By Lauren Cabanas, Staff Photographer, Emerson College
By Autumn Farrell, Staff Writer, Emerson College
Behind my house in the alley that smells like dryer sheets and dirt-covered toys, I lift up my blue shirt for Anthony. He reaches out two small hands, lays them on my equally small chest. He says that’s so sexy fidgets like little boys do. I let him squeeze. It hurts the tender pink skin, leaves red marks he doesn’t mean. John puts his fingers down my pants on a park bench, smokes a cigarette in the other hand. I stare at the sun a little more than I should. He says Do you like that? I nod with dark spots in my vision, hold his wrist when he tries to move it, holds his wrist when he tells me I should shave. I find black lingerie in my mom’s drawers, a one piece embroidered with flowers and holes for her nipples. I take it to my room, try to fill the holes right, wonder why my chest is still so small. I kneel in front of my mirror that’s so sexy pose with my arms above my head, tell myself I should shave. In the shower at 2am, I inhale steam, the smell of dryer sheets and big girl toys, a razor on the ledge, long hair stuck to the wall. I lay my hands on my chest, pale skin, red marks I meant at the time, a tattoo on one hip, stretch marks on the other. Do you like that? I kneel in front of the water, the fullness of my body, my skin, a one piece embroidered with flowers and holes. Autumn Farrell is a short, tea-loving Latina who hails from the poetry, theater, and dance scene in Phoenix, Arizona. She has a stash of horrible smelling herbs in her underwear drawer and is probably the biggest fan of ironic swag rap you will ever meet. If she can talk to you about astrology she will love you (she's a Gemini). Before she dies she wants to be a famous pole dancer. By Anonymous, Staff Writer, Emerson College
I hate the way you look at my body like it’s your right because I’m curious I get stares, because pierced ears-- and round hips-- and small stature-- say to you: Girl But then there’s no makeup-- or breasts-- and not much hair-- and you see the peek of boxers-- and you can’t decide So you do a double-take and gawk, As I stand and smoke and try not to feel that the looks you give me blacken my insides like no amount of nicotine will ever manage By Amanda Doughty, Staff Writer, Emerson College
Maybe this time, I’ll be lucky Maybe this time he’ll stay As I searched through the dusty half of my closet where the nicer clothes lay, I couldn’t help but sing along to the song playing in the background. I’d never had the such good luck with this sort of thing. In fact, I had no luck at all- to the point where it’d been two years since I’d done this last. Maybe this time, for the first time Love won’t hurry away That would be a plot twist. Every other guy I’d been out with didn’t stick around very long. When they’d catch a whiff of my personality, they would head for the hills. I can’t say I blame them, but I was really tired of being alone. Therefore, I was determined to hold on to this one and was completely done being on a one-way track to becoming a crazy cat lady. This time, I had a plan; or, more specifically, I had lists. List 1: Foods not to eat. I’ve always been a messy eater. If it were still socially acceptable at my age to wear a bib, someone would probably make me wear one. Nobody likes a messy eater. Therefore, I made a list of foods to avoid eating.
Ugh, maybe I just won’t eat. List 2: Things to avoid talking about.
Suddenly, feeling a lot more doubtful, I decided to abandon the lists for a while and return to the closet. I had to make sure the outfit fit my me just right - It had to emphasize the stronger assets of my body while making some parts of me look better. I grabbed something that looked like it hadn’t seen daylight in a while. When I gave it a closer look, I could tell why it had been hidden for so long. I may have thought pink leopard print was cute when I was fifteen, but now I knew it was just plain tacky. Grimacing, I shoved it back into its hiding place, making a mental note to donate it to Goodwill. Next to it was what seemed like a cute black dress. When I pulled it out, though, I realized there were giant sweat stains on the armpits. No. I was starting to get a little worried, so I went down to the other end where I saw what seemed like the perfect skirt. I slipped it on and couldn’t help but notice how well it shaped my hips. But that was about all it shaped, for the skirt stopped not too much after passing my hips. I could practically hear my mother’s disapproval. “You don’t want the boy to think you’re some hussy.” I thought her point was valid. I put the skirt back and reached for the one next to it, which fell closer a little past my knees. It didn’t accentuate my curves as well, but at least it didn’t make me look like a baby prostitute. But did it make me look like a prude? I didn’t want him to think I would never have sex with him ever, I just wanted him to know I wouldn’t right away. Frustrated, I put that one away too. Sitting on the floor of my closet in my underwear, I wondered exactly where the line was drawn with clothes. If you wear something form-fitting, you look easy. But if you wear something that doesn’t fit you right at all, you look like you don’t know how to dress yourself. And if you dress too conservatively, you look like a stuck-up prude. Is there anything right in the middle? That’s what was going through my head when the doorbell rang. I looked at my lists again in a panic, then remembered I wasn’t actually wearing any clothes. So basically, he was going to think I was a nudist hunger artist who didn’t know how to keep up a conversation. Perfect. Amanda is the biggest Disney nerd you'll ever meet in your entire life. She also likes food, and tap dancing, and writing...writing's pretty cool too. By Taina Teravainen, Staff Writer, Emerson College
I used to have the easiest time answering the common question, “where is home for you?” Most people, who ask out of courtesy rather than curiosity, would be happy with just knowing the location – Singapore – but those who probe for details force me to start being creative with my responses. If I had a captive audience to whom I could wax lyrical about The Lion City, here’s what I’d say. Home provides me with consistency and little in the way of surprises. The sun rises and sets around seven every day of the year. If it’s not sunny, there's torrential rain. When I was there, I’d always expect to have to an oily sheen on my nose, the humidity encasing me in a sticky cocoon. I would wake up to the birds calling in rising octaves from the tembusu and saga trees and a bell ringing at regular intervals, on weekdays, at the secondary school that I could look into from my third-story window. Home was knowing which buses would take me anywhere I wanted to be on the 274 square mile island. Home was the city I lived in all my life, hovering right above the equator, teeming with people and high-rise buildings. There was so much glorious food from too many cultures to count, and often I’d get a text from a friend at one or two in the morning asking if I want to go out for mee pok or roti prata? We spoke in English, yes, but also Mandarin Chinese and a Hokkien dialect, sometimes throwing in a couple of words of Malay where needed. I didn’t realize how much I would miss this ease of knowing a place like I knew the color of my own irises. I could move through my city and see myself reflected in its people, and its places, and its sounds. This is how I became the person I am today, this is how I learned what was important to me, this is how I figured out what I didn’t want to be like anymore, this is what I loved, and these were the limits I wanted to test. Though my affinity for my hometown grew significantly when I finally left for college at 19, being on the outside looking in gave me perspective to begin articulating why exactly I needed to get out. It had shaped me, and I owe it that, despite the many problems I had with it. It frustrated me seeing the city I loved as a place so flawed. It will always be home, in that I will always want to go back, but I’m no longer sure if I can stay. I've always thought, "I’m malleable, I have room to change and find new homes," which is exactly what brought me to Boston. When I look up at the little cutout bit of sky between the buildings on the corner of Tremont and Boylston as I wait for the traffic lights to change, sometimes I get the brief sensation that I've been doing it all my life. But Boston isn’t my city. My first kiss was not in any of these cafes, I don’t have loyalty to any of the corner stores, the uneven brick sidewalks still trip me up from time to time. I check the temperature daily in Celsius, and struggle with heaters, waking up several times a night, either shivering or feeling like I’m swimming in stifling liquid heat. Winter is a strange shock that my body is still getting acclimated to, since it was born into tropical humidity. I’ve stopped sighing at my food. Nothing is spicy enough, there’s cheese in everything, and I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I will not be able to buy booze at 7 eleven. Perhaps it’s something to do with living in the dorms. I tried to convince my parents that living in a not-so-nice apartment would allow me to “live like a real person”, whatever that means. I could picture them rolling their eyes and making comments about me wanting to play house, but I felt a need for something more permanent, something of my own….the need to create a new home. I want to carve out my own little space in Boston, grumble about the B line on the T, and know where to get the best pho in the neighborhood. I’m going to be living on campus for a third year, and somehow I feel like I’ve let Boston down. I know she has so much to offer, but I’ve not found any of it yet. Home now is a good concert, where I can just breathe and sing and flail around for a couple of hours and not over-think. Home is having friends a door away, who will hold me during nights that go on too long, and who make me laugh with the simplest of looks. I read a poem once that warned me never to build homes in human beings, but right now they’re my constant. I guess I’m still looking. Taina Teravainen is a 21-year-old girlchild who loves tattoos and milk tea. She hails from the little island city of Singapore and writes a lot about boys, feelings, and the search for home. By Lauren Cabanas, Staff Photographer, Emerson College Can you guess the personalities of these Emersonians? Lauren Cabanas is a film major at Emerson College with severe case of wanderlust. Her perfect day would include bike riding somewhere beautiful, reading a good book and stargazing with close friends. She also enjoys thunderstorms, bonfires and romance movies.
By Anonymous
Since the rain comes heavy And my roof has fallen down, I have left you, languid and lean, To look for a cleaner place than here And a cloak to cover me: Never musky, never damp, neither dark nor homely nor deep, I wonder, would that I had a hollow to be filled with starlings. Would that this were a mountain song Or the stone at the bottom of the lake, or a breeze. Instead my core is flesh and heat. Instead my core is dark and deep And I sleep with it, and it sleeps with me It won't sing pretty, or be well lit, or clean, But when it rains, I cover it And when I pain, it covers me. So I have asked for no pinewood overcoat Or sea to shield me from my own pier I write an invitation to my body. It reads: My heart is not in the highlands. My heart is right here. |