooBusy Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hemingway and Fitzgerald in Equal Measure I first met Leonard Michaels when I was an undergraduate at UC/Berkeley. He was hunched over his desk, surrounded by untamed heaps of papers and books, a pen hovering over a manuscript. The room felt airless and hot. Still new to California, I stood before the light pouring in through the windows with something like awe. He looked up, face partially obscured by his longish, black hair. “Mr. Michaels,” I said, “I would like to take your fiction writing class…” He sat up, spoke fast, in a scattershot manner…about the amount of work he still had to do, a meeting that afternoon, his damn classes, the screenplay he was supposed to write. Then he extended his hand and asked to see my work. I handed him a five-page short story I had been working and reworking for months in preparation for this moment. As he read the first paragraph, he crossed out words, circled others, furiously wrote in the margin. Then he handed it back to me. He told me to read Chekhov, Kafka, and Isaac Babel and try him again next semester. I walked out demoralized, staring at the first page of my story. “Use active verbs,” he had written, “watch adv.,” “syntax prob.,” “redundant adj.,” “abstract lang.,” “rhythm prob.” He had read only five sentences, but hardly a word was unmarked with blue ink.
Although I did end up getting into his writing class the next semester, I almost learned more from that first brief interaction with Leonard Michaels than I did from his class. The way he deconstructed that one paragraph opened my eyes to a new world. No one had ever looked at my writing so closely, with a jeweler’s eye, attentive to every minute decision, weighing the importance of every syllable. So this is how real writers view prose? I thought. In a way, Michaels set the bar for me. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Hollywood Infected David Lynch's Brain David Lynch is one of the few directors whose films you can talk endlessly about. Something I've often discovered about certain movie directors and their movies is that there comes a point where you can't keep talking about the movie. You can talk about your opinion about the movie with other people, but the analysis comes to an end. You can deconstruct every shot, every line spoken, every bit of subtext and symbolism present, and fully realize the film so you never have to think about it again. There comes a point where you've come to understand the movie, and you can turn your attention to other matters. Some directors make films so strange and out there that it almost becomes impossible to push it aside because you need time and multiple viewings to see fi you can figure out what's really going on.
Lynch isn't the only director who continues to inspire discussion long after you've seen the movie once (see also: Alejandro Jodorowsky, Luis Buñuel, Gaspar Noé, and more), but he's probably the most popular example. My first exposure to David Lynch was watching Mulholland Drive in a film theory class during my freshman year of college. After watching the movie, my teacher told the class “you have one week to figure out what the hell that movie was about.” Unfortunately, no one had a definite answer, but there was still plenty to discuss when we next met because the film left enough to discuss. Mulholland Drive has a fairly simple start, albeit one that takes on some weird qualities as the film progresses. A woman (Laura Elena Harring) is in a car accident after an assassination attempt on Mulholland Drive in Los Angeles. She stumbles out of the wreckage and makes her way to an apartment that is being looked after by an aspiring actress named Betty (Naomi Watts). Betty learns that the woman, now dubbed Rita, has lost her memory, and is determined to help Rita figure out who she is. To add further complications, Rita's purse only contains thousands of dollars in cash, a strange blue key, and no other form of identification. While Betty and Rita attempt to figure out who Rita really is, a director named Adam (Justin Theroux) deals with some intimidating gangsters who are set on having him cast a woman named Camilla Rhodes in his next film, The Sylvia North Story. Adam goes through the worst day ever because of this, discovering his wife having an affair, having his staff fired, having his credit declined, leaving him a complete mess through all of this. Adam's story continues to get worse until he has an important meeting with a cowboy, at which he finally has to compromise and hire Camilla Rhodes. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Fairies? Aliens? Who knows! It ain’t easy being green, especially when the strange villagers who find you find you next to a pit once used to trap animals. They look at your weird clothes (perhaps fashioned out of leaves and meadowgrass) and hear a foreign language completely different from their provincial English. Coupled with your green skin and general bewilderment, there's little chance that they would take you for a human creature.
In the 12th century, the legendary Green Children of Woolpit found themselves in that same predicament when they were discovered on the outskirts of Woolpit in Suffolk, England. The folklore surrounding the Green Children of Woolpit began either during the reign of King Stephen or Henry II. The town's modern name derives from a linguistic corruption of the original name (“Wolfpittes”), stemming from the ancient pits that people used to capture wolves when they still inhabited England. The two unusual children (one girl and one boy) were disoriented and crying from starvation and confusion. Fortunately, Sir Richard de Caine of Wilkes gave them a home. Despite being famished, the children refused to eat anything the adults tried to feed them. As options dwindled, Sir Richard's servants presented the children with freshly-reaped beanstalks. The children instantly brightened and lived off of beans from thereon. The girl eventually welcomed the foreign foods the adults introduced into her diet and lost her green skin. But her brother couldn’t diversify his diet and retained his green complexion. He grew more melancholic and depressed with each passing day until he died. Yet his sister lived on to learn English and assumed the name “Agnes Barre." She also married a royal ambassador and lived with him in Norfolk. Rumor has it that their neighbors thought that Agnes Barre’s behavior was "wanton." The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
"Sí” and “Aye," Entwined I remember sitting in my sixth grade classroom poised to take a standardized test. My big, curly hair sat in a high ponytail. My light olive hand clutched a pencil. The florescent lights might as well have been a spotlight. Before the test began, I was faced with every multicultural child's fear: the question of choosing my race or ethnicity.
My mother hails from El Salvador and my father is not too many generations removed from the Orricks who ventured from Scotland to Cumberland, Maryland in the 1800s. That would make me Salvadorian-Scottish-American, a Hispanic white-mestizo mix. But that's rarely an option on such surveys and it certainly wasn't in the year 2000. A more accurate survey would allow users to select "Hispanic" as an ethnicity and then something else as a race. There are plenty of black and white Hispanics, for example, not just mestizos—people of mixed European and Amerindian descent, the race that describes most Latin Americans. Of course, mestizo is virtually never an option. When it is, the word is usually lumped in with “Hispanic.” Not that I'm the biggest fan of such a prying question in the first place, but if you're going to ask it, at least lay out all the possible choices. As a Salvadorian-Scottish-American, the issue of “choice” is first in my mind these days. In print, on the airwaves, and online, the debates on how to handle the mass immigration of Central American children into the United States and whether Scotland should vote for independence seem to speak directly with my rational and emotional sides. And both of those sides believe that the Scotts and Central Americans deserve the power of choice. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Carrie Bradshaw's Hypothetical OKCupid Profile shoeslover
32 • F •New York, NYMy self-summary: I'm a lifelong Upper East Sider. Though I grew up in Connecticut, we all know life begins when you move to New York. Like any New Yorker, I'm better at making reservations than I am at making toast. I write a column for The New York Star and I've written two books. What I'm doing with my life: What does every Upper East Sider do with her life? I love shopping, Sunday brunch with my best girlfriends, parties, sample sales and going out to dinner. I'm really good at: Running in high heels, making headlines and being a good friend. I'm good at some other stuff too, but you'll have to take me on a date to find that out ;) The first things people usually notice about me: What I'm wearing and my curly blonde hair. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Not Crisp But Cool Producers/Stylists: Shannon Minor, Amy Gatewood and Lindsey Story Photographer: Shannon Minor Model: Angela Poreda QuailBellMagazine.com The witching hour of summer means the advent of autumn. Rejoice, fairy punks, rejoice. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
¡A celebrar!It's National Hispanic Heritage Month, a time to recognize the achievements of Hispanic leaders and communities across the United States. We're kicking it off with this original illustration: #Real #NationalHispanicHeritageMonth #HispanicHeritage #HispanicPride #HispanicCulture #Latinos #Diversity #Fall Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Shamelessly Being Who You Are Looks Like Fun By Kate Hickey QuailBellMagazine.com You might remember Mary Lambert from Macklemore and Ryan Lewis’s hit “Same Love” in 2012. She sang the beautiful, haunting chorus that truly pulled that song together. She, along with Macklemore and Ryan Lewis, made a difference in Washington state’s Referendum 74, which legalized same-sex marriage that year. Since then, Macklemore and Ryan Lewis have rocketed into superstardom, but Mary Lambert was a bit left behind.
Not anymore. Her music video for her single “Secrets” debuted at the end of July and has since gained over two million views on YouTube. Most of Lambert’s other work is slow, serious, and quiet, but this song is an upbeat jam, something anybody would love to play at a party to get people dancing. You could definitely leave the song at that and continue on with your life, but if you look a little deeper, the song becomes so much more. In this song, Mary Lambert tells us all of her secrets. She tells us the silly, the absurd, the sensitive, and the sad parts of her that anybody would be inclined to hide from the world. She opens the song with the lyrics: “Okay. Game face. Here we go.” In this deep breath before the plunge, you can feel that this song, and Mary Lambert, are going to be one hundred percent honest with the audience. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Preciousness of HealthEditor's Note: This piece originally appeared on The Huffington Post. You who have only known good health gaze in the mirror to bemoan your looks. You decide your hair is too thin or dull. You think your slightly yellowed teeth disgust rather than invite. You fret over freckles and squint at other tiny imperfections until they're bloated and staggering in your mind's eye. You obsess over the nonessential because the essential is a given. Even though it's tap-dancing and clanging cymbals, you do not see Good Health. It is routine and therefore invisible.
When you are sick, you notice good health like you notice a cascade flowing in the desert. You see good health when your cough won't go away. You see good health when pain holds your whole body captive. You see good health when you are too weak to feed yourself. You see good health when you cannot walk because your feet or legs or brain won't let you. You see good health when your wrists burn too hot to type. You see good health when you cannot sleep, night after night. You see good health when you admit, perhaps through tears or screams, that you do not control your body, the whole or its parts. You see good health—aglow and glorious—on your deathbed in whatever company you may keep during those last moments. It is then that everyone seems ruddy, jovial, and especially alive, even if they are in fact sallow and grieving. You also see good health when someone you love knows poor health. A heart attack. Cancer. AIDs. Something yet unknown and for which a cure cannot even be imagined. But poor health in a stranger? Such a disease or condition might as well be an urban legend. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The 9/11 and Iraq War Generation The footage of 9/11 is still one of the most frightening visuals that I have ever seen. I have only seen the full footage once, in a classroom setting, about five years after the day. I cannot bear to watch it again. On September 11th, 2001, I was 11 years old. Now I am a teacher to middle school students. My students are the same age I was that fateful day and they were all born after 9/11. One day my peers and I will be the last generation alive that remembers America before 9/11. We will be the last living Americans who can recall exactly what 9/11 was like from a child's perspective.
At the time of the first plane crash, I was waiting at a bus stop in Virginia Beach, Virginia. I went through the entire school day without hearing a single mention of what had happened. Once I got back home, my mother and brother greeted me with the news. I didn't understand what was going on. Well, to be exact, I understood the facts, but I did not understand the gravitas of the situation. To me, an act of war was a commonplace thing, having grown up seeing footage of domestic terrorism and bombings in other countries almost every evening on NBC. This just seemed like another one. As the week rolled on, I understood why it was such a horrifying event to everyone else but me. This was an attack on us. 9/11 is what taught me that there was a difference. It's hard to wrap my mind around that concept as an adult, but until 9/11 I had no national pride or sense of community with other Americans. I just thought that we all lived on Earth. When my classmates and I asked our teachers why we were attacked, the answer was simple: "They were jealous of our freedom." I ate that up. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Picking Out School Clothes I was upset that my mom left to work without laying out my school clothes. She always left them at the foot of my bed. Huffing and puffing, I looked around the room and under my bed, but they weren't there. Then I heard three voices coming from my parent's bedroom next door: my Dad's, the reporter on the television, and my Mom's.
Thank God Mom is still here. Maybe she isn't going to work. Maybe I can fake sick to stay home with her today. With my best fake cough and sick face I made a grand entrance into my parents room...but they didn't notice me. Their eyes were glued to the TV. I coughed again. Shock and awe...at the TV that is. What are they looking at? I walked over to my parents so that I could see the TV. Two burning buildings and the words "Terrorist Attacks" flashed across the screen. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Then Something Bad Sort of Happened Before the sort of bad thing happened, I believed that I was the kind of woman to whom sort of bad things didn’t happen. After all, I am clever, white, and a feminist, but not so much of a feminist that that it’s off-putting. Like, I’m just barely enough of a feminist to get published on this site, so please do not hold that against me in the comments. Plus, I am middle class and have been to college, which is statistically proven to prevent not only sort of bad things, but also absolutely horrible things and even minor inconveniences.
Now I have established that I am very much like you and thus deserving of your empathy, unlike people who are not like you, and can proceed tell you more about the thing that happened, since you only clicked this link to see if the thing that happened to me was actually all that bad. When the thing I’m about to describe happened, I was younger than I am now because it happened in the past. It happened partially due my own naivety but also for other reasons that are obvious to you. Be sure to list them in the comments below. It was absolutely horrible and possibly sort of sexual. Pretend that here I have sketched in graphic detail the exact sequence of events in excruciating detail. Now you are free to skim the rest of the article or close this window entirely, since you only clicked this link to read exactly how the sort of bad thing went down. But trust me, I did not enjoy experiencing the horrible thing you’ve just kind of creepily enjoyed reading about. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Days and Nights in South Ashkelon Editor's Note: This piece first appeared on Woman Around Town. Pictured: Sarah Sullivan, Ali Somer, and Daniel Gavens. In the hazy early-morning light, we could barely see our patient. He lay fifteen feet down in a construction pit of loose rocks, broken and moaning with his leg twisted unnaturally under him. Our ambulance team—Moti the senior paramedic, Gavy the senior EMT, and Danel and I the junior EMTs—glanced at each other anxiously. The injured man below us was barely conscious and gasping for air—a result of hemopneumothorax, a trauma injury where blood and air rushes into the pleural space and collapses the lung. This should have been a call for theNatan, the Mobile ICU, and not the regular ambulance patrolling fractured hips and diabetic syncope.
Danel and I rushed to the ambulance for the backboard while Moti and Gavy climbed a rickety ladder down into the pit. A few minutes later Moti surfaced, his dark hair slicked with sweat. “That guy’s in bad shape,” he said gravely. “We need to get him out of there stat, but he’s too heavy to lift up the ladder on the backboard.” A soft groan came from the pit. “Call the bulldozer over!” Moti directed. Danel and I passed the backboard and supplies down the ladder while the bulldozer slowly lowered its jaws five, ten, twelve feet down into the pit. Gavy and Moti hurriedly strapped our patient to the backboard and on the count of three lifted him into the jaws of the bulldozer. Gavy climbed in next to our patient and yelled, “Raise us up!” |
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