What the F Issue 21 by What the F Magazine

Staff Sophia Jacobs Cielle Waters-Umfleet Aditi Kannan Elizabeth Schriner Elya Kaplan Huda Shulaiba Jacob Flaherty Maria Wuerker Melissa Dash Michelle Wu Natalia Szura Ruchita Coomar Jessica Burkle Hayleigh Proskin Ariana Shaw Adriana Alcala Calin Firlit Cammie Treiber Hanna Smith Regina Egan

President Editor-In-Chief Assistant Editor Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Staff Writer Art Director Assistant Art Director Assistant Art Director Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist Staff Artist

Kendall Lauber Livvy Hintz Jill Graham Lily Jankowiak

Design Manager Designer Designer Designer

Emily Bedolis Emma Keer Nia Saxon Olivia Arguello

Social Media Director, Photographer Social Media Staff Social Media Staff Social Media Staff

Claire Bletsas Ella Kotcher Isabel Clayter Sydney Bauer

Blog Editor Blog Staff Blog Staff Blog Staff

JJ Wright Angie Knight

Events Director Events Coordinator

Lindsey Smiles Makena Torrey

Marketing Director Marketing Staff

Maria Marginean

Website Manager

What the F

is a non-partisan, non-profit publication operated by students at the University of Michigan. What the Fâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;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 in our community and in campus discussion.

WTF

Issue 21 December 2020

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Letter from the Editor Sh*t Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Afraid to Ask My Doctor Silence

The Ottoman Perpetrators: Our Infection, Contagion, and Genocide The Reception An Econ Majorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Survival Guide for Eating Disorders Head in the Clouds Life With Lupus: A Chronic Illness Story If You Love Me, Let Me Go How To Survive a Boring Zoom Call Surviving Like My Grandfather Riding the Radiowaves, Music as a Liferaft Posterity Credits

funny, fresh, fierce, feminist, fuck!

Letter from the Editor

Welcome to What The F, your feminist periodical!

Wow. What a year. If you’re reading this, congratulations, you made it! In just one year, we’ve fought our way through threats of war, climate disasters, a contentious election cycle, and, of course, a killer virus. Given all that’s happened, the fact that you’re here, reading this magazine, is an accomplishment in itself. Issue 21 stands as a testament to the commitment and dedication of our staff, guest contributors, and loyal readers in putting together and enjoying our magazine. I’d like to take a moment to reflect on all that’s happened in What The F-land this year. Early this calendar year, our organization became a part of University Arts Council (UAC), which provides us with much-appreciated funding and recognition. We even won the Staff Choice Award in the spring for our work! Everything was virtual by then, but that didn’t stop us. Later, the Black Lives Matter protests rising up across the nation inspired us to revamp our image and make ourselves more welcoming to people of all identities. Once the school year started, we even welcomed a new team: the blog! (Shout out to Claire for being our pioneer!) Also, the finance team became Marketing, thanks to UAC’s generous support. We then welcomed more than a dozen new members to our team, along with guest contributors for this issue. In light of our achievements, though, I would like to acknowledge all of those who didn’t survive. As of writing this letter, the U.S. is approaching a quarter million COVID deaths, making this pandemic already the fourth-largest massdeath event in the country’s history. This summer also saw the murder of dozens of Black citizens by police as calls for abolition mounted. ICE is still separating children from their parents after immigrating and holding them in deplorable and moreover, highly secretive conditions, and an untold number have died there. Beyond our borders, Yemen is currently facing one of the worst humanitarian crises in modern times, with millions suffering extreme famine. I may have the privilege of writing this from an identity not directly impacted by the aforementioned events, but I stand with those who are. I feel I speak for What The F staff when I say I refuse to remain blind to the problems of our world. It’s become cliché to say it, but it remains vitally true that silence only benefits the oppressor. Within these (virtual) pages, our writers and artists boldly share their stories of survival. Sitting on the sidelines is not an option for their varied topics, ranging from illness, generational survival, music, heteronormativity, and even boring Zoom calls. If you’ve made it this far, either in the magazine or in life, the only option is to keep going. Thank you for joining us as we ride the rollercoaster that is 2020 and take a journey through this issue. Together, we are stronger. Together, we will survive. In solidarity,

Cielle Waters-Umfleet Editor-in-Chief

SH*T I’M AFRIAD TO ASK MY DOCTOR

sexually transmitted infections

By Melissa Dash

News flash: people have sex, and along with sex comes diseases! STIs are much more common than most of us think. Whether you’re engaging in vaginal, oral, or anal sex, these microbial friends oftentimes come along for the ride. It’s expected that at least half of the sexually active people reading this right now will be diagnosed with an STI at some point in their lifetime. While for some, it may feel crazy to think about being in the positive half of that statistic, know you’re not alone. There are nearly 20 million new STI diagnoses in the U.S. each year, but most are treatable and many are curable, provided you know where to start. Whether you have many partners, only a few, one, or none at all, STIs happen. These infections don’t discriminate on the basis of gender, sex, sexual orientation, or expression, so anyone can be affected. So, if we know that these infections are always a risk, we may as well learn a little more about what we can do to prevent them (to the best of our ability). This STI mini sex-ed course will detail a few of the most common infections out there. But it is important to remember that this is not an exhaustive list of all the little guys that can hang out down there. There are 30+ known sexually transmitted infections out and about infecting millions of people. Here’s what you need to know about the most common contagions.

untreated in the internal reproductive system, chlamydia and gonorrhea can spread to the uterus and Fallopian tubes. This may lead to Pelvic Inflammatory Disease (PID), which can cause permanent damage. If untreated in the external reproductive system, these infections can spread to the testicles, causing epididymitis. Both PID and epididymitis may cause infertility or sterility, which is why it is super important to get checked out if you start showing symptoms.

Bacterial Infections: Chlamydia, Gonorrhea, and Syphilis The odds are fairly high that you or someone you know has been diagnosed with a bacterial STI. They are incredibly common, especially among the younger demographics. Three common bacterial STIs are chlamydia, gonorrhea, and syphilis. All three infections are caused by skin-to-skin contact with an infected individual. The bacteria is transmitted through oral, vaginal, or anal sex. Bacterial infections are especially tricky, because most people who have them never show symptoms. But for those who do, this is what to look out for. Symptoms Chlamydia & Gonorrhea: In the external reproductive system, which includes the penis, there is often burning or increased frequency with urination, penile discharge, burning or itching around the penile opening, or pain and swelling in the testicles. In the internal reproductive system, which includes the vagina, burning with urination is also common, as well as abnormal vaginal discharge, pain during penetrative sex, and specifically in gonorrhea, spotting between periods. In anal infections, present symptoms may include anal itching, discharge, or pain during bowel movements. If

Syphilis differs from other bacterial infections because its symptoms occur in three stages, although they have the tendency to overlap with one another. Syphilis appears in the primary stage in the form of a firm, round, and painless sore around the genitals or anus. The secondary stage shows a transition from sores to rashes on the hands or feet. These rashes normally last for two to six weeks at a time and can come and go for up to two years. Lastly, if untreated, syphilis can enter the tertiary stage. If the infection lasts this long, serious medical complications are likely to occur. This can involve tumors, blindness, damage to the nervous system, and in some cases, death. Testing & Treatment The good news is, bacterial infections are detected and treated relatively easily. For chlamydia and gonorrhea, doctors take a urine sample to test for the diseases. When testing for syphilis, there are two different methods that may be used. Health care professions either perform a quick blood test or swab fluid from a syphilis sore. Since bacterial infections have the potential for serious long-term effects and also rarely show symptoms, it is recommended that sexually active individuals under the age of 25 get tested for these STIâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s yearly. If caught early on, chlamydia, gonorrhea, and syphilis are all easily treated with a prescription for antibiotics. Once the course of antibiotics is completed, you can get back in the game!

Viral Infections: The Four Hs Herpes, HPV, Hep B, and HIV: four sexually transmitted infections that not only sound alike but act pretty similarly, as well. Like bacterial, viral infections can transmit orally, vaginally, and anally. These are some of the most common STIs in the world, infecting millions of young adults annually. Since it’s currently impossible to cure a viral infection, some of these diseases can last a lifetime. That being said, people who become infected still have many options to help manage and lesson the following symptoms. Symptoms Herpes appears in two forms, HSV-1 and HSV-2. HSV-1, known more commonly as oral herpes, is transmitted by oral contact, either with another’s mouth or genitals. HSV-2, or genital herpes, is transmitted through sexual intercourse. The most common symptoms for both strains of the virus are sores or fever blisters on either the genitals or the mouth. Sores may never appear, but when they do, they usually show up within 2-20 days of infection. These bumps may be itchy or painful, and tend to appear on the genitals, anus, or inner thighs. People either have just one or repeated outbreaks throughout their lifetime, but outbreaks tend to decrease over time. Technically, herpes is always contagious. While the virus can spread at any time, it is far more likely during an active outbreak.

are normally no symptoms at all or only mild illness. If untreated, acute Hep B leads to the lifelong infection known as chronic Hepatitis B. This can cause health problems such as liver damage or cancer, cirrhosis, or death. HIV, the last of the Hs, often shows zero symptoms for years. People with HIV may feel feverish, achy, or sick within the first month of infection. These symptoms are short-lived and only recur years later. HIV affects a wide variety of individuals and is not only limited to members of the LGBTQ + community. Both Hep B and HIV can spread through non-sexual activities, such as drug use. It is important to note that each of these infections are highly contagious and can still be transmitted during asymptomatic periods. All individuals who are diagnosed with these infections can still live normal and fulfilling lives, regardless of a positive test result.

HPV, or human papillomavirus, often presents itself as warts around the genitals or anus. These bumps, normally skin-colored or whitish, are easily treatable with topical creams. Surgery is sometimes used to remove larger warts. These Testing & Treatment warts are either small or large, raised or flat, just one or in a cluster. If HPV is left untreated, it may Herpes, Hepatitis B and HIV are all detected cause complications such as genital warts in blood tests. While HPV doesn’t have its own and cancer. test, the infection can be noticed if an individual develops cervical cancer. Antibiotics cannot cure Hepatitis B tends to show up anywhere between viral infections, but a variety of medications two and five weeks after exposure. It can take are available to lessen both the effects and the form of mild flu-like symptoms, dark urine, contagion of symptoms. For Herpes, Hepatitis jaundice, and fever. In acute Hepatitis B, there

B, and HIV, antiviral medications are available to help infected individuals live long, healthy lives. Vaccines are available for both HPV and Hep B. You probably received these vaccines as a young child, and they’re incredibly effective in preventing infection. In HIV, pre-exposure prophylaxis (or PrEP) is a daily pill that those at a high risk of contracting the virus can take to prevent infection. Post-exposure prophylaxis (or PEP), is a short course of medicines taken soon after a possible HIV exposure to prevent the virus from staying in the body. Even without a cure, living with a viral STD doesn’t have to ruin your life. However, it’s important to seek testing and treatment if you think you may be infected to prevent long-term injury.

Conclusion After learning about all the potential risks of STI’s, it’s natural to feel a little apprehensive about engaging in sexual activity. What’s important to remember is that having sex is OK! And more seriously, sex should be enjoyable! Yes, STIs are crazy common, but they’re often easily treatable. Even though these infections tend to pose little threat to most people, it’s important to engage in safe sex practices in order to prevent infection. Communicating with your partner(s) is key before ANY sexual activity. Some questions you can ask may be, what is your sexual history? Or, when was the last time you were tested? These topics may feel uncomfortable to bring up, but the long-term benefits of asking make those 30 seconds of awkwardness worth it. Also, use a condom, a dental dam, or any other barrier protection relevant to the sexual act you’re engaging in. While these barrier methods of contraception aren’t bulletproof, they are a great tool in reducing the risk of infection. Remember, oral, vaginal, and anal sex toys can spread diseases, too! Proper sanitization of these products is a must before use. And lastly, get tested regularly. College students (hint, hint) are at the highest age risk for these infections and often never show symptoms. If you are sexually active, consider getting tested annually. Oftentimes symptoms lie dormant, and it never hurts to know what’s going on down there. And if your test does yield a positive result, that’s OK, too! “STI’” is not a dirty word, and it is certainly not something to be ashamed of. Your body is yours to do with what you want, and for many, that means sex. However, the only way to stay safe is to take prevention into your own hands. Fight the stigma and turn those uncomfortable conversations into the new norm. Now go have fun (safely)!

I cupped its body, walking to my garage. I placed it down on the concrete grounding, the spidering cracks in the floor supporting the makeshift paper towel bed. Stiffness crept up the small figure, its talons tensing, its wings stilling, its breath tightening. I ran inside, searching for anything to counteract the all-consuming, three-beat quiet. Instead, I found my mom. I led her outside to my rapidly dissipating being. There, we were met with an empty white paper towel. Left behind was only the riddling of three blood drops. One, two, three.

“What if no one ever wants to know me?” One dreary night in March, I found myself in our college apartment facing the musings of my roommate in the midst of a global pandemic. The dim glow of fairy lights dotted our walls, with an ugly, black leather couch pressed against the wall. An old TV sat across from the black couch, with a wooden table dividing the cramped walkway. “No one wants to get to know you?” I laughed. It was a weird dismissal that felt more comfortable than searching for the words I didn’t have. I glanced over at her, hidden in our sunken, yellowed armchair. Her wiry arms shot up in exasperation, her head falling back. Wren was like a fawn, her slender neck extending gracefully into her jawline. Her iron eyes overwhelmed, always distant, always edging the cusp of wandering too far. She locked eyes with me. I wonder what she saw. My mundane, black eyes had a tendency of losing everyone that peered in. Quickly, a remote expression paralyzed her face. “Aren’t you scared? No one ever knowing you?” she questioned. My response was instant, the words quickly shot up my throat, a reckless, violent cannon of ideas now encircling our silence. “Sometimes there’s just nothing to know.” For a month, I found myself mourning the words I didn’t have. Our three-room apartment closed us in, with only our shared bedrooms and a living room to migrate to and from. Quarantine for COVID-19 seemed to dig in its heels, further entrenching us

into a familiar lull of isolation. Everyday seemed to follow an odd regimen: wake up, shower, study, homework, quiet, then sleep. Our apartment was generally home to noise. Online lectures pervaded our everyday, pans rang while cooking on our gas stove, and the conversations of our roommates and friends echoed off our walls. Yet, it was in our moments of quiet where we created space for ourselves, for variance, for wandering. We spent these moments together, finding ourselves on our couch, wine warming our bellies as we strung words into memories. “I hate men,” Wren said one Saturday. I looked over, a grin breaking into my face. “Yea? Me, too. Guys fucking suck.” She sighed through wine-washed teeth, her face illuminated by the dull glow of a phone screen. She stopped scrolling abruptly and turned her phone towards me. “Look.” Her slowed, drunken breath glazed the air as she awaited my assessment. I scanned the photo, which showed only a chest. Olive-toned skin stretched over sharp collarbones, from which a strong neck shot upward. It was Wren. Only, the olive skin of her neck was dotted purple, dots multiplying into splatters of blues and purple bruising her chest.

E L

One, two, three. Silence. One, two, three. For three seconds, the world wound itself around the breaths of a dying fowl. The violent upheaval of its chest continued like clockwork, sporadically devouring its three seconds, only to lull to the silence shortly after. Stillness passed, only for the bird to once more be consumed by its desperate will to continue. One, two, three. Its black eyes were hollowed with irremediability. Up, down, shaky breath, silence. One, two, three. Nothing. Lumpy, matted clumps of feathers pointed to a gash on its chest. Claw marks. The frail body lay astrew, its wing disheveled, its torso blood ridden. I wrapped the bird in a small paper towel, blood slick like oil staining my fingers. For an instant, I felt the weak flit of its wings against my palm. Once more, and then its body collapsed into silence. My fingers became host to a periodic fight against breath, a one, two, three. The small figure lent me its warmth, my hands tingling with the sensation of energy fighting its own cessation.

“What asked.

happened?”

She looked back. “I don’t remember. Men happened.” My eyes scoured hers. Her green iron eyes glinted with hurt only for a moment, only to be replaced with a keen cognizance of my examination moments later. Her palms rested on her ribs, her hands clutched around her body. “Are you okay?” I asked, my words far and unreaching. She continued scrolling aimlessly through her phone, my question fizzling into the silence.

Our days marched on, blanketed with the ordinary. Days bled into weeks as our routines intertwined with one another. Wake up, shower, study, homework, quiet, and sleep. “Will we ever get out of here?” I asked Wren one night, nestled into the cushions of our couch. She swirled her glass intermittently. “Not any time soon.” After the silence, she smiled, promptly before disappearing into her room. She returned with a small baggie, no larger than the size of her thumbs, with which she signaled a thumbs up. “Want to?” she offered. “I’m okay, but I want to know how it feels. Tell me, and it’s a maybe for later,” I responded through slurred words. She nodded in agreement, Clorox-wiping our table before tapping the powdery white substance out. She swept her credit card through the substance, dividing it into three crooked lines. She bent over, a sharp breath in—when she stood up, the powder was gone, snuffed away. Her brown hair draped messily over her eyes, and her soft pink nose reddened. I looked at her, her eyes emboldened, a new sense of presence overtaking her.

A night of endless stories ensued. I had never heard Wren talk for so long. I never knew how her voice sounded wrapped around the climax of an old memory or in the uprooted laughter once deep-seeded in her belly. She looked at me, staring through me. Her eyes bulged with a contrived sense of intimacy, the gleam of her eyes dimmed and remote. “I missed talking to you,” Wren said, her cheeky smile overtaking her cheeks. “I miss you, too, Wren.” Our days looked a little different from that day onward. Our routine welcomed a new guest, a growing pile of white

powder. Small baggies collected in our garbage, and Wren seemed further subdued, softened by soft powder. Her olive skin paled, her body thinning from anxiety and her newly suppressed appetite. A month passed, and I found myself in the same sunken seat of our yellow armchair, Wren cutting up again, the tap, tap, tap, one, two, three of her card hitting the table. “See you soon,” she said. Her head quickly resurfaced, a white powder covering the septum of her nose. She looked at me, her eyes glassy and her face paled. She rocked back and forth with no words. “How are you feeling?” I asked. Wren shifted her face towards me, her eyes empty. I studied at her, waiting for the onslaught of this Wren, the one who found it easier to be known at a distance. Silence embedded itself into the gaps where I looked for her. I searched my mind for ways to coax this quiet. Abruptly, the whites of her eyes voicelessly shrieked, rolling violently to the back of her head. Her arms stiffened, spasmodically beating against her chest. All the while, silence levied itself in the air, winding itself around Wren’s strained breaths. One, two, three. “Wren, please, oh my God, Wren, please.” One, two, three, silence. An hour lapsed before she woke up in the emergency room of the children’s hospital. I refused to leave her, even to go to the bathroom. I feared if I left, I would come back to an empty room. The walls were a sterile white, wires spidering themselves up the confines of the room. I stared at her in desperation, hunched forward in my seat. She weakly looked back, glancing downwards at the chalky blanket which enveloped her. The resident doctor came in, briefing her for details. “What substances did you ingest? How long was the seizure? Have you experienced seizure-like activity before? Do you have issues with substance abuse?” Methodically, Wren travelled down the list, satisfying the resident doctor enough for him/her to leave shortly after. She leaned back in the small hospital bed, white paper crinkling beneath her as she shifted in her spot. Silence swaddled the room as we waited. I sat determinedly, for this time I would find the words I had struggled with before. Wren held her palm against her chest, her fingers whitened with the weight she applied against herself. She took a sharp breath, silence shattering like glass in the room. “When I was gone, when I was seizing, I wasn’t there. I was somewhere else,” Wren said. Her eyes gathered wells, glimmering in the droplets dragging down her face. “I didn’t feel like I was here. You guys were watching. I was with him.” She clutched her mouth as her chest violently heaved. Her choked sobs ricocheted off the white walls of our small room. And so I held her, her body trembling against my own. “I felt his hands on me. I will never not feel his hands on me.” Her eyes, once hollowed with irremediability, glinted in redress to her untimely return. For once, I stared back resolutely.

By Nayri Carman

[miasin ] Armenian, meaning “together” The first fog of death slinks through the village death seeps into rivers, wilting and writhing until painted with ribbons of ruby pomegranate wine Bitterly blended with baptismal blood. Sasoun is next. We gather in traditional white dance clothes. We link pinkies and surround the young drummer boy. He sets the beat with small palms on soft calfskin We begin our dance: the dance of the Armenians. We hear the song of our ancestors. We taste the hamov hodov khorovadz and medzmama’s kufte Sweet and tangy spices bubbling on our tongues. We feel the kiss of our mothers on freshly stubbled cheeks And the anticipation of an overturned cup of soorg a book in coffee grounds, waiting to be read. We hear the melody of our language: soft rolling r’s of gently sprawling mountains harsh kh cuts in jagged stone of monasteries carved from cliffs where G-d’s voice soars and sings. It flows, sonorous in our ears, propelling our dancing feet welding together our pinkies. Together in dance is the last place our hands will be. The air ignites. The bullets are screaming. White is seeping red. The first of us is falling. Her neighbors are holding her up. Her corpse is dancing. Her death, defiant. Calf skin has broken. Small palms have fallen. We have breathed the fog of death. Gunshots have chosen a new rhythm. In life, we have fallen. In death, we have risen. Together.

“Together” is the story of the village of Sasoun during the Armenian Genocide, who, when the inhabitants learned that the Turks were coming to kill them, all donned their traditional Armenian dance clothes and began the dance of their village. It was too late for them to escape, but they would leave on their own terms, pinkies clasped as is traditional in Armenian dance, passing on together.

The Ottoman Perpetrators: Our Infection, Contagion, and Genocide By Nayri Carman Rivers clotted like your arteries with my olive scarlet limbs, Wells littered with limbs make water for your favorite cocktail for your April 24th happy hour. You infected my people, blood bleeding from the hearts and ribs peeking through the skin Of my great-great-grandchildren and grandparents’ children, Tattoos written in ink of ownership or the ink of the porcelain once-crimson scars. There were no jewels in my pregnant belly but the one jewel of life but your sword sliced through my child like bread, where I left my life with my blisters in the scorching sand with the dust in my stomach and the ghee in my shoes and my G-d steadfast in my heart. I wasn’t there but you were. I wasn’t there but my G-d was. I wasn’t there but my soul was. She became dark before the light of life could even touch her. Then I was born.

“The Ottoman Perpetrators: Our Infection, Contagion, and Genocide” is an account of the intergenerational trauma carried by Armenians and a recollection of some of the horrors of the genocide, to which our ancestors and souls bore witness. April 24th, 1915 is acknowledged as the first day of the Armenian Genocide, when the systematic extermination of my people began with the community leaders: teachers, politicians, wealthy merchants, poets, even priests. It is now Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day.

The Reception By Anonymous Slightly before dawn on a brisk, cloudless Saturday in May, I drive to a wedding reception. The stars strain to be seen, exhausted from a night of glowing, as my car trundles up a narrow gravel road to the ranch. I pass through the wicker gates in an absent sort of daze, swerving into an unmarked parking spot, vaguely giddy at having the vast, muddy lot nearly all to myself. At least for now. I slide out of the car and stretch. I’m still sleepy. It’s fair, all things considered—it is six in the morning, after all—but something halts my creeping apathy: an inexplicable guilt that snags like a thorn in my side every time I think this way, of the possibility of today being anything less than the perfection the clients are expecting on their big day. The guilt catches me mid-stretch, and I freeze for a split second, then shake myself out and hike my way up to the reception hall. Beyond the reception hall, the ranch stretches over several dewey acres, a handful of crumbling barns scattered over rolling hills. The ranch hasn’t had livestock in years, which technically deprives it of its title, though my boss says the word “ranch” has the perfect sound and rhetorical

power to attract city people, so its name stays in the venue. The gentrified country air is, admittedly, quite refreshing. The reception hall is a former hayloft, repurposed and heavily glamorized with shiny wood floors and insulated four-pane windows. Even though I’ve worked here for eight years, I could never afford to celebrate my own wedding here; it’s three months’ wages for the basic package. Nevertheless, as a member of the banquet staff, I spend countless hours inside of it, anyway. Vines of fairy lights curl around columns holding the roof up, which cast various shades across the room at the press of a button, depending on the client’s intended atmosphere. The light falls delicately through the east-facing windows. True to expensive hipster venue form, I once overheard my boss tell a client that the hall costs $10,000 upfront to rent from 10 AM to midnight (enough to feed 60 orphans for a month, according to my math). This is even before the catering, vendors, live music, or any of the other hallmarks of overpriced, highfashion soirees. As I step through the massive oak doors each morning, I can’t help but feel like I’m turning on the TV to an episode of My

Big Fat Midwestern Wedding, except every time I hit mute and tune out the show. This is not my TV entertainment; this is how I pay my rent. Inside, my team is relieved to see me. Before the decorations can be set up, the tables must be assembled, but before that, the floor must be cleared, but before that, everything must be spotless. There is no room for filth, only the illusion of it. By seven, the entire floor is buffed and waxed—not an easily surmountable feat, given the footage. By eight, the windows are scrubbed to gleaming. By nine, my team of ten has assembled nearly thirty round tables where guests will sit. Afterwards, a handful of my coworkers unravel swaths of sheer curtains and begin the odious process of draping them from the ceiling in identical parabolas while I, by second nature, work napkins into dainty shapes. Who’s getting married today? I don’t even know the client’s names, though I could, if I had remembered to check the list. It’s not my fault I forgot, really; I’ve worked dozens upon dozens of receptions at this point. Maybe hundreds. Besides, knowing people’s names before actually meeting them makes me form irrational assumptions about them, which inevitably form into idealizations, which inevitably form into disappointments. Better to close off all guesses. I know these clients have more money than usual because all hands are on deck, but that means little to me or my coworkers, who are paid by the hour and owe no one gifts. My coworkers and I enjoy passing judgment on the newlyweds’ arbitrary tastes and personal touches. It distracts us from the fact that our paychecks come from their pockets. I know the bride likes these particular pink hibiscuses, the vibrant and stunning ones that couldn’t have grown under a North American sun, while I set up massive clusters of them at each table. The groom stamps his proof of input in the form of silk

tablecloths and wine glasses so huge they would more aptly be called crystal goblets. No children are invited to this reception, a fact I debate whether or not actually does the guests a favor. As I hang the last of 45 Tuscan lanterns, I assume both the bride and groom were raised feeding from a silver spoon. The absurdity of it all registers unconsciously within me as I work, as it always does, a quiet and insistent hum at the back of my brain. On the one hand, having such a big ceremony seems tone-deaf to the majority of the world that can’t drop obscene amounts of cash at the drop of a hat. On the other hand, I understand the want for selfindulgence. If you could lease your own little slice of paradise to spend your first few hours of forever, why wouldn’t you? What is a wedding if not a flawless photo op? Unfortunately, I’m the only one who thinks this way. My coworkers, most of whom work several other jobs, have sworn off the idea of having wedding receptions entirely, for the sake of sticking it to these types of venues for shoving money into fire. They assert they’ll never host a ceremony anywhere more exciting than a courtroom. A few have even sworn off marriage entirely, arguing the facade of a picture-perfect marriage has corrupted peoples’ minds. They claim that at some point, marriage stopped being about union and became a financial power move. Hence the reason all of us are paid minimum wage to make a wealthy couple’s rustic wedding fantasy come true for twelve-ish hours. At the end of the day, however, it hardly matters what we think. We don’t get a say in how people spend their money, and our lives more or less hinge on them wasting it.

An Econ Majorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Survival Guide

for Eating Disorders By

Mic

helle W u

TW: mentions of disordered eating If you go to a bookstore looking for a survival guide, you’ll find plenty. There’s How to Survive in the Wild, A Camper’s Survival Handbook, What to Do When Stranded on an Island, Wilderness Survival Guide, and, well, you get the idea. Hell, there’s even a hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy! There are all of those, but none for surviving an eating disorder. Even with the wide selection of self-help books in a tucked-away corner in Barnes & Noble, you’ll most likely encounter pastel-colored notebooks for daily affirmations and mindfulness—all of which are probably amazing, mind you—but none that will gently berate you and chastise the bulimia out of you. So how did I survive bulimia? How did I survive the purges? How did I get through every single day of hating the reflection in the mirror for two years? Well, I survived with a handbook of my own, written in the way I knew best. Economics. So here is my survival guide—or economics textbook rewritten, I suppose—for getting past an eating disorder alive.

Lesson 1: You are NOT a rational consumer. The first lesson to learn, or in this case, unlearn, is that you are not a rational consumer. Economic models and theories are based on the principle that individuals are rational agents who act in their best self-interest and, of course, the concept of ceteris paribus, other things equal. This is a way of saying that all other factors are assumed to be constant or unchanging, in our case only focusing on the eating disorder (or the food, but never both). Get that ceteris paribus bullshit out of your mind. You are irrational in the moment, and it is okay. You are allowed to not always make decisions to maximize your utility or profits or happiness because bulimia doesn’t make you a rational agent. It twists your mind and alters your perception of yourself. Bulimia forces you to eat until you’re nauseated and feel like your guts might explode so that you have no choice but to throw it back up later. It is completely valid to NOT hold all things equal. In fact, do the opposite. Think of all the little things that are affecting your life that throw off your internal balance. It took me a long time to learn this lesson. At one point, everything going on in my life seemed to suck me into a downward spiral. My aunt had cancer, my mom was always sick, I was losing my friends, and my grades were slipping. It was this feeling of losing control that pushed my already existing insecurities over the edge. I needed to control something, even if it meant that I would destroy my health, both mental and physical, in the process. Ceteris paribus didn’t exist the first time I knelt in front of the toilet and hesitantly stuck my finger down my throat to vomit my

dinner. But I pretended it did. I pretended that none of the other issues going on were affecting my actions. It’s just because I want to be skinny again, I would repeat to myself. It was a mantra that I knew wasn’t real but forced down my throat alongside my finger. Survival began once I started to recognize the other problems going on in my life and accepted that they were taking a toll on me. The shame of being an irrational agent in the market also kept me quiet for a while. I didn’t want to be “that girl with the eating disorder.” I wanted to be “normal” like every other rational consumer. But EVERYONE, at least on some level, is an irrational consumer in the market, which took a long time for me to believe. Even if it’s not bulimia, people still slip up for instant-but-fleeting gratification, whether it be ridiculous shopping sprees that they can’t afford or skipping classes or even going back to their ex. It’s okay to sometimes make choices that don’t satisfy you in the short term because the right choice is not always the one that will suddenly make all your problems vanish. It is the right choice because it is what is good for you. Surviving an eating disorder faces that dilemma head on. It’s okay not to maximize your happiness or satisfaction in the moment. Purging was what I thought was making me happiest at that time, but being a rational consumer in that market would have ruined me.

Lesson 2: Monotonicity is a lie. The second lesson to learn is that more is not better. Monotonicity implies that a consumer will welcome increased consumption regardless of other factors. But this isn’t the case when you already struggle consuming an “acceptable” amount of food. More food doesn’t make you healthier. In fact, it can be quite damaging when you are still in a negative state of mind. Yes, it’s good to eat more healthily. But that is not the same as eating more food. Again, you are not a rational consumer; more goods do not mean a more optimal bundle on the graph. Monotonicity was something that I used dangerously. I knew I had to eat more food than before because I was purging all of it. Some of it had to stay down. But the issue was that I would allow myself to believe that I was going to eat a good amount of food where I would feel comfortable without purging. Of course, that never happened. Anytime I ate one thing that triggered an urge to expel it, I would overeat because I had just crossed the point of no return. At that point, I just wanted more of a reason to throw up, and more food seemed like the easy solution. More was not better because I used more as an excuse to purge. Let me give you an example. On a nice sunny Saturday in May two years ago, my friends and I went out to brunch. I ordered some fancy avocado toast with arugula and all

TW: mentions of disordered eating sorts of fun sprouts on top. Completely harmless. The waiter came with my two delectable slices of toast, and it seemed like a safe morning for me. Key word: seemed. I opted to be cautious and only eat one slice and take the other home. But alas, my friends were taking so long to finish their large dishes of French toast, scrambled eggs, quiche, and other rich dishes that I was terrified of. So I made my fatal mistake. I nibbled on the second slice that I was saving. It was a game of Russian roulette, and I had lost. That small bite was the gunshot that killed that meal for me. I wanted all the food I had eaten to leave my body in that instant. So I used monotonicity against myself again. The rest of the toast was gone within minutes, and I gobbled down the bread meant for everyone at the table. The best solution is to understand limits and portions. Of course, do not restrict yourself, but having smaller meals or snacks throughout the day does wonders. I survived off of five to six small meals a day to make sure that I did not feel like I lost control of the amount of food I consumed. It’s okay to be full, but just be aware of what a good stopping point is. Do not let these economists fool you into believing otherwise.

Lesson 3: Don’t be on the elastic side of the curve. The third lesson is a little more difficult. Whatever you do, make sure that the price elasticity of your choice is inelastic. What exactly does this mean? Elasticity in economics is the measure of how much demand changes due to a change in another factor, usually price or income. This is my way of saying that you shouldn’t feel guiltier or more ashamed because of what you purge. Just because the expensive dinner you had was what triggered you does not mean that you are more guilty. You should not feel guilty about having an eating disorder. Eating disorders are debilitating on their own. This is when you tell yourself that it is okay to slip up. And it doesn’t matter what or when. People understand the struggles. I understand and empathize with you. In short, do not allow your actions or feelings to be based on the value of a meal. It’s not just the price of a meal, of course. This is only one example, a simplified version of the actual equation. Every time I purged was different. Sometimes I felt relieved to not have the food in me anymore. Most of the time I felt a little guilty, but mainly indifferent—it became a normal occurrence at some point. However, there were times when I felt truly wracked with guilt, shame, remorse, and utter defeat. These were the times when I had just purged what I considered a “special meal.” This included anything from a fancy restaurant meal to an extravagant dish my mom made to leftovers that I knew my brother wanted to eat, too. To vomit or to not vomit, that was the question that I asked myself. I didn’t want to waste such good food, but I needed it gone. For these meals, I was on the elastic side of the curve. Purging made me hate myself. I felt guilty for having eaten the food in the first place. Someone else could have enjoyed the

food. The money spent on the meal was wasted. That food could have been saved for later. There were infinitely many reasons for the extra contempt and criticism I punished myself with. But this is the thing—do not be ashamed. Do not be on the elastic side of the curve. You are already in a difficult situation, so please do not emotionally hurt yourself even more. It’s okay to feel guilty at times, but always be kind.

Lesson 4: Substitute goods can save you. The final lesson is the most critical for survival. In fact, if you only take away one lesson from this handbook, let it be this one. In the market that you are in, so many substitute goods are available to you. Substitute goods are any goods that will give you the same value as one in competition. This differs for everyone, but some examples are therapy, counseling, a whole new diet, journaling, and exercise, as well as loads more. Make good use of these because in the end, substitute goods can—and probably will—save you. Keep in mind, same value, not function! It may be difficult, but reach out for the first substitute good you can find and allow it to save you. The difficult part is that sometimes you don’t want to be saved right away. I remember wanting to let the waves of bulimia carry me out into the ocean without a life vest. It was dangerous, but also easy. The issue is sometimes you sink, too. You get dragged underwater and realize that you need that substitute good to buoy you up until you can swim back to the shore. The day I realized that I wasn’t afloat anymore was on August 18, 2018, just 10 days after I turned sixteen. I can’t recall exactly what I ate that night that made me head straight to the bathroom, but I remember the sheer panic and urgency. I NEED to get this food out or I’m going to lose control. I’m going to get fat. I’m going to die. I hate myself. Those were the thoughts running through my mind, egging me on. I succumbed as usual, but this night was different. It was the same motion that was burned into muscle memory. The same bathroom. The same everything. But I looked down at the toilet in horror. It wasn’t just my dinner that was splattered all over. The vomit and the water was tinged crimson. I had thrown up blood. I don’t know if it was my stomach that had bled or my throat, raw from the daily stomach acid, but I was BLEEDING. I started sobbing. The tears engulfed me with the rest of the ocean that I had carelessly let myself drown in. I knew I had to change something. I didn’t want to wreck myself further. I needed a substitute good to replace this “bad habit.” For me, I chose a difficult substitute that I wasn’t sure would work at first. I became more restrictive with my food. This sounds counterintuitive, but more specifically, I decided to become vegan. To me, veganism was the most

TW: mentions of disordered eating extreme “health-conscious” diet. If I could convince myself that everything I was putting into my body was “healthy” because it was vegan, maybe I could develop a whole new relationship with food. Veganism became my substitute good for a few years until I couldn’t sustain it in a healthy way anymore, but it did slowly stop my purging. Once I slowed down, I started bringing in more substitutes. Instead of feeling unhealthy and unhappy with what I ate and what I looked like, I started going to barre classes, which then led to a full gym membership. With the implementation of substitute goods into my life, the shame slowly became more bearable until I was able to finally open up to some

of my closest friends and even my counselor at school. The wonderful thing about substitute goods is that sometimes they provide even greater utility than before. When you are at your nadir, know that there are so many substitutes for you in the market. And that’s it. That is how I survived bulimia. Of course, I took so many other small steps along the way, and surviving was beyond the scope of four economics lessons. This guide is the result of many difficult years of struggling with bulimia, but it all will have been worth it if it helps someone else survive.

head in the clouds By Kendall Rosevelt Living with anxiety is not what I thought it would be. I remember being in middle school and hearing about anxiety and depression from the school guidance counselor, health class, even social media and thinking that anxiety was probably nothing. It could not possibly be as bad as people made it out to be—at least, not much worse than the stress and pressure I was used to experiencing every day. I never considered the fact that I might be struggling with anxiety until much later, and even now, I find myself doubting the reality I’m in, believing I must have invented it somehow. Whether I created it or not, however, I do not understand it—why it persists, even now that the pressures I faced in childhood have mostly been alleviated. I like to imagine my fears are like clouds. Some of them, I can see right through, and others require me to lie down and stare into the sky before they reveal to me what they really are. But sometimes, the clouds cover the sun, leaving my world cold and dark as I urge them to pass. Oftentimes, when someone asks me what my sky looks like, I don’t have an answer for them. In these moments, my anxiety invades and it is as if all the clouds in the universe have been pushed together so tightly that they will never part, as if no single cloud can be removed, and I will never know what lies behind them. Panic rises

within me—I am lost in the clouds, yet I cannot distinguish a single one. My vision is blurry; my eyes dart throughout the sky, searching for any explanation, any way out of this inescapable fog. Am I stressed about my classes? Am I anxious about a friend? Am I frustrated with a family member? I suddenly wish I were—because which is worse, to feel overwhelmed about something concrete that I can change or to acknowledge that right now, I can’t answer that question? Or furthermore, that the answer to that question has grown into something so daunting that it would be better to live with the ambiguity of my surroundings than to think about it for a second longer? So when someone asks me what my sky looks like, I describe to them a translucent cloud—one that can be easily dispelled. I avert my eyes from the sky and try to direct my vision elsewhere. I’m pretty good at looking off in this way; the clouds stay in the sky, and I stay on the ground. But sometimes my clouds don’t stay in the sky—sometimes, they sink down until they meet me where I am, and they smother the earth around me. My fears are often doubts, and when I am feeling especially frustrated, I wonder who I could be without them. When my entire world is covered in a thick fog, how am I to know where to go? What am I to do but search for any point in the distance and follow it? When the fog

becomes too thick and the clouds, too dense, when I cannot help but doubt any decision I make, I look. I look for anyone or anything to tell me what I should do or how I can do better or that I am finally doing what I am supposed to.

a better relationship with my dad, or, if not, when I wouldn’t have to live with him. I waited for a world where there would finally be nothing for me to worry about, and I fully believed this world existed. Sometimes I still do.

And once I do that, all I have to do is watch the world around me. I watch my body carry me through the fog, as it does what it is told to. The mundanity of these days allows my eyes to adjust to the haze and the clouds to become part of the background. For a couple of days, usually less, this works just fine, but there always comes a point when the clouds refuse to be ignored. I start to notice them not just covering the sky, but blocking the light from shining through. They convince me that the background I am used to is a lie, that they are the one reality I can perceive clearly enough to trust.

After spending years upon years waiting for my “one day,” I realized that that day will never come. When the issues I was once so accustomed to dealing with disappeared from my daily life and I was presented with a set of new ones, it became clear to me that I was not just a “worrier.” I could no longer organize the clouds into their normal categories: school, sports, friends, boyfriend, dad. I couldn’t simply wait for them to pass.

I want to see the world the way that my friends do—where the clouds stay in the sky, the air around me is free of smog, and with every glance, I see the world’s true colors. A clear sky and a sunny day is all I really need, but I can’t control the weather. Often, I find that the narrative surrounding anxiety is that one can combat it—destroy it, even—if one can just find the irrationality in their fears. From the advice of my closest friends to that of my psychiatrist, there does not seem to be a solution more advanced than that. A few cognitive strategies remove some clouds, and pills make them less dense, but there are no magic glasses that show me what my world really looks like. In the absence of a solution, I have realized why anxiety disorders are such a debilitating illness. For so many years, I dealt with my anxiety by waiting for it to be resolved—when the clouds don’t exist anymore, I thought, these feelings will be gone. From childhood until high school, I waited for my soccer and basketball seasons to end—I counted down the minutes until nearly every practice and game would finish. I waited for the school day to be over, for test dates to pass, for my acceptance letter from Michigan. I waited for adulthood, when I would finally have

“for so many years, I dealt with my anxiety by waiting for it to be resolved— when the clouds don’t exist anymore, I thought, these feelings will be gone.” I have learned, since then, how to see the light shine through the clouds. Sometimes, this means seeing a brighter alternative to my fears, but most often, I find that it is seeing the brightness in my life today. It is a special feeling, really, to know that the people in my life can become the sunlight I need and burn right through the clouds and the fog. It is breathtaking and stomach-churning to feel their gentle warmth, their nurturing light—to feel myself growing. It’s like my heart is buried deep underground—my mind, lost in the thickest fog—and this light carries me up, a glimmer closer to how I know I am supposed to feel. Surviving anxiety has taught me that the sun shines every day, but the clouds just get in its way. You can’t harness the sunlight to break through every cloud, and there is no special formula for being able to see it. Surviving anxiety is hard— way harder than I ever thought it would be—but I am able to find peace in the fact that while I can’t control the weather, it also can’t control me.

Life with Lupus: A Chronic Illness Story By Elizabeth Schriner

Society often hears “illness” and is inclined to contest it with treatments and cures. When you’re sick, you might feel inclined to get a prescription for an antibiotic or other drug. On the flip side, so-called health gurus claim that acupuncture, herbalism, and juice cleanses will cure everything. But what if there is no cure, and the goal is simply survival? That is, how do you live the best life you can with a chronic illness? I have systemic lupus erythematosus, otherwise known as SLE or lupus. I also have lupus nephritis and chronic kidney disease as a result. Lupus is an autoimmune disease, which means that the immune system mistakes healthy tissues for foreign invaders and attacks them. Lupus causes pain and inflammation in many parts of the body, which can produce a variety of different symptoms. At the time I began to have symptoms, I was fourteen years old. I was active in sports, got plenty of sleep, and ate relatively healthily. People often invalidated my symptoms and said that they were “in my head” or a result of something I did. Swollen joints? Too much texting. Fatigued? You’re going to bed too late. Visits to urgent care and the ER were dismissive, providing no answers to my persistent fevers or why my bug bites wouldn’t heal. Eventually, my parents and I could no longer ignore my hair loss, rashes, and mouth sores. The swelling and joint pain worsened to the point that I was unable to walk up the stairs or clasp my hand around a toothbrush. My independence went out the door. Perfect attendance at school turned into missing a straight month of class. I lost weight rapidly, and my whole body was weak and in pain. Sadness, defeat, and fear swelled in my heart. My body was transformed as the illness took on its own reality, one whose rules were mysterious and hostile. For many, the journey towards a diagnosis of a chronic illness includes being misdiagnosed, tested, and retested. Sometimes, it involves being misunderstood and discredited by those around you, even loved ones and medical professionals. For me, numerous tests and visits to specialists led to admission to C.S. Mott’s Children’s Hospital. There, I was officially diagnosed with

lupus. It was a huge relief to receive answers and treatment, but I was also terrified. I didn’t want to be “sick.” I liked helping others, but I never imagined I would be the one needing help. At the onset of my diagnosis, I had the worst flareup in my life. Kneeling on the cold tile floor of a hospital bathroom, I clutched my IV and prayed to die. I felt like I couldn’t do it anymore, physically, mentally, or emotionally. MRIs, ultrasounds, a kidney biopsy, and other tests later revealed that there was inflammation in several major organs, which was causing severe pain. This was the only day I wholeheartedly wished to be dead, and I still tear up thinking about it. Life throws us curveballs, and sometimes, survival is taking it one day at a time. We ride out the bad moments to appreciate the good ones. In the grand scheme of things, my journey towards diagnosis—six months, if that—was shorter and less infuriating than that of many others, and for that, I am grateful. But enough damage was done to my kidneys that I needed aggressive treatment. Besides being pumped full of corticosteroids, that initial week in the hospital marked the first chemo infusion I needed to calm down my immune system. At the time this was happening, I received an influx of sympathy and accommodations. I was repeatedly told how strong I was by my classmates and peers, which I appreciated during my battle with lupus and the side effects of its treatments. Side note: No matter how stupidly dedicated you are to your education, do NOT try to attend class the day after a chemo infusion. But no one warned me about the aftermath. Once the rashes, head coverings, and other external signs of illness disappeared, my pain and illness became nearly invisible. Even though no one could see it, I still suffered from symptoms such as joint pain and fatigue. The real strength comes into play while surviving day-to-day life, as incurable suffering makes other people uncomfortable. “You’re all better now, right?” “Why are you cancelling plans?” “You’re young, you’re fine.” “You don’t look sick to me.” Although sometimes well meaning, these responses negate the reality and seriousness of chronic illness. Something

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isn’t imaginary just because it is invisible, and pretending it is could lead to a potentially lifethreatening situation. College can be a stressful time, and a chronic illness can complicate life. I’m extremely grateful that I live my day-to-day life like a “normal” healthy person with relatively few lupus flareups. However, some symptoms are persistent, and I have to actively watch for triggers or signs of an oncoming flare-up. Additionally, treatment has its own side effects and can be complicated because of immune-suppressing medications. Since a suppressed immune system is an inevitable part of treatment for my illness, it often takes a long time to recover from infections. For example, a sinus infection my freshman year took three months to recover from (courtesy of dorm life), and a different infection my sophomore year resulted in an ER trip the night before a midterm. When I walk through campus with aching joints and brain fog, I find myself engaging in a negotiation process with the world around me. I try my best to put on a brave face, concealing any pain along with feelings of shame. It’s strange to be young but not feel as immune as my peers. I’m always the designated “sober friend,” since I can’t drink with my meds and condition. Sunscreen is a necessity (no tanning allowed), as is plenty of sleep. I have accommodations to use a computer for note-taking and sometimes feel awkward doing so due to the social stigma surrounding disability, accommodations, and illness. This pandemic has challenged my perspective of illness, too. When someone dies of COVID-19, the first question that pops up is whether or not the person had an underlying health condition.

While understandable, I am often at odds with people in my age group when the topic comes up. Sometimes it feels like people with “underlying health conditions” are viewed as expendable. The other day, I had a conversation with someone about this very subject: “I get that COVID-19 can be serious, but why should I have to stop living my life? We can’t live in fear, and it’s not my fault that other people have health conditions.” And they are right, it’s not their fault; however, it’s not exactly as though I did anything wrong to have lupus. In a situation such as a pandemic, it’s true that people need to face harsh realities rather

than hide behind platitudes. Addressing the facts takes some of the fearful arbitration away, as it can be comforting to know that there are determining factors beyond luck. It also makes sense that the people who are most at risk should act accordingly. What concerns me is the human inclination to create separation between “us” versus “them,” as the line between “sick” versus “not sick” is not always clear- cut. The vulnerable are not some separate group to the rest of society. Anyone—neighbors,

classmates, relatives—may have ongoing health conditions that you do not know about. A preexisting health condition isn’t always obvious, nor does having a chronic illness mean that a person has poor health overall. Many chronic illnesses aren’t outwardly visible, so those who don’t suffer from them often misunderstand them. We tend to believe that we have the power to prevent disasters in our lives, and a chronic illness throws a wrench into that process. Getting sick and staying sick is not some sort of moral failing as if due to lack of will or hard work, though the attitudes towards it can make it seem that way. Sometimes I even catch myself thinking, “I’m a burden to myself and those around me. Why can’t my body just cooperate?” I’m ashamed to be giving in to pain and fatigue and to have ever taken good health or youthful vigor for granted. I’ve learned to embrace my autonomy while honoring my limitations. High stress levels or a lack of sleep can easily lead to flare-ups or exacerbate a condition, so it’s important to balance my schedule and plan ahead. Occasionally, the fatigue or flare-up pain can make it difficult to get out of bed, for which the current virtual format has been convenient. On days that my body does not want to cooperate, I have to listen and say no, not today to some of the more strenuous demands of my time. As a people-pleaser who likes to keep busy, this can be hard to admit sometimes, but balancing a routine of school and work with self-care is one of the best things I’ve done for my productivity and wellness. I try to be optimistic, though a positive outlook alone can never heal me. As contradictory as it might sound, experiencing a chronic illness has increased my zest for life. Knowing what it is like to go without something can increase appreciation for it, from strenuous activities like running to basic functions like fastening buttons. I can’t speak on behalf of everyone with a chronic illness, but the experience can be incredibly humbling. Managing our bodies, diagnoses, and negotiating with the world around us is as much of an ongoing process as our illnesses. To survive is to persevere, but it is also to take care of ourselves.

You know that feeling when you have a stuffy nose from the common cold or allergies, and you swear you won’t take breathing for granted again? With a chronic illness, I’ve learned to be grateful and to appreciate all the good things I have, including times of good health. I hate my body. I love my body. I hate that it causes me pain, but at the same time, I know that it fights for me every single day. Talking about this topic is nerve-wracking, but I feel as though it is important to hear, especially to those who are looking to understand chronic illnesses or have one themselves. If you know someone with a chronic illness who is

“i’ve learned to embrace my autonomy while honoring my limitations” going through a difficult time, please try your best to not judge them. Be patient with them. And to anyone struggling with a chronic condition, you are not alone. Remember that it is okay to take a break and focus on your needs. Listen to your body and fight for it. It’s important to be your own health advocate, but also know that there are people and organizations you can reach out to. Talk to your professors ahead of time. Acquaint yourself with the medical services available to you. Also, don’t be afraid to reach out to find support services and accommodations. College life and its new experiences can be a lot to handle, and a chronic illness certainly doesn’t make it any easier, but I’ve learned that by prioritizing my needs and preparing ahead of time, I can overcome any challenge I may face.

If you love me, let me go By Madison Murdoch

Don’t you want this? No, I don’t. Don’t you love me? Yes, you’re home. Then let’s do it- it’s been weeks. What do I say? How do I speak? Don’t you want me? Not at all. Then I’ll just go. Don’t leave. You don’t want me. I’ll try. It’s all those hormones. Sure it is. It’s your parents, your priorities. But it’s not. It’s you. It’s me. Put me first. I can’t breathe. You’re the worst. You’re suffocating. I love you. I love you too. This is what love is. NoThis is how you show it. NoThis is how you keep me. Don’t. If you don’t love me, let me go. Selfish bitch. Is this what love is? Sweet talk until I say no. Grounding. That’s what we are. You are roots that grew too far. If you love me let me go, if you love me let me go, if you love me let me go, if you love me let me go, I can’t see the sunlight from this far underground. I’ve convinced myself it will be dark forever when you’re not around.

If you love me let me go. Please don’t make me be alone. They don’t know. They don’t know. Madison, you’re not a victim. Thanks. I say that to myself in the mirror every morning. I’m afraid to exist in the silence of sunrise, to witness conversations with myself. There’s more to catharsis than shedding tears with my car parked in the alley by my house every week. Bang my head against the seat. You deserve it. Punch the dashboard. You’re worthless. Scream. Reset. Fall asleep, swollen eyes, reddened face, a clear distaste for every part of who I am. Because I cannot force myself to love romantically, because I am too weak to lose my best friend. Selfish. Like your mother. Selfish. Hurt, scared, like my mother, (like my mother), I grasp for dust in the air. I think that no one notices, or cares. If you love me let me go. I don’t want to see myself when I’m alone. Scars open fresh every time I smell wine on her breathyou know that. “Alcoholic in training.” Your lips stained with the words you’ve said in anger, insecurity. It is you. It is me. But I can’t, I won’t un-hear the things you take back.

HOW TO:

survive a boring zoom call By Jake Flaherty In the age of COVID-19, boring Zoom calls are claiming the lives of innocent people worldwide. Drab lectures, useless club meetings—sometimes you even get that one kid who has to dump their entire life story onto the Zoom call. But fear not! To turn your Zoom call from torture to tea time, just remember the four-letter acronym A.S.M.R.: avert, shield, mime, and relax. *NOTE #1: If the Zoom call has 20+ members, feel free to leave even earlier. The Zoom call is now too large for your teacher to keep track of each individual. While your teacher will still see one of their students leaving, there’s no way they’ll remember which of you it was.

1. Avert Your first goal is to minimize the amount of time on your Zoom call without your teacher noticing. Less time on the call is less time being bored.

Show up late

In a typical classroom setting, teachers scold people for being late. However, despite the lack of transportation required for Zoom, the average Zoom call will wait a few minutes for latecomers. Take advantage of this.

Leave early

When clubs/teachers finish, they will usually ramble on for a bit. Leave early. The club/class has already counted you for attendance. You can even make an excuse to shave off extra minutes. Say your goldfish drowned. Maybe your potted plant contracted COVID-19. Get creative. The more tragic, the less they’ll argue.*

2. Shield The key to enjoying a boring Zoom call is distracting yourself with another activity, which you are unable to do without proper deflection. Here’s what to do to reduce being called on.

Volunteer early Whether it’s for icebreakers or a classroom discussion, volunteer at least twice very early on. This way, the teacher/classmates will be enticed to call on others. If you can make a big enough impact early on, the teacher will leave you alone for the rest of class. Also, if your teacher does one of those “popcorn” things, going early will save you from having to pay attention.

Turn off the facecam If your facecam is off, people will either assume that you have a problem or forget about you. While some teachers will still include you, it will reduce the chances that you will be called on/involved. Having

the facecam off also prevents you from having to pretend to pay attention. Do it if you can. Claim that your camera is broken, your wifi is bad, anything.

3. Mime Does your teacher require that your facecam stay on? No worries! While it will require more effort, there’s no reason to stay bored. However, you now must appear as invested as possible while remaining minimally engaged.

Eyes on the screen Keep your eyes on the screen. Looking down at your phone will demonstrate to everyone that you’re very bored, and worse, not paying attention. You are bored, but they shouldn’t know that! Hold up your phone **NOTE #2: If the Zoom call ever plays to your screen below awful background the camera as you use music for you to it or play games in a work to, you can different window, but mute the Zoom call make sure you keep without muting the your head up. (Pro entire computer. On tip: Double-clicking Mac, click next to the the Zoom icon makes microphone button it shrink so you can and click “Leave watch YouTube at the Computer Audio.” On Windows, right-click same time easily.)

React to the audio

the sound button and open the volume mixer to mute Zoom. And BOOM! Your boring Zoom call is now an epic concert. Enjoy!

Sometimes your teacher will make a joke or say something they think is important. It’s critical to react to show that you’re listening. As you go on your phone or watch YouTube, be sure to smile if you hear laughter and nod occasionally, no matter what. This shows that you are listening, even though you’re really not.

The Lean Back (Advanced)

far as you can (increase the distance between you and your device). Then, tilt your device’s screen up so only your eyes are visible on screen. Your professor will not find it worth their time to ask you to lower your screen. This way, it’s difficult to see where your eyes are focused, allowing you to get away with more.

4. Relax Averting, Shielding, and Miming wasn’t all for nothing. Now that you have maximized your freedom, it’s time for the most important step: relaxation.

Chill Check your phone, games, YouTube, or anything you would do outside of class. Remember, the worse your camera’s view is, the more you can get away with.

Pump it up Music can turn a boring lecture into a jam session! Pull up your music app of choice and adjust the volume to avoid drowning out the call completely. Be careful with how much you groove, however. Bop to the beat with just your legs instead of your torso.**

Eat People don’t care if you eat. In fact, eating is a lowrisk way to deflect attention. Doing so tells others that you are busy and shouldn’t be bothered. It’s also a great way to entertain yourself. If a party is boring, it’s boring. But if the boring party has food, it’s a little less boring. Unfortunately, you need to have the food beforehand, but a little preparation goes a long way. With A. S. M. R., you now have your four key steps to surviving any Zoom call, which can be used to maintain comfort and ease through the dullest of Zoom calls. With enough practice, you will soon naturally avert, shield, and mime, resulting in Zoom calls that are 99% relaxation. Good luck!

The Lean Back is perfect if you cannot do any of the previous tactics. To begin, push your chair back as

Surviving Like My Grandfather By Elya Kaplan

Survival.

The word rings with pain and struggle and strife. It smells of tears and blood and sweat, of the trees that grant shelter through long nights. It feels like clenched fists and pounding feet. It sounds like whistles and dog barks, like shouting in the woods. For you, for you it meant these things. It meant having a mother survived only by her son. It means fleeing the only home you’ve ever known, leaving behind a life you’d only just begun. A boy on the run fighting to survive forces unfathomable driven by hatred and pride and fear. For you, it meant coming to a new land. A land not entirely yours, rife with conflict of a different kind. It meant living and growing and becoming someone of your own right with a legacy no one would ever envy. For you, it meant love and a new kind of war, one you had to face with a gun in your hand, not running anymore. It meant building a life, building a city from the ground up. It meant marriage and family, three beautiful children and a young country, fighting to grow alongside you. For you, it meant living with the memories every day, both wishing to forget and fearing the oblivion that came when you tried to recall your youth. It meant quiet grief and a life full

of work. It meant grandchildren, eight of them, their laughter and youth, the way they looked up to you. The way I look up to you. Because of the love and strength you imbued in our family. Because of your resilience, your kindness, your tickling moustache, and the way you threw me into the air. Survival looked like the life you could give us because you ran, because you survived. And you kept surviving. You survived your heart attack. You survived the prognosis they gave you when they found your cancer. Pancreatic, stage four; they gave you months. You lived for two years. You lost your belly and your rolling laugh. You shrank down, became a quieter ghost of yourself, but you never lost your hope or your uncanny ability to ignore problems you didn’t fancy. You survived loneliness and a child overseas. You survived the years of memories and the years of joy. But eventually, it all ran out. You survived for so long and it still caught up to you. No matter your laughter or your success or your joy, no matter how passionately you loved or how gratefully you lived, this time, you couldn’t survive. And then you passed on your grave legacy, the survival you bore for us all. You were survived by us. By me. And I will keep on surviving, because you did.

Riding the Radiowaves, By Maria Wuerker

Music as

It’s 2:30 AM, and I’m making another playlist. I’ve been here so many times over the past six (seven? eight?) months, and music has become my go-to. My playlists have slowly become a heavily curated assortment of genres ranging from ‘80s soft rock to riot grrrl to a brief foray into international heavy metal. (If you’re looking for some killer hard rock in Maori, Alien Weaponry is your band.) I’ve spent months counting down to music releases and subsequently listening to those releases on repeat once they’re out. Before the pandemic, I would have described my relationship with music as casual. I had the songs that I had been listening to for a few years. Occasionally I would add in some new ones to my rotation, but it wasn’t something that I would actively track. Now, I would describe

it as a (mostly) healthy pastime. Of course, there are the nights like this one where I’m up until the early hours of the morning searching out that new sound or lyric that’s going to be exactly what I need to hear, but what follows are days filled with thoughtful lyrics, a melody or beat that gives me the energy I need to stay motivated and allows me to enter a headspace of focus or one of having fun. I have taken countless car rides through the back roads of my town, listening to the perfect song just as I crest the top of that one hill that always makes my stomach flip as I begin the descent down; I have sat on mornings filled with quiet whispers of music as I drink my tea and begin my day’s work; I have attended socially distant dance parties with friends in parking lots; and I have trekked on hikes in the woods, sweet strains of classical music keeping me company as I trace the course of a stream. Music has been my constant companion this year in a way that people could not be. Music has been a tangible presence in my room. I’ve danced with Pale Waves; I’ve cried with Phoebe Bridgers; I’ve screamed out my frustration with Wage War. Even though I’ve made collaborative playlists with friends, curated playlists for my friends, talked with friends about those eagerly awaited music releases, the experiences that I’ve been missing are set into the feelings that my music allows me.

a Liferaft While music has been a positive force in my life always and has allowed me to feel that sensation of the shared human experience countless times before, this year has brought us closer together. It’s made me more introspective and consequently has made the music I listen to a more integral and personal part of me. Music has sparked inspiration in my writing this year, inspiring me to enact vignettes from song lyrics on a page. I’ve tracked the creative processes of some of my favorite lyricists on Twitter and read countless articles about the inspirations that drive my favorite musicians. I’ve been awed by the ways in which creators have managed to find inspiration from the times we’re in. Despite the circumstances, artists have had virtual concerts, meet-and-greets online, Twitch streams, socially distant music video shoots, and perhaps most amazingly, new music releases. I’m not the only one who has felt a deeper connection with music this year. To get some insight into how the events of the year have allowed for artists to create and develop their music, I spoke with Mary Bragg Burmeister, a freelance model and musician based in LA and Nashville, about how this year has allowed her to reconnect with her music after a hiatus during which she was focused solely on modeling. “I looked at my guitars and decided to pick them back up again and spend the time wisely and used music as a coping mechanism or therapy,” Bragg said. When asked whether she thought her music and lyrics had changed due to the events of 2020, she said, “I feel like [my music] has grown a lot. It’s a lot more mature. I’ve had to do so much internal reflection.” Bragg is planning on recording some of the music she has written over the course of this year sometime in late 2020 or early 2021, so keep your eyes peeled for her on your release radars! It’s clear that for many, whether directly creating or simply consuming music, this year has been one that has allowed music to fill in those spaces in our lives that have been left empty due to the coronavirus and its many complications. Music provides a medium to keep us connected, even while we’re six feet apart.

sa Dash

rtility

Of Infe

By Melis

The Iron y

Clutching my pelvis in pain, I dropped in theatrics to my cold bathroom floor. Whining at a barely audible pitch, I begged for my mother’s comfort. “Is this what giving birth feels like?” I asked her, the irony of my question unknown to me at the time. I had been experiencing tremendous amounts of pain in my pelvic region for weeks but chalked it up to period cramps or the result of a meal that “just didn’t sit well.” That morning, however, the stabbing sensation intensified to a new degree as my constant agony became unbearable.

ancient practices that determine if a woman is fit for pregnancy. Those with female reproductive organs are objects of lust based on these qualities but are chastised or rejected from society if they don’t use their “assets” to bear children. This contrast causes many people with internal reproductive systems to question their role in society and feel trapped in institutionalized constructs. So, what happens when a person with this reproductive system wishes to break free of these social constraints, by either choosing not to have a child or by being unable to?

A brief visit with my doctor ended with her sending me to the ER. I sat in a stiff hospital waiting room chair for hours, restless and frightened as 20+ patients were seen before me. I was nervous thinking about the potential cause of my misery— after a quick WebMD search of my symptoms, I was convinced I had a ruptured ovarian cyst—but slightly more concerned about missing the Juice Wrld concert I had tickets to that night (RIP). I let out a sigh of relief when my name was finally called, full of false hope that my diagnosis was in the near future. That night, however, I traded in my crop top and ripped jeans for a hospital gown, repeatedly reciting my name and date of birth as opposed to the lyrics of an overplayed rap song. After both urine and blood tests, an internal and external ultrasound, and continuous probing and prodding, my pain was still undiagnosed. Anxiety overwhelmed my body and images of worst case scenarios flooded my mind. I left the hospital as the sun was rising, loaded with morphine, antibiotics, and many questions. Two months passed until I found my answers.

This is a question I have now come to face, as a result of my diagnosis. While I am not ready to determine if having children is on my life path, I had always assumed I’d have the option. Being told that this may no longer be a possibility is deeply unsettling to me. In a society where many aspects of women’s health are in the hands of others, I always expected motherhood to be the one choice I had full control over. I think it is important to note that adoption and other alternative forms of motherhood are available to combat this. Yet, there is something about the lack of control over my own body that I struggle to overlook. Along with this abstract feeling of loss, there are true material matters that I must also begin to address.

*** After a relapse of my previous symptoms and the addition of some new ones, I returned to that same hospital on a humid day in mid-July. The stabbing sensation in my pelvis was replaced by fluttering butterflies in my stomach as I stared out the fogcovered passenger-seat window. My butt fell seamlessly back into the grooves of the waiting room chair, and I waited yet again for my name to be called. It wasn’t until the nurses thought to try one final test that we found a positive result to my negative problem. The moment the doctor told me I had a disease with the potential to cause infertility is one that plays in my head on a loop. At the time I was 18, just old enough to book a hotel room or get a piercing without my mom’s consent. Prior to that moment, I had thought about the concept of having a family in the same fashion as most teenagers I know: something that would potentially happen one day but hopefully not in the near future. It’s the same dual thought process that makes me oddly excited to bleed through a pair of underwear each month but still compels me to play peek-a-boo with any baby I see. The pressure put on women to fit a domestic role is one I take issue with. I am a firm believer that the expectation placed on those with internal reproductive organs to bear children is archaic and unjust. This belief leads to the objectification of women, forcing them into the singular role of “mother.” When determining levels of attraction, women are often judged based upon their childbearing qualities. Wide hips and big breasts are traits that have become associated with desire but are rooted in

Given my potential for infertility, I have found myself preoccupied with life choices that otherwise I would not dwell on. Do I want biological children? Are there certain steps I should already be taking to encourage fertility in my body? Should I attempt to have a child at a young age while my body is better for childbearing? If so, should I be looking for a long-term partner? I am now 19. At this age, some women either want or need to be addressing these questions. I know, however, that is not the case for me. I do not want, nor am I in the position, to be considering motherhood at this age or for several years to come. In the meantime, I would love to live fully on my own with no one to depend on and with no one depending on me. I have yet to experience a life where I am completely independent and need to further discover myself before I am ready to discover another life form. Yet, I fear that when or if the time does come to take that leap into dirty diapers and sleepless nights, my body will not allow me to jump. The day my doctor sat at my hospital bedside and relayed my fated prognosis, she unknowingly shared years of feeling lost in my own skin. She unknowingly reinforced my previous held beliefs that a woman’s body is rarely hers. She unknowingly uncovered a sad truth about growing up and the responsibilities that accompany age and maturity. While pregnancy is a concept that I plan to push to the back of my head for the time being, infertility will always sit at the forefront of my mind. When I see a TikTok of a baby trying to do the WAP dance or stumble into the section of Foot Locker filled with sneakers the length of my thumb, a fleeting feeling of uncertainty will wash over my body. What’s important to remember, is that no situation exists where women possess zero agency. Even with limited options, I am proud to identify as a womb-having woman and am fortunate enough to decide many aspects of my life path. For now, I will still roll down my window at every red light to wave at the baby in the car next to me, recognizing that life is full of uncertainties and my diagnosis is no exception.

Posterity By Huda Shulaiba

1. through memory My great grandfather’s name was Asfour/ /Sparrow. He and his twin brother, Zarzour/ /Starling, were given nonsense names, the kind reserved for children who weren’t meant to live past tomorrow. Maybe that’s the exact reason they did. Death, so serious in his occupation, overlooked the two little birds on his trip to collect Amir and Mohamed and Ibrahim and Hassan. And so they lived. Were it not for my great grandfather’s nonsense name, I’m sure he’d have been lost to time. A century separates us. That’s it really. Just one century. You fly down to find me in the field and show me how to make the world my own. Daughter of daughter of son long gone. This and this and this and this. Your son rests nearby, chest red and beak sharp and eyes watching the father he never had lead the daughter he was never able to meet. “Salam, ya bitti,” you say. Hello, my daughter. Peace, my daughter. “Sim3i, bitti,” you say. Listen. I listen. The world is not ours. Our eyes are not ours to rest. The child turned man with the nonsense name teaches me to spread my wings. He scolds me for my form. “How will you ever take to the skies, bitti?” A bird’s eye is really so very small. You rest on my finger and unblinkingly tell me of the pain of five generations of lost children. “A man with a nonsense name has no claim to the world, but you, bitti, keep your hands outstretched and take what’s yours.” I greet my great grandfather, the one whose name is committed to history. He cocks his head into my open palm.

2. through impact What are we if not how others perceive us? How do you know who you are without someone telling you? Without the definition that comes from comparison? You ARE. I flip through a newspaper and read what my grandfather IS. He lives on. My brother wears his face. Fleshy nose, wide eyes, teeth just wide enough that you notice. Everywhere my brother goes, we are met with stories of his impact. Over forty years he’s lived in their minds. Life’s end is marked with a grave. A final failure. The end of the line. My grandfather has no grave. He lives on. To be known, to be remembered, to be passed around like a precious story.That’s what it means to live. My grandfather lives on.

3. through spite My mother was born for grief, to a father eight days gone and a mother seven days distraught. Sometimes I think she was so occupied watching him be dragged from the airport that she miscalculated her mother’s own state. I’m sure from the womb a week seemed like a reasonable time for grieving. I’m sure she felt generous giving her mother until the 28th. She had four siblings, but it was her cousins who soothed her newborn wails with sugar water. Her wailing mother never thought to offer her milk. For my mother, each decade is marked. The first by a letter, verifying loss ten years fresh. The second and third both by escape, the former to and the latter from. The fourth, still 2 months fresh, is yet to be marked. My mother’s life is not her own. Forty years, she’s been alive now. To the world: forty years he’s been gone. My mother was not born crying. My mother was born with a wall already built. My mother was picked clean in the womb. My mother is all bones. My mother breathes in spite and spits out air. My stares are met with silence. My mother is not mine.

4. through sorrow I lived in the crook of my bathroom cabinet, just below the rusted brown drawers and green tiled countertop. When my want grew up and over and out of myself, I packaged it nice and neat and crawled right back down into my cool green home. It’s where I learned to breathe. In 1234567 hold, 1 2 3 4567 out, 1234 5 6 7 The secret to living is in that cool green bathroom, nestled into the grout. It shapes you when you’ve become too big for yourself and chips away the excess. I used to think if I never leave, I might live forever. However, I learn what I am taught, and I was taught (by the grout, an old friend) that living is not bending your neck and counting your breaths, and that to live I must leave and learn to chip away my own excess without a home to guide me through.

5. through and through We’ll build on it and let you know.

COVER

Keep the conversation going!

Art by Jessica Burkle

whatthefmagazine.com WhatTheFMagazine

Bathroom Confessional

WhatTheFMag

Art by Jessica Burkle

Sh*t Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m Afraid to Ask My Doctor Art by Ariana Shaw

silence

Art by Camden Treiber Art by Ariana Shaw

WhatTheFMag

head in the clouds

Art by Hanna Smith

life with lupus: a chronic illness story Art by Calin Firlit

if you love me, let me go Art by Adriana Alcala

the ottoman perpetrators: our infection, contagion, and genocide

How to survive a boring zoom call

the reception

riding the radiowaves, music as a liferaft

Art by Ariana Shaw

An Econ majorâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s survival guide for eating disorders Art by Hayleigh Proskin

Art by Jessica Burkle

Art by Ariana Shaw

Posterity

Art by Hayleigh Proskin

What the F Issue 21

Articles inside

Posterity

Riding the Radiowaves, Music as a Liferaft

Surviving Like My Grandfather

How To Survive a Boring Zoom Call

Life With Lupus: A Chronic Illness Story

An Econ Major’s Survival Guide for Eating Disorders

If You Love Me, Let Me Go

The Reception

Letter from the Editor

Head in the Clouds

The Ottoman Perpetrators: Our Infection, Contagion, and Genocide

Silence