RAGF E B R U A R Y 2 0 1 5 | I S S U E 2 | M O V E M E N T

RAG Definition

noun: magazineverb: to rag onidiom: “on the rag”

Dear RAG readers,

We are a group of humyns at Mizzou who want to hear

your voices, your experiences, your truths. On such a big

campus, many people’s voices are never heard and their

stories frequently ignored. We created RAG because we

want to create a safe space for students, faculty, and staff

to share their opinions, criticisms, stories, and art. This is a

submission based publication and each issue will revolve

around a specific theme open to your interpretation. We

invite everyone to submit and contribute as this proj-

ect will only be a success with your help. We thoroughly

hope that this zine will be a positive catalyst for change

and inclusion on campus and foster a culture of vulner-

ability, sharing, and genuine listening.

With radical love,

the RAG Collective

A Note on MOVEMENT1the act of moving from one place or position to another2a group of people working together to advance their

shared political, social, or artistic ideas

Movement implies a motion, a change. You sent us sto-

ries of internal struggle-- shifts in conscious, evolving

relationships, meditations on cultural change. You sent

us writing about changes that have yet to be-- critiques

of current movements, calls to action to incite new ones,

and sharp commentary of the culture with which we are

in constant negotiation. We are confident these will in-

spire movement of the minds, bodies, and hearts that

encounter them. They moved us.

SUBMIT TO

RAGAPRIL 2015 | ISSUE 3 | BODY

Issue 3’s theme will be BODY. Art,

photography, poetry, prose, and

more are welcome! Submissions

may be authored or anonymous.

SUBMIT BYMARCH 18

TORAGMAGZINE@GMAIL.COM

Mandalas, moving on, and healing.

Mandalas, moving on, and healing.

Growing up I never felt classically beautiful like my friends.

I had dark skin and hair that bent like wire and always

seemed to defy gravity in two messy puff balls. Not to

mention, I felt that my body had matured much early than

the girls in my class. I am most certainly sure that if we had

grade school superlatives I would have won The Biggest

Butt. I suppose now I should be proud of it because every-

one is trying to buy it, but back then I would try my hardest

to hide it. Though, soon I became a pro at hiding things.

I cannot count nor tell you how many times that I have

wasted shooting stars and prayers to some spirit, to make

me more classically beautiful, slender like my “closest”

friends. I would dream and hold hope, that I would wake

up smarter and that, I would wake up with eyes the color

hazel and the skin complexion lighter than my own. I was

tired of being overlooked, and tired of being labeled as

dirty or darky. I just wanted to be classically beautiful, like

those I saw on TV.

Despite my low self-esteem, I found it in me to carry on. I

was not allowed to feel down about myself, complain to

my parents, or have mental problems, because mom and

dad did not have any money for that. So I would keep to

myself and carry on.

I remember carrying on all the way through middle school

and high school, keeping all my insecurities and wounds to

myself. I wish that I could tell you how I found the strength

to carry on, but the truth is I do not know. I myself am still

figuring that out and still carrying on.

Somewhere in the strength of me carrying on, I felt the

need to believe in this skin. I no longer wasted my shoot-

ing stars on who I wanted to look like. I wasted shooting

starts on my dreams and hopes of becoming extraordi-

nary. I am not saying it was easy, I just want you know to

my Black Stars, that if you ever felt less than, you are not

alone, because I am still today trying to carry on.

Colored Girl

BLACK STARSeries

1 2 3In f ront o f a mir ror , s t re tch your neck back so that you can s t i l l see the area o f your neck be low the Adam’s app le and r ight above the co l larbone. Th is i s the genera l locat ion o f your thyro id g land.

Take a dr ink o f water and swal low. As you swal low, care fu l ly watch that area for any bu lges , prot ru-s ions , or en largements .

I f you see anyth ing a t a l l unusua l , be sure to con-tac t your doctor as soon as poss ib le to get your thyro id checked out .

Check your neck

I scar badlyI scar plainly, openly, in broad daylightI scar freelyBleed easilyMy skin looks thicker than it isI scar obviouslyWear my scars like they’re battle woundsLike I’m a warriorI scar so the world can seeMatch my headscarf to my scarMy makeup to my scarsI wear colors like bruisesPlainlyPainfullyI scar greatly, beautifullyMy scars heal publicly

U N T I T L E D # 5 6 7by Farah El-Jayyousi

1 i n 8 w o m e nw i l l d e v e l o p a t h y r o i d d i s o r d e r i n h e r l i f e t i m e

W O M E N A R E 5 - 8 x m o r e l i k e lyt h a n m e n t o h av e t h y r o i d p r o b l e m s

via American Thyroid Association, thyroid.org

I wish I would havelearned

I mean, what does it mean that I gave my life to her?

What does it mean how much I gave up?

What does it mean about my future, and my ability

to love, and my ability to love myself enough to do it

right?

I didn’t stand up for myself. I didn’t stay true. I didn’t

require or demand or hardly ask for her to be a good

partner: to treat me with kindness, to care for me when

I feel sad, to hug me when I’m in need of an embrace. I

didn’t require or demand or hardly ask for her to listen

to my stories, or to be interested in my thoughts and

feelings.

I promised her I’d be with her and love her forever.

She broke her promises and I’m glad I cared at least

enough to use broken promises to get out, but why

wasn’t happiness enough of a reason to get out? Why

did it matter more to me to stick it through and stay

true to what I’d promised than to live a life I’m proud

of? To live a life of passion and truth?

What have I learned?

1. I learned from the closeted one that love feels good.

I learned from the closeted one that another person

can save your life. I learned from her dad how to make

chicken salad, to clean as you go, and the importance

of humor.

I learned from the closeted one that it won’t work if

she won’t love you publicly.

I learned from the closeted one that it won’t work if

she reads your journal.

I learned from the closeted one how desperate I was to

hold onto the only good I’d experienced in the world.

I learned from the closeted one how two people can

talk forever and still never have enough time to say it

all.

I learned from the closeted one how excruciating and

extravagant stolen hidden kisses can be. How your

whole life can be pinpoint-funneled into your hot

breath on the top of her neck behind her ear, her body

up against the kitchen wall, your hands on her sides,

grasping for her, the rush of listening for footsteps.

I also learned how hiding kisses gets you really good

at not getting them at all.

I wish I would have learned how if it’s going to end

anyway, end it sooner, end it when you will still feel

sad to see it go, when there is still hurt to share with

those supporting you on the other side, before all is

lost and you’ve dealt with the pain of loss all on your

own, slowly, stuck in it all.

End it in that moment, walking down the steps of the

old building, past the courageous ones on the left, and

the art space on the right.

When something bad happened, then something

good, and you thought “I could break up with the clos-

eted one. We could end. And someone would date me

in public. And we could be out.”

I learned end it that moment.

2. I learned from the partier that I like partying.

I would havelearned

I learned from the partier how easy it is to fall into

someone else’s life and in so doing have a diff erent

one of my own.

I learned how I prefer upfront selfi shness to the kind

that infi ltrates slowly, from inner vulnerabilities, with-

out you noticing how you’ve gotten there.

I learned that sex can be fun, and good, and constant.

I learned how to leave a drink on the table.

I learned how to turn down a shot a stranger or new

friend bought for me.

I learned I don’t want to date an alcoholic.

I learned that another’s tortured pain might cause

them to hurt you over and over and not know how to

notice.

I learned you can have a loving, real relationship that’s

unhealthy and not for the long haul - even in attempt.

I learned that I’m almost incapable of resisting a wom-

an passionately playing the guitar. (Someone in San

Francisco reinforced this.)

I wish I would have learned not to value my relation-

ship over my friendships.

I wish I would have learned how not to leave the party,

just because she was ready to go.

I wish I would have learned to say no.

I learned

screaming fi ghts in the rain, shoes untied

being followed home again

that walking out is wrong but can work

that sometimes relationships entail giving back what

belongs to the other in the front yard

and that you can’t always help but yell.

I learned that December 25th can be a vacation day if

you have the right person to share it with.

I learned how to drink too much.

I learned how pleasant lazy weekend mornings can be,

with breakfast food and crossword puzzles, no conver-

sation necessary.

3. I learned from another that if I don’t want it to be a

relationship I need to say that up front, before I kiss her,

before I go home with her.

I learned from succeeding at a one night stand that

even if you are up front, you can’t quote poetry while

laying together after sex and not have them fi nd you

online afterwards.

I learned from the hot Australian to not be afraid to

fi ght for the woman I want, to believe I am the hottest

one in the bar. I also learned that getting too drunk is

just embarrassing when you can’t remember the de-

tails the next day and you run into her, and just a loss

when you can’t remember the details for your self.

I learned from a dancer what purpose simply being in

a relationship can serve. I learned from her how you

can stay with someone just for the perks they provide,

and even if it wasn’t right and you might even regret it,

how good the poetry can still be, and how well I write

among the trees of rock quarry woods and grasses and

beings.

Let’s create more inclusive feminist spaces.

queer spaces.

activist spaces.

party spaces.

creative spaces.

Let’s create a more inclusive world.

Let us carve out feminist spaces that are alcohol free.

queer spaces that are alcohol free.

activist spaces that are alcohol free.

party spaces that are alcohol free.

creative spaces that are alcohol free.

Let us carve out spaces in this world that are alcohol free.

I want a space for me. I want a space to feel comfortable, around fellow feminists, queer people, people of color, activ-ists, advocates, and friends, without alcohol third-wheeling it. I need spaces that are not triggering and not on campus or at work. I need spaces where I can practice my religion without feeling othered. I need spaces where I do not feel pressured to drink just because everyone else is. I want to dance completely sober. Make jokes about the ridiculously privileged completely sober. Laugh til every muscle hurts with my chosen family. Sober. Cry while sipping on virgin sangria. Sober. Let’s make our spaces more inclusive.

RESouRCESSober in CollegeWellness Resource Center @ wellness.missouri .edu/alcohol.html

facebook.com/mizsic

Wellness Resource Center @ wellness.missouri .edu/alcohol.html

When Whiskey Runs in Your Blood-by sequoyah moore

People tell me that I drink liquor like a sailor.That I throw back shots like quick prayers to godand that I drink bottles like thirsty desert soil.I tell them no.

That I drink like my father whose laughs smell like Hennessey and home and whose teeth look like they take daily baths in cold gin.That I drink like my grandmother whose purple Crown bags I’d carry my barbies in and whose trashed beer cans were home to her purple lipstick and my curious tongue.

I tell them that I was amaster beer retriever at age 8 and by 12 I had built strategies for sneaking into the trenches of the kitchen to pour ‘forbidden juice’ into my Kool-aid. Then I tell them that I Could spell Cognac before I could spell sarcophagus and thatLiquor is like the cousin that everyone secretly hates but continues to send over to my house.IDon’t drink like a sailor;I drink because it’s the only constant thing in my life.

People tell me that I have a problem.That I throw back shots like i’m counting how many things I need to forget from the past week.And that I Drink like the bottom of bottles would be a good hiding place from life.

I tell them that

I wish I could drink to that.

“Parents with alcohol use disorders display particular patterns of

alcohol consumption and thereby increase the likelihood that their

children will develop drinking patterns associated with high risk of

alcohol use disorders when they are introduced to alcohol.”

World Health Organization, www.who.int

“More than 10 percent of U.S. children live with

a parent with alcohol problems, according to a

2012 study”

National Institute of Alcohol Abuse & Alocoholism

We are all unique, though some of us are not afforded this

status. People approach me with a single story in mind. Chi-

mamanda Adichie gave a talk called “the danger of a single

story” in which she describes a single story as being that sto-

ry which is told about a people or a place over and over again

so that this is the only story people know about those people

or that place.

I move through this campus constantly facing variations of

a single story; I move through this campus falling under the

gaze of assumptive stereotypes, under the weight of repre-

sentational responsibility and considerable ignorance. And

all of this because one story is told. Over and over again.

This is not your single story; this is my story about how a sin-

gle story falls short. And while this story is my own, I suspect

that this experience of being marginalized and stigmatized is

shared by those who move through this world like me, facing

the same single story.

The other day, I walked into a classroom and was ambushed

by whiteness. Never before had it been so apparent that

the scarf I wear on my head makes me the Other and that

my peers regard me first and foremost by what’s on top of

my head and not what’s in it. I took a seat at the front, too

uncomfortable to wade through the backpacks and winter

coats to take my preferred seat at the back. Too uncomfort-

able because all eyes were on me, likely wondering where I

was from and what language I spoke.

You ask: Do you wear that in the shower? Do you ever take

that off? Does your dad make you wear it? Does your hus-

band make you wear it? Do you wear it in front of your male

cat? Are your ears warm? Aren’t you hot?!

Actually, I’m gorgeous.

I made an active choice to wear hijab - a headscarf and mod-

est dress - when I was 10 and every day since then, I’ve made

the conscious decision to identify as a Muslim womyn in

public by wearing it; I wear hijab for very personal reasons

but my choice simultaneously functions as a political act .

My hijab has incited debate over topics of autonomy, op-

pression, and freedom. (My voice is never asked to be a part

of that debate.) My hijab has been used by Western powers

to incite pity and as an excuse to intervene and commit acts

of violence in places like the Middle East, Pakistan, and Af-

ghanistan. It has been a platform of racialization – if you wear

hijab, you are often automatically identified as Arab. Some-

how, wearing a scarf on my head makes people feel that they

are allowed to presume to know every aspect of my identity

and my story.

I move through this country constantly facing variations of a

single story; I move through this country as the Other, facing

TV screens airing Islamophobic sentiments; approached by

white feminists with a savior complex who inform me that

I’m oppressed and that I don’t have to wear that anymore;

unwelcome when called out on the street by cowards yelling

“terrorist,” “towel head,” “go back to your country.” (Y’all, I was

born in Texas.) And all of this because one story is told. Over

and over again.

* February 9, 2015: Mustafa Matan was shot dead in his Fort McMurry apartmentFebruary 10, 2015: Deah Barakat, 23, Yusor Moham-mad Abu-Salha, 21, and Razan Mohammad Abu-Sal-ha, 19, were shot in their apartment in Chapel Hill, NCFebruary 12, 2015: a Muslim man is physically at-tacked at a Kroger in DearbornFebruary 13, 2015: one of three buildings of the Quba Islamic Institute in Houston were destroyed by arsonFebruary 15, 2015: the non-profit Islamic School of Rhode Island was vandalized with hateful graffiti

I recently revised this piece of writing after, in the last week,

there were 5 hate crimes committed against Muslims within 6

days*. I send peace to my Muslim brothers and sisters and want

to remind you that you are strong, you are important., your ex-

istence is valid and this is all temporary: “the pens have been

lifted, and the pages are dry” (Tirmidhi, Hadith 19).

“uNvEILING”ONE EXPERIENCE

The first time someone introduced me to what the single sto-

ry of my Muslim identity would be was in the second grade.

We used to sit in the hallway before classes started, lined up

against the wall with our backpacks and chatting with our

friends. Two days after 9/11, my two best friends came to

me. They said, “We can’t be your friend anymore. You’re like,

related to Osama bin Laden or something.” So casually, just

like that. I didn’t know who that was, I didn’t know what was

going on, and I’m sure they didn’t either. I didn’t know why,

just the other night, my mother had been crying in front of

the television screen in the dark saying, “Everything is going

to be different now.”

Second graders. Hate is taught. Single stories are taught.

They are read to us like bedtime stories so we fall asleep to

them, so that we become unconscious of their reality. Single

stories are drilled into our brains, into our subcomscious, and

in that way, they are more harmful than we can ever imagine.

You say: American Sniper is great. FOX News airs the truth. Je

Suis Charlie. Islam is an inherently violent religion.

Actually, American Sniper is propaganda. FOX News is some

buffoonery I cannot even… The Je Suis Charlie movement

has only functioned to further stigmatize already Othered

communities, and has become a catalyst for anti-Muslim rac-

ism, spurring hate crimes both in Europe and in North Amer-

ica. As for violence, when I greet another Muslim, I say the

universal “Salam Alaikum” - May Peace Be Upon You - and they

respond with “Wa’alaikum As-salam” - May Peace Be Upon You

Too. Remind me again how a greeting of peace comes from

a religion of violence. Remind me again of how white terror-

ists are mentally ill and a product of their environment, but

brown and black people can never be because they are “in-

herently violent,” “thugs,” “terrorists.”

There are 1.6 billion Muslims in the world, making up around

23% of the world’s population (pewresearchcenter.org). How

can you presume that we are all the same?

COMMON MISUNDERSTANDINGS

WORDS

ALLAH

ISLAM

MUSLIM

JIHAD

derived from al-Ilah, meaning the One deserving all worship; Arabic word for God used by Muslims and Arabic-speak-ing non-Muslims alike

derived from salam, meaning peace through submission to God; a religion and way of life characterized by the belief in one God

a follower of Islam; one who submits to God, associating no one and noth-ing with Him; Muslims DO NOT wor-ship the Prophet Muhammad (Peace be upon him)

HIJAB

BURQA

derived from juhd which means strive, ef-fort or exert; jihad literally means “struggle,” referencing different forms of struggle but most popularly the struggle against temp-tations in attempt to better and purify oneself; a physical jihad is NOT a holy war, it is a struggle against those who threaten or oppress people

NIQAB

literally means “cover,” and within a con-temporary context, it is the headcover worn by Muslim women

the head and face veil that covers every-thing except for the eyes

the head and face veil that covers every-thing, including the eyes which is often covered by a mesh screen

INTERESTED IN LEARNING MORE?Schedule a group presentation with the

M U S L I M S P E A K E R ’ S B U R E A U O F C O L U M B I Aemail tlkt3@mail.missouri.edu

How I Saw FergusonThe photos I decided to submit to RAG do

not fully encompass everything I got to see

and experience when I went to the protests

over Thanksgiving Break. These are just mere

snapshots, blinks rather, of what took place. I

grew up in Florissant, a town that neighbors

Ferguson, and it’s infuriating when all I see on

TV and the internet are photos and videos of

looting, riots, and anger of a town I grew up

in. This is a town that raised me, molded me,

and welcomes me every time I go home. Yes,

the things you see on TV are true to an extent

and just as important to this movement as

anything else, but it’s just ONE increment on

the long scale of events that continue to take

place. When I attended the protests back at

home, I witnessed solidarity, anger, peaceful

protests, kindness, and bravery. My photos

are my testimony.

By Tiffany Melecio

How I Saw Ferguson

Photos by Tiffany Melecio

How I Saw Ferguson

Photos by Tiffany Melecio

“Stop bitching about straight people”, typed the junior social work major,

too angry at his misreading of a Facebook status condemning the bad be-

havior of straight people to notice his good and noble character was not,

in fact, being impugned. “I care a shit ton about these issues,” he continued,

as he thought about how best to explain the struggle for queer liberation

to the gay men he was talking at. He was typing so fervently that he didn’t

notice he ate the last Red Velvet Oreo in the box his roommate bought at

Target earlier that day. It mattered not. These were not the cookies he was

looking for.

Facebook, as everyone knows, is a difficult space to navigate for a straight

white cis ally feminist man who’s supported Obama in both of the last two

elections. He has to deal with his conservative relatives saying insensitive

things about people of color, which he knows would upset his black friend.

But he also has to be careful not to say something that would offend the

women in his life, because they never seem to understand that he’s really

on their side. Maybe if they weren’t so busy being angry. Like these god-

damn gay men who just don’t get why they need to be sensitive to straight

people. Don’t they know that he has struggles too?

He knew in is heart that the pain he felt when his grandfather passed was

akin to centuries of violence committed against marginalized people and

systems of exclusion that relegated them to a second-class position in so-

ciety. And could any kind of psychological pain really hurt more than that

time he broke his leg on the middle school ski trip? Certainly not!

He was literally so frustrated that such unassuming and apolitical state-

ments like the ones had been making were being met with such resistance.

He of all people knew that the gays were just like him. And he wanted

them to be treated just like him. Who, he dared to ask, wouldn’t want to be

just like him?

He just had so much to teach the world. If only everyone knew, like he

knew, that racism could just be over if everyone decided to be nice. Some-

times he became so overwhelmed with this notion that it moved him to

tears—tears that he would probably even admit to having shed to a select

few of his friends, but not the ones he played football with in high school.

As the full extent of his genius washed over him, he tried to get up to find

a tissue, but the weight of his insight was so strong that he vanished com-

pletely and was never heard from again.

I grew up surrounded by the natural world and was in-

stilled with a deep appreciation for our environment and

it’s preservation. Naturally, I found myself as a part of the

environmental movement. I became immersed in it, and

it gave me a voice. I was inspired by the dedication and

strength of those I looked up to. They taught me most of

what I know and made me who I am today.

I was angry. Angry that big oil was polluting our drinking

water and our oceans. That coal companies were destroy-

ing communities and our air. That the fossil fuel industry

had so much control over our government and society. I

stood alongside those I loved and kept protesting.

I wondered why everyone wasn’t beside us. This was a

fi ght for everyone, wasn’t it? The fi ght went well beyond

climate change and some changing temperatures.

Environmentalism was my gateway into social justice.

I began to see the interconnectedness in everything. In

every movement and every issue. The more I learned the

more I realized, my fellow environmentalists and activists,

we have seriously got some shit to work on.

This movement has been criticized over and over. For it’s

lack of inclusivity. It’s tokenization of people. It’s white-

ness and maleness. It’s tendency to coopt messages to fi t

it’s own needs. It’s hypocrisy.

All of that criticism, and, still, we don’t seem to get it.

We say that the environmental movement is the move-

ment of our generation. The most important issue. The

most urgent.

We say this while the unjust killing of black bodies by po-

lice still does not result in indictment.

After Ferguson, some environmental organizations spoke

out in support of the community of Ferguson. Thousands

of their members criticized the organizations because

their statements were irrelevant and inappropriate.

We wonder why everyone isn’t marching with us around

the white house, writing letters and calling our represen-

tatives, dropping banners from coal plants, handcuffi ng

themselves to mining equipment.

We wonder this while women worry about walking

through streets by themselves because they know they

have a 1 in 4 chance of being raped.

Once, at an environmental protest, I actually heard the

speaker say that we need our representatives to focus on

and make legislation about important things, like climate

change, instead of fl ashy issues that get them attention

and voter support, like rape in the military.

We complain that people just don’t understand. They just

don’t see that without a world, people don’t exist to con-

centrate on all the other issues.

We complain while families across the country worry

about having enough money to put food on the table

and making that month’s rent.

Not everyone can buy organic onions and sustainable

light bulbs. Not everyone can aff ord the time to plant an

heirloom seed, GMO-free garden and make it out to that

Thursday afternoon rally.

Let me end by saying that I believe in the environmen-

tal movement. This movement is important. It’s essential.

These things aff ect people. That’s exactly why I’ve devot-

ed so much of my life to it. But we need to be better. If we

truly want a movement, we have to change these narra-

tives. We have to create inclusive spaces and understand

that many do not have the luxury of participating in our

movement, because they’re fi ghting for their lives.

I know that there are many in the movement who are al-

ready doing these things. But that’s not enough. So, I’m

giving a call to action to the movement and everyone in

it. Be better.

a call to action

A TRUTHI NEVER

SPOKE

MY TO

PARENTS

A TRUTHI NEVER

SPOKE

MY TO

PARENTS

I am grateful.

I am grateful.

The Runaways

Manifesto

This town ain’t big enough for the two of us. But I have no gun to draw, only a hand to put in yours.

Let’s leave. Let’s leave footprints all over the places that erase us. Let’s walk so far that we end up with calloused feet and not hearts.

I’ll charge us toward California, that lightning bolt in the oth-erwise rectangular divisions of the West, by way of the South where you’ll fi nd old wounds and new words and worlds to heal them.

We will get lost and ask strangers for help.

When I wake up with legs aching from inertia, you will re-mind me to start each day reaching my fi ngertips for that just past my grasp. When we come across uneven terrain, I will give you my elbow to steady your rolling ankles.

Maybe we will stumble upon utopia. Maybe we will dream and write and speak one into being on our way. Maybe we will fi nd a home where we don’t have to fi ght for our right to be. Or where it doesn’t make us so damn tired. Or maybe not, maybe we just need to be able to take naps.

One day, sooner than I’d hope, we might have to runaway from each other. But we will have prepared one another for the journey. And I will write you postcards, reminding you that we are always homeward bound.

With you, I know I’m not running from. We are running to.

I.

Blood-drenched ropes and

Blood-soaked leaves,

My history chokes on the blood of the

innocent and that of their mourners’ screams.

II.

Bodies one with black asphalt and

Bodies defying gravity,

I close my eyes an’ pray

one day ‘us negroes will be treated like we’s free.

III.

Black hands caked with familial blood and

Black bodies forced to watch themselves bleed,

We ain’t never gone stop fi ghtin’

Cuz this blood fertilizes our seed.

Bloody Fruit;by Sequoyah Moore

Movement is essential in creating any radical change. We

have seen this clearly defi ned in history time and time

again. Crucial movement from marginalized groups and

their allies. Allies have been a vital component of many

movements, some of which have been made possible be-

cause of allies recognizing and rejecting their privilege.

A rejection of privilege is key to the movement of our

allies. The rejection starts with the recognition of guilt.

Recognizing one’s guilt and shame in a productive way

can lead to allyship, to potential movement. Recognizing

this is a process is the fi rst step. I will formally acknowl-

edge here that this is and can be a diffi cult process. Now

that I have acknowledged this, I will say move forward

still. You cannot continue to allow the guilt and shame

of those within your identity group and/or possibly your-

self at some point, who may have caused others pain

(intended or not), to prevent you from movement. We

know there are people within “dominant” identity groups

who have created and perpetuated the system of privi-

lege and power we exist in. We know there are people

within these identity groups who have been blatant per-

petuators of sexist, racist, homophobic, and so on, ide-

ologies. We know there are individuals whose only inter-

est is spewing mal-intent wherever they go for a range

of reasons and rationale. We also know, that this is not

everyone’s intention.

Therefore when you respond to someone claiming their

own agency and voice by overcompensating, by deny-

ing, “explaining” or “clarifying” your intentions or motives,

becoming frustrated, or victimizing yourself; the process

towards movement is halted. We cannot be willing to ad-

dress systemic privilege and the individual privilege of

others and refuse to address our own. We cannot claim

to be without privilege once we have acknowledged that

the word is valid and the system exists. We all come with

a multiplicity of identity, some of which are privileged

and some of which are not. As you sit currently reading

this, recognize this act in and of itself is a privilege.

There have been countless instances where I have ex-

plained to individuals how their microaggressive behav-

iors, gaze, or tokenizing perspectives of my existence is

an assertion of their privilege and invasion of my human-

ity. Of course always navigating carefully. As those who

have been privileged and felt safe enough to vocalize this

right, have come to know all too well, that this conversa-

tion often turns into a legitimization of our reality.

Unfortunately, the most painful of these experiences

have been with White Womyn. Womyn who have told

me not to “presume motives”, Womyn who have acknowl-

edged sexism, but rejected racism, Womyn who have

taken credit for my work, silenced me, and treated me as

if I were invisible. These fi rst-hand encounters have been

refusals to acknowledge the diff erence between us and

rather remain in the similarity of gendered dynamics. As

many Womyn of Colour have come to know; our experi-

ences are never merely gendered or racialized; they in-

tersect to create a unique lived truth for us all. And in

order for authentic movement to occur, these diff erences

needed to be validated from those outside of the margin-

alized group.

My vocalization of these oppressive behaviors and vio-

lations of my humanity have made experiences with

“dominant” identity groups diffi cult. I will continue my

commitment towards understanding that all of our lived

experiences are diff erent. In return, I need others to

understand that I cannot be the vessel for your guilt or

shame. Nor can I be the caretaker of your self-induced

victimization. I need you to work past the phase of guilt,

which encourages you to make the conversation about

you, rather than about your actions. It’s time to move on

from guilt. It’s time to move. It’s time for movement.

OVERCOMING PRIVILEGE GUILT:ALLIES MOVING FORWARD

by two anonymous souls

Between two love lovers

Meet me in this moment, the unbridled will fi nd its own

And I’ll stretch my arms wide and allow bits of my wholesome to leak

Silks whisp in their descentAnointed feet, careful

calloused by the mournings of thrust winters,does one fi nd solace in the sweet of summer?

Now, towards pools astir, a waiting deliverance

Shall I wade in the water with you- Athena laid down her armor

sharing herself with sunrays carried by the wind wrapped ‘round her belly, fl eshy and brown.

Come, let us surrender a dance in laughter hum to it our freedom, fi ll it wet with tears

each hand touching hand in our collection, ever the anagram,mounting love.

Meet me in this moment, the unbridled will fi nd its own

In my childhood home, I have a dresser that’s been mine

for as long as I can remember. Its wood painted over

with tannish paint blended with dark stain, brushstrokes

strong and slightly uneven, chipping at the edges. The

mirror is split into three panels. The middle rises up in a

high arch and the edges are ornate, carved wood. Like

something a princess would sit at. Brushing her long hair

at least one hundred strokes every morning and evening.

The mirror is three panels. Looking in the middle of two

causes whatever you see to be distorted. I used to always

spend too long moving my face back and forth and up

and down between those panels, amused by the diff er-

ent humorous altercations it would make to my face.

And to my waist.

I stood sideways, the split running vertical and splitting

my body in half. The distortion made my waist half it’s

M I R R O Ractual size. I would put my hand on my hip, cock to one

side and gaze on those perfect proportions. Amazed at

how good I looked in whatever dress, skirt, jeans I was

wearing. Then I would take a step back. The reality of my

bigger, normal sized waist glared back at me. I would

sigh and move back between those two mirror panels,

preferring to delude myself, to dream, for just a moment

longer.

I haven’t thought about that practice of mine for a while

now. Until I went home recently and glanced at my re-

fl ection. Those memories fl ooded back. Surfacing all of

my insecurities with them. I stepped back to see my true,

unaltered refl ection. And then back. And then, for the

fi rst time, I realized how that movement back and forth

between those mirrors defi ned so many moments of my

life.

Even when I wasn’t standing in front of them.

MIRROR

wetkisses excerpt from the reaping by. Naomi S. Daugherty

the stars fell

into her mouth.

and she poured them

on my milkyway brown

skin

and i exploded-

into galaxies

i have not known.

I Am the Windby Anonymous

I am the wind.

Just a gust, 

I flow and shift, 

and change or drift. 

I have no figure, 

no shape, 

no size,

nor any expectation.

I am just the wind.

I blow with force 

or as light as a kiss, 

I help lift your wings 

or try to rock the ship.

I ignite fire in some 

and put out others, 

but what can I say? 

I am just the wind.

It’s a familiar feeling to you travelers, you journeymen,

citizens of the world. You nomads living on no man’s

land know it well. It haunts you, follows you. You va-

grants, you vagabonds, you voyagers.

It is waiting for you wayfarers, waiting in the winding

trails of foreign lands. You pioneers find it on frontiers

untrodden, lurking in the crisp crunch of the dead leaves

beneath your feet. It can be found lingering in the lob-

bies of hotels and the houses of the homeless.

One morning it might meet you at the bus stop, co-opt-

ing your commute, corroding your coffee cup, confiscat-

ing the Spam sandwich sealed in a Ziploc. Interrupting

your autopilot. Or it may well crawl under your covers

on an idle evening where it will greet you with urgency

and insistence.

It may be born from boredom, this creeping curiosity

of places unknown. Or it may be the unrelenting itch of

discontent that’s daring you to roam, to leave home all

alone. (Even though your mother would most definitely

disapprove).

It may be that numbness is seeping into your bones and

you seek any sensation to stop it or block it. You’re crav-

ing the narcotic newness that only navigating the night

can ignite. Maybe it’s an elusive existential thirst that

causes you to uncoil your telescope like a bendy straw

reaching for the Milky Way, searching for a light.

It may be a nudge from the universe. The cosmic powers

that be assert that you were meant to explore this earth.

They have conspired your desire to put one foot in front

of the other. They have planted this seed, a yearning

to be free. A longing to know infinity. A need to realize

entity. If you believe, it is serendipity.

But it could be another, an Other indeed. It could feel, to

you, like a divine order. Your God is calling you; this is

her line of communication, this intuition. It is shepherd-

ing you to that which is holy, blessed, pure. Your crav-

ing is for less an uncharted passage than a labyrinth, a

meditative stroll on sacred ground.

But it need not be a grand summoning from a capital G.

You need not a faith in divinity to saunter the streets.

The powerful life force you have at your core, which

pines for more, is more than enough. You can be guided

by goodness, as bright as the circling light in the tower,

leagues above the ocean floor.

So could it be that this is not an “other” at all? Is it pos-

sible that this resides deep within you, hibernating in the

recesses of your soul, floating amongst other unnam-

able, untapped emotions? Maybe this is an inextricable,

inexplicable fiber of your being. A part of you that has

long been aching to surface, but is suppressed by ma-

chines and daily routines. A primal force clawing your

viscera. A tooth once buried in the jawbone now cutting

through cushioning gums, invading the intricate intima-

cies of your mouth, and your tongue keeps coming back

to track its progress, in an attempt to acclimate to the

addition.

They have named this indescribable urge with two words

bound together in the holy matrimony of an onomatopo-

etic union. It only begins to describe this indescribable

“it,” but it is all we have.

Say it.

Feel the awe-inducing expanse of the first syllable. Bask

in the abyss that has opened before the second syllable

wrangles your tongue, clicking it definitively against the

roof of your mouth. After a jaw-drop, the slither of the

second half settles, sliding in you like a succubus, con-

suming you with that which it names.

Let it.

Let your wheels rove the great craters of Mars. Let your

heels heed the way, giving your head a much-needed

break. Give in to the whim when wind is whistling your

name. Search the streets for familiar strangers. Look for

pieces of yourself that strayed, lost their way, on your

way into this world. Go onward. Go upward. Go outward.

Always homeward bound.

- wa n d e r l u s t -

-mary bifulco

MISSED CONNECTIONS Vol. 1 Columbia, Missouri No. 1

Wednesday9 AM | Walnut Street

You said you liked my face. Well to be exact you said, “Hey baby, nice face, I’d fuck the shit out of that.” I wish you wouldn’t have whooshed by so quickly. I could barely see you from the half-down window of that beige Pontiac, but I’m pretty sure we could have been something beautiful.

That day in winter that felt like summerHigh noon | Peace Park

I was trying to read wind-blown pages under that tree that would have left berry stains had it actu-ally been summer. You walked by to tell me that you liked my style and you wanted me to know. I think you are in high school and I got choked up because you made me feel like the

person I wanted to become when I was in high school too. All I said was, “Thank you, that was so sweet of you.” But I wish I had said, “Thanks! I like your purple hair and nose ring.” And then, “Isn’t this day love-ly?” And then, “Want to sit here and read?” And then, “What are you reading?”

And then, “I think you are the person I wanted to be, that I want to be. I wanted you to know.”

What feels like a lifetime ago but only a couple of yearsDusk | Big Houses

I liked you, and your friends liked me, so things should have gone differently. But I needed more therapy for things to have gone differently. You wrote a lot of poetry in our short time together. Never once did I ask to see it. I’m sorry. I’ll show you mine, if you’ll show me yours.

FallToo Late | Your Car, Mostly

I made a New Year’s reso-lution to only sleep with people who give me but-terflies. You could have helped me keep it for a while. But I didn’t let you know that until you were already leaving. Probably the leaving is part of what produced the stomach drops. I think a harder good-bye might have been worth it, don’t you?

201510 PM-12:20 PM | The Mission

I went to see your con-cert in that hip venue that doubled as an an-tique consignment store. Remember that claw-foot bathtub and loveseat in the single-occupancy re-stroom? I didn’t have a chance to tell you that your show was beautiful and brave and that every time you looked down and giggled in embarrassment on stage, I couldn’t help but do the same. So I am telling you now.

The formative yearsDead of Nights | Behind Closed Doors

You got strong legs by dancing every day. I got weak ones from diagno-ses. You maintained that muscle tone by making them go wherever they fancied, fast. I strength-ened mine by standing

in the likes of those that shall not be moved. Let me know next time you are running from some-thing that isn’t me. I’ll let you know next time I’m not too stubborn to fol-low. Deal?

WantedRAG Submissions

Don’t miss your connection with RAG! Submit by March 18th.. THE BODY is the thing you live in, an intensely per-sonal yet also public space. With the world contanstly commentiing upon and en-couraging disconnection with our bodies, Issue 3 is a space to talk back. Bring us your stories of bodily expe-rience, reclemation, and the bodies of people,places, and things that consitute our revolutions.

Missed ConnectionsYou Know Who You Are

Please email RagMag-Zine@gmail.com with the subject line: “Let’s Finish What We Started” (Unless you are the one in the

beige Pontiac. That was a joke. Also, don’t harass people anymore. It’s very unbecoming.)

10 PM-12:20 PM | The Mission

RAG Submissions

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