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Who We Are .....................................................................5 Dedication .......................................................................7 Narratives 1. Classroom Learning happens at the edge ....................11 Ninjas ................................................11 History, His Story ..................................12 I am a student of color ...........................12 Letter to my Professor ............................13 One step closer to changing it ...................13 Dear Professor .....................................14 Speak English .......................................14 Affirmative Action .................................16 2. Micro-aggressions To the guys who yelled ............................19 A tidbit of my Kenyon experience ...............19 Today I received a student-info ..................19 I was at Ganter on Saturday night ...............19 I personally dont care .............................20 Trying to process micro-aggressions .............20 One day I was tabling ..............................21

Frape .................................................21 3. Identity and Self Expression whenever i see a rainbow .........................24 Except When Im Not ..............................24 Blowing Smoke ......................................24 An Open Note to Kenyon ..........................25 The Little Things ...................................26 Living under another language ...................26 Out of place .........................................28 The Queer Womens Collective ..................29 I know youd do the same for me ................30 Growing up in the heart of the Midwest ........30 White Plains .........................................31 I will not be stretched .............................32 FAQ....................................................33 Negation .............................................35 4. Sexual Assault Is this being a woman at Kenyon? ................38 I know my story is a long one .....................39 But I dont blame Kenyon .........................41 To the guy I am forced to interact with .........43

Is this being a woman at Kenyon? II ..............43 6. Policy Whats fair is fair ...................................46 The privilege of screwing up ......................46 Breakup Letter to Kenyon .........................47 Eligibility: Must be a US Citizen ..................50 7. Intersections Think beyond oneself ...............................52 An Even Playing Field ...............................52 Things that typify ....................................53 Habr que...Enero 2011 ............................53 The Sisterhood of Survivors ........................54 Kenyon is a privilege ................................55 What do a Kenyon feminist ........................55 There is so much I can say .........................56 Whats Next ................................................................58 Acknowledgments .........................................................59

The Project for Open Voices began one year ago when a group of students decided to take collective action to address issues of diversity and difference at Kenyon. This year, in order to reach out to a wider range of students, we worked to engage with the Kenyon community in many ways. Through holding discussions and screening documentaries, we encouraged attendees to consider the intersections between different identifiers and to become more comfortable talking about subjects relating to identity. The most consistent feature of our work this year has been the continuation of our weekly meetings, where weve created an open and safe space in which all students are welcome to contribute to the direction of our dialogues. Finally, this spring, we compiled our second publication, a reflection of our firm commitment to sharing the unfiltered experiences of Kenyon students. We believe that each of these narratives is a piece of a wider, collective story about what it means to be a student at Kenyon. In compiling these narratives, we were humbled by the number of students willing to share their experiences no matter how painful, testing or joyful. We would like to extend a heartfelt thank you to everyone who submitted a narrative and trusted us to share their experiences. Anonymity is a central part of the submission process; we are proud to provide a platform for students to share their stories with us, even when they are not comfortable including their name with their narrative. We are continually impressed by the bravery of those whove chosen to share their deeply personal -- and sometimes painful -- memories of their time at Kenyon. Needless to say, this process has been truly inspiring. We would like to emphasize that we publish every piece we receive. While POV engages in dialogue through various means, this publication is a tangible manifestation of our mission.

Some of the narratives we received refer to traumatic experiences. We dedicate this publication to all those who have been, or continue to be, affected by such experiences and hope that the publication of these stories serves as an empowering experience. It is our hope that these stories move our community to action. We do not want the narratives to remain within the pages of this publication. As members of this community, we are all connected to these stories and by engaging with them we can take the first step towards promoting a community defined by mutual respect and dignity.

Inside the Classroom

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Learning happens at the edge of your comfort zone

Sandy Stibitz
I don't know who said it or where I heard it, but I've always loved the saying, "learning happens at the edge of your comfort zone." For me and many people I know at Kenyon, the classroom is a comfort zone. For this reason, some of the most valuable educational experiences I've had during my college career have not taken place at Kenyon. I've been fortunate enough to take several courses with "field trip" components that contextualize, validate, and challenge ideas discussed in the classroom. Kenyon is diverse in so many ways, and though everyone's experience is different, we all share the experience of attending this prestigious liberal arts college. The times that, as part of a Kenyon class, I've been privileged to interact with and learn from people of a different age, race, socio-economic status, educational background, religion, etc. than myself are the ones that have challenged me to consider what it means to be life-long student and passionate citizen. I understand that creating such opportunities for students isn't easy; it requires significant time, effort, financial and other resources from many different groups and people. Still, I think the learning that can happen is absolutely worth it. The classroom has limits. I would love to see Kenyon demonstrate a commitment to integrating experiential learning into more and more classes, taking care to ensure that such experiences are equally accessible to all interested students.

Ninjas
During class a student was describing her study abroad experience in a predominantly Muslim country: The women would wear the niqab-- the veil that conceals the face, body, and hair of a woman only revealing her eyes-- and they all looked like ninjas or something walking around. I was the only Muslim in the class and shocked that she would say something like that to receive a few laughs, with no response whatsoever from the professor. Would anyone ever compare someone wearing a yarmulke to a ninja or something similarly ridiculous? Or how about a nun? The comment bothered me so much because Im Muslim-American and have grown accustomed to the Islamophobia and modern day Orientalism that makes me feel like a second class citizen in the country I was born in. Whether Pam Geller or Robert Spencer are painting Islam as an inherently violent religion, or theres a news story about a mosque or temple that was attacked in a dangerous hate crime, Im no longer surprised. Whether they call it Islamophobia, Death by Brown Skin, modern day Orientalism or any other term, I have accepted it as part of my reality in the US. What I have not and will not accept, however, is that I should be made to feel like an other because of my religion within a classroom at Kenyon College. If a student is misguided and misinformed in their comment, the professor should set an example and correct them. The classroom should be a safe space for all students and all identities. It should not perpetuate inequalities and prejudices rampant in the everyday world, and condone ignorant comments that make underrepresented students feel uncomfortable and unsafe in the classroom. How can we assure this? Faculty must be trained. Whether its a consciousness raising workshop or whatever, they must be taught how to ensure that all students feel safe within the classroom, and that seemingly innocent statements dont make anyone feel like an Other.

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History, His Story

History really is His Story Not my story Or her story But HisStory Every time we see a nickel We are reminded of His place His existence His Story While the face of Sally Hemmings Is hidden like her bastard children Between the lines of school textbooks That HisStory still denies She is the dark blot The stain The stench The failure and shame that cant be faced Like the lives his feet tread on Like the hundreds of souls That were footnotes in HisStory They ignore it And hide it And attack those who seek it They only teach His Story Not Her Story Or My Story Her oppression is secondary to his image Her pain is secondary to his accomplishments Her violation is insignificant in his idolization Her story is silent To his lie

I am a student of color...
I am a student of color and I am taking a class with a good friend who also is a student of color. The professor of the class also happens to be a person of color. I know its hard to believe, three people of color in the same room at Kenyon, but it is true. We were talking about different impacts of culture on different parts of the subject matter. I don't want to say what it is about because it will make it very easy to tell who the professor is. The conversation led to different ways of greeting people; for instance, in some cultures people bend slightly to show respect, or kiss each other on the cheek, etc. The professor then asked for other examples and when no one spoke up, the professor turned to my friend and me and asked us to show the class our handshake. We

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have no such handshake and have never given the professor a reason to think that we do, other than being students of color. It was especially hurtful to hear a comment like this from faculty of color because you almost expect them to understand what it is like to be the one lone non-white face in the crowd or at least to not reinforce these stereotypes. There is no bubble for that on the evaluation.

Letter to my Professor
I just wanted to thank you. Because of you, fifty other students on this campus have my name and my face memorized. Thats all they will ever care to know about me. Because of you they can spot me in crowded parties and outside the Mather breezeway. When I happen to bump into these random individuals whose names I dont remember because you werent as nice to them as you were to me they nod knowingly as I try to introduce myself. I remember you. You were in my class right? Syeeeeeeda hahaha! Thank you professor. Because of you, I dont have to go through the extra hassle of introducing myself or genuinely meeting new people. Thats all overrated anyway. Why would I want anyone to look beyond my identity as a student of color or to get over how ethnic and interesting my name sounds? As you were working on memorizing our names you asked John or Jack I, like you, dont remember their names eitherwhat sport they played, what their major was. When you found that you couldnt quite get the pronunciation of my name correct, however, you didnt care to ask about my major or whether I saw the baseball game. You were more interested in what country my parents had immigrated from. One of the few times you ever asked me to do anything in class, it was to help you pronounce Indian names. Remember how I told you I wasnt Indian? Its okay though. I understand, professor. You were confused. I just look so ethnic and I have such an interesting name. How were you supposed to remember that not all brown people hail from India? Especially since you also had to remember that John was a pitcher on the baseball team or that Sally had a sister? So thanks again professor, for spending most of our class days reminding me of how different I really am. For showing me how the big aspects of my identity as a student here arent my major, or my extra-curriculars, or my accomplishments as a Kenyon student. Its the origins of my brown skin and my ethnic name that are most important. Thank you for reminding me that my ethnicity will always be the first, and probably the only, aspect of my identity most people will care to notice. What would I have done without you?

One step closer to changing it

I came to Kenyon with a very clear idea of what I wanted to study. I had always been interested in politics in high school and had hopes of eventually attending law school. After my first semester at Kenyon, I decided that I wanted to major in political science and concentrate in women and gender studies I became a part of possibly two of the most different departments at Kenyon. I chose political science not because I fell in love with John Stuart Mill in Quest for Justice or because I thought it would grant me a high-paying and prestigious job. I chose it because I grew up with parents that believed in justice and equality. I grew up with a family that discussed

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health care and same-sex marriage at the dinner table, with a family that told me about the negative implications of words like retarded and faggot in 2nd grade. I knew that I was interested in making changes and the world of politics seemed like some sort of path toward that. However, as Ive been checking course requirements off of my list, Ive started to realize that Im not exactly the typical Kenyon political science major as a woman and feminist with very liberal political views. My classes are often maledominated and one-sided. The courses offered year after year often remain unchanged. I just wonder how I will be able to enter a world of politics that encourages progressive policy change and the voices of the unheard when Im studying in such a traditional environment that encourages continuing the legacy that our founding fathers have left for us. The state of politics is constantly changing, so why has our academic department remained the same for so many years? I hope that after studying Tocqueville and Locke and Hobbes and understanding the ins and outs of European governments, and the U.S.s role in international politicsafter understanding the system, I will be one step closer to changing it.

Dear Professor
Dear Professor, Stop calling cultures primitive Stop assuming we share the same history Stop name dropping Buddha in a pitiful attempt to diversify the class Stop justifying Eurocentrism with the statement We are in the West Stop ignoring the beauty of the East The genius of Arabia And the wisdom of Africa Stop stripping them of their magnificence Stop reducing their philosophies to simplistic understandings Stop ignoring the philosophy of the world It is not Our Western European History It is your Western European History Stop assuming that your fundamental truths Are mine Stop assuming that philosophy has always belonged to the West That philosophy originated and can only live in the west That those who fail to share a Greek history cant philosophize The rest of the world is not waiting for the genius of the West Sitting at the edge of its seat to be liberated from its primitive understanding You arent impressive You arent cute Stop with the bullshit Buddha isnt the only philosopher who ever lived in Asia. Female genital mutilation is not the sole characteristic of Africa I googled for five minutes and found proof that non-westerners can think And some of them are brown Oruka Odera, Gayatri Spivak, Jiddu Krishnamurti, Feng Youlan

Speak English
You are the only person of color in your class. As a senior, you should be used to it by now, but you are not. Everyone in the class was supposed to find sources relating to the same topic. Everyone is presenting what they have found. You were sure to ask professors whose focus is on other parts of the world. You were afraid that if you did not bring in sources that dealt with contexts outside of the US, no one else would. Those profes-

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sors you asked told you about novels written in regions where you speak one of the popular languages. You speak three languages. When it is your turn to present your findings, you recite the name of the first author. Your professor struggles to spell it and you spell it out for her. Then you recite the name of the second author. You pronounce both names correctly because your name has been butchered and disgraced enough times that you do not wish to impose that frustration upon others. Your professor struggles to spell the second name and you ask her if you should just write it for her. She looks at you and says, Or you could just say it in English. You do not know how to respond. You look around the room to see if anyone else reacts to her statement. All of your classmates have blank expressions. What did you do? Remind her that the names are not in English? Politely explain that you prefer not to mispronounce names if possible? Ask her to explain what she means by that statement so she can deconstruct her own ignorance and Eurocentrism? No. Your colonized mind responds by butchering their names the same way she butchers yours. It was your fault after all. You should have just said their names in English to begin with, stupid. You look around the room again to see if anyones facial expression has reacted to what just happened. Nothing. You are thankful that your skin is so brown that you hardly blush. You are the only person of color in the class. Days later you share what happened with friends. After you recite the punch line there is complete silence. They stare at you in shock. They ask you how you responded and you look away as you tell them what you said. You all spend a while talking about just how fucked up that was. How completely oblivious the professor is to the fact that as the only student of color in the class, that comment would only make you feel more uncomfortable and alienated. Your friends encourage you to do something, write something, report it, something, anything. You all cling to the idea that there is a tangible reaction that can somehow fix this issue. Later that night you sit in bed thinking about it. You believed her. You allowed her to make you feel stupid. You believed that you were wrong. That you were stupid for saying the names in another language, stupid for speaking another language, stupid for even trying to incorporate stories from brown people, from other countries. But you arent just wrong and stupid, you are inferior. Inferior because you speak other languages, inferior because you were raised bilingual, inferior because you are brown, inferior because your great-grandparents were the savages in the British Empire, inferior because you are not white. You think of freshman year and what your cousin said to you about Kenyon. During orientation your parents, aunt and cousin came to drop you off because you are the first to go away to an expensive private college. Your working-class immigrant family had so little in common with the other families at Orientation that they stuck to themselves during the events, speaking in their native tongue and marveling at everything. Your cousin later told you that she had never been around so many white people before and it made her very uncomfortable. She told you that people stared at

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them during the Orientation. They didnt glance, they stared. People stared at your family. You dont need any professor to make you feel stupid and inferior because you have been aware of this dynamic since orientation. You knew you were the Other that did not belong here since the beginning, yet you chose to stay here. Your mother tried to talk you out of it several times but you refused because you thought Kenyon would be worth it. You thought you would love it here. Yet here you are crying in bed because your professor basically told you to speak English. No, thats not why you are crying. Do not think for one second that you are crying because some old white woman said something ignorant to you. You are crying because you believed her. You allowed her to have power over you. You allowed her in a single second, to demean your language, identity, heritage and family while placing English on a white, American pedestal. You are lucky to have friends who understand and support you through all the bullshit. But that still does not stop you from imagining people staring at your family because of you and your familys otherness. In those moments you are incapable of seeing Kenyon as anything but rich and white and privileged. Every speck of diversity appears to be an aberration from the norm. But now you can count the days until graduation. You often reflect on the times you felt demeaned and empowered on this campus. You wonder if it would have been the same elsewhere, but it does not matter because soon you will receive your degree and disappear from this place, never to return to another like it. You only hope that those who come after you, the other students from the margins of this world, find that their time here is a little easier than yours was. You hope no one stares at their family. You hope they discover the Project for Open Voices from the very beginning. You hope that at some point they read this publication, marveling at what a different place Kenyon was back then.

Affirmative Action
The other day my anthropology class engaged in an unexpected conversation about affirmative action in what turned out to be a forty-five minute deviation from discussing the days prescribed reading. In many ways I was grateful for this conversation in which differing and candid opinions were offered, in which students engaged in unprompted dialogue about a uncomfortable topic most choose to shy away from, and where classmates were brave enough to say things they knew would be unpopular or perceived as not-politically correct. That being said, I also found this discussion somewhat wearisome. Listening to white students complain about how entirely irksome they felt affirmative action to be, how unfair it was that students of color are automatically preferred over Caucasian students with similar credentials, and the inequitable nature of these policies in the equal society that is America seemed like both a reductive take on contemporary race relations and a gross overestimate of Americas propensity for fairness and impartiality. None of my classmates said these things with malevolence or insincerity, but I do want to implore them to think how their comments made students of color in the class feel, myself being one of them. Contingent on this airing of grievances was the accidental but unavoidable suggestion

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that maybe people like me are here because the school had to fill a certain quota, that my stance as a Kenyon College student was more out of obligation than it was for another student who was equally or more qualified but made for a worse photo op. Of course that was not what the students in my class intended to say, but that does not negate the fact that this was how it inadvertently made me feel. Many will accuse me of being oversensitive, but this is always the fear in speaking out against an abstracted majority being labeled as one overeager to pull out the self-righteous race card. But I think thats where conversations of diversity sputter and descend into a kind of circuitous tail-chasing in progressive institutions full of abundant wealth and good intentions like this one. Kids who do not identify as prejudiced do not like to feel like they are being attacked for their privilege, a stance that is largely beyond their control and nonnegotiable. They do not like to be made to feel guilty when they themselves are not actively perpetuating an environment that is inhospitable to marginalized communities. But the real conversation starts when we talk about the ways we unconsciously participate in constructing a hegemonic culture where many students cant help but feel different. I think conversations like the one I had in class are small examples of the ways in which we unintentionally alienate peers who have grown tired of defending or explaining their place in the world. The last thing I mean to say is that because of this pitfall we should avoid tricky conversations. There is a tyranny too in being falsely politically correct and congenial. Often times I think our collective reluctance to engage in important dialogues about intersections of gender, race and class stems from our misguided belief that we dont get a say in the matter. I certainly feel that way, as someone who has been shuffled from one private school to the next. My privileged background and mixed heritage act as a deterrent for me to talk freely about my experience of being a person of color at this school because I never feel that I am entitled to voice offense --- I was and am afraid of appearing advantageous or melodramatic in the face of so many other students who experience greater discrimination or discomfort than myself. Ive had it easy; of this Im certain. But it was this unproductive self-awareness that prevented me from voicing in that class what I wanted to say: that regardless of how you feel about it, affirmative action is not just an acknowledgment of race but an acknowledgment of institutionalized racism, that we have to place our personal anecdotes and feelings of resentment in a greater historical context, and that we always have to strive towards the impossible task of inhabiting someone elses shoes when talking about topics as complicated as this one. This being said, nothing makes me more optimistic about the possibility of meaningful dialogue at this school than the POVs Ive been reading both on The Thrill and through their own publication. Those student accounts reflect a kind of bravery and honesty that have helped foster a more frank portrayal of what life is like at Kenyon and have inspired me to be thoughtful about my own identity here in a more nuanced way. All I can hope for more is more productive deviations from the days prescribed reading, admittedly for more reasons than one.

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To the guys who yelled...

John Foley

To the guys who yelled "FUCK YOU FAGGOT" as you drove by me on Wiggin Street in your red SUV tonight, you are officially the first (and hopefully only) people blacklisted from attending my future wedding.

A Tidbit of My Kenyon Experience

Jinexa Nuez

A little while ago I was helping a friend practice Spanish in a hallway. Someone walks up casually and says Why are you speaking Spanish? This isnt Harlem. I was shocked, and Im not sure now if I intended to respond, but before I could, the friend I was helping exclaimed Were speaking Spanish, not ghetto! I am from New York. Spanish was my first language. Harlem is a miniscule walk from my home. I shook my head in disapproval, walking backwards, trying to retreat to a safe space because this was not one. The only thing I managed to say was along the lines of, You two are ridiculous, Im leaving. Certainly I meant what I said, but it shouldnt have been the end of that conversation. Especially when my reaction was met with giggles. So my struggle is this: during POV meetings, I sit and absorb wonderful insight made by wonderful people, I sit and listen to stories and comments and questions, but those who need to hear them do not. Furthermore, I cant confront, at least not all the time, those who are ignorant of culture and individuality. But hear me now when I say that Harlem is a place filled with diverse tongues, people, history, culture and beauty; that Spanish speakers, or speakers of any language, are not to be defined derogatorily; that no one individual should feel uncomfortable or offended in their own home away from
home.

This narrative is to say that as much as I love Kenyon, there are issues Id like to rid . This narrative is my way of sharing an anecdote I didnt feel comfortable saying to my friends. This narrative is my sincerest thank you to POV for giving me strength through hope, hope that our community will change with time, activism, and passion.

Today I received a Student-info...

Today I received a Student info with the heading: Are you student of color? Do you plan to go on to graduate school? Inside the email read The goal of this program is to deepen the pool of talented minorities. While I understand and support these types of programs that are needed to make up for the inequalities out there. I cant help but wonder when will people stop being judged through the lens of race. When will underrepresented identities stop being exploited as a way to create diversity? Will there ever be a point when students of color (or any other minority) will no longer need to be singled out, and can finally just identify as students?

I was at the Ganter on Saturday night...

I was at the Ganter on Saturday night with a group of my friends. All of us are female and we were enjoying each others' company and dancing when we were approached by two boys. One of them gestured to my friend and I (we were holding hands and dancing at the time) and said "Are you two lesbians?" To which I replied that no, we were simply drunk and having fun. "So that makes it okay?" His response was surprising to me, and became more offensive the more I thought about it. As a white, straight female from an affluent family I can

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safely say that I have experienced very little discrimination in my life, and especially not at Kenyon. But right there, on the dance floor at the Ganter I was at a loss for words. Makes what okay, exactly? The fact that two girls were dancing together, not even grinding but just dancing? I'm sorry to have offended your conservative heterosexuality but there is absolutely no problem with that. Blatant homophobia is difficult to find at a school as liberal as this one, but I was given a small taste of it this weekend and could not be more disappointed in those boys and the other like-minded people at this school.

I personally dont care if you use that word, and I certainly dont care about what made it slip out.
I write this with a weird combination of dread and satisfaction. Dread from even the slightest chance that recounting a story of a white girl saying nigga will have the allstu masses up in arms, even though its probably not that uncommon, and satisfaction because this is something Ive wanted to voice for a long time. So one night I visited some friends in the North Campus Apartments and as the night began to wind down myself and others were ready to make our departure. I stepped outside with one of the friends, a girl in my year, and as we were beginning the trek back south another friend steps outside and the girl calls out to him Sup my nigga. I was taken aback, but only in a really surprised sense because its just not everyday I hear a white girl say nigga. Its something out of the ordinary for me. I wasnt offended. I was just surprised, but because Im black I must have been offended, and so she apologized and then explained herself. Honestly if I was going to be offended by anything, it would be that reaction because she prejudged my reaction based on my race. Now if I recall correctly, thats pretty much what prejudice is. Then the explanation was hilarious. Sorry Ive been watching a lot of The Wire. I just didnt respond because I thought it would be funnier that way. I still consider this person a friend. The reason I write this is to say that prejudice doesnt just come from politically incorrectness. It can come from assuming that just because you are of a marginalized group, you demand political correctness from all your friends with relatively more privilege than you. If we really want to engage with diversity we need to remind ourselves that just because someone looks a certain way doesnt mean they are offended by a certain thing and it doesnt mean they cant say offensive things themselves.

Trying to process micro-aggressions

I worry that a stranger will overhear a white friend stereotypically caricaturing their interpretation of inner city black poverty. They are intelligent, but they have been deceived. What is it that possesses them? I am embarrassed. My heart sinks. A small piece of my soul disintegrates. In that moment I doubt they consciously decided to carry on the legacy of minstrelsy and black face but they did. In that moment I knew what they were doing. I knew because Ive read about it. Ive heard lectures about it. Ive anxiously turned the pages of countless history texts, slowly swallowing and digesting the bitter taste that American history leaves in your mouth. Ive lost track of time. I dont know where I am. Physically I am here, but emotionally I am scattered. I am torn between apologizing to the people I meet in assigned readings and desperately trying to process micro-aggressions that whiz by me on a daily basis. I am caught in space and time. Ashamed and hopeful, exhausted and energized, perplexed and confident.

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I thought I was alone. But then I realized that my anger and frustration was shared. I dont have religion but Im finding love. Im discovering community. Im finding my own voice. But still there are times when I lose it. When I am paralyzed. When I pretend not to hear

One day I was tabling...

One day I was tabling in Peirce with another student. We were trying to solicit signatures for a petition and kept repeating the same sound-bit explaining our cause to everyone that walked by. We were like robots, spitting out the same two sentences over and over and over again. The script never changed, that is until one of my friends stopped by the table. My friend is black, and it was only when he stopped by the table did the other student I was working with mention that a similar political tactic was used to end apartheid in South Africa. That was the only time all day he brought it up. I didnt say anything. I wish I had. Although Im sure no harm was meant by the comment, it is small comments like this that can make Kenyon feel like an alienating place.

Frape

Annette Covrigaru

When I heard it for the first time, I didnt ask what it meant. To be honest, I didnt think there was a definition for the word. I didnt even think it was a word at all, but a slight blunder, a mumble, a half-spoken beginning or ending to a British idiom that I was unaware of. So I let it slide. Then I heard it again. This time there was no denying the existence of the word. I was in the library with Biebs (a nickname, short for Justin Bieber, because she looked exactly like him), and Snooki (again, another nickname, because the way she wore her hair reminded me of Snookis trademark, jerseylicious poof). Biebs had walked away for a minute, leaving her laptop open and her Facebook vulnerable. So, clearly, I hacked it and changed her status to a motivational pop lyric written in a style reminiscent of tweenage AIM away messages: L!Vin y0uNg & W!ld & fR33 !!! It only took a second to garner a couple of likes. I was satisfied with myself I pulled of a lighthearted, mildly witty Facebook hack, and I was waiting for Biebs to come back and notice it. She sat back down, gazed at her screen, turned to me and asked, Did you just frape me? Frape? Yeah. Someone changed my status. So maybe I did hear it correctly the first time, I started thinking to myself, but I didnt want to allow myself to believe it. Facebook + Rape = Frape I asked Biebs if thats what frape actually meant, just to be certain. She said yeah in a way that made me seem clueless. Apparently frape was a term everyone used. To me it was considered to be a hack. Only a few times in high school did I remem-

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ber kids describe the action of manically posting random shit on their friends profiles as raping their wall, but that phrase had stopped being popular a while ago. The word frape made me extremely uncomfortable and confused. I didnt understand why everyone couldnt just say, hack instead. Hack didnt have any violent or grotesque implications. Frape did. It didnt take me that long to realize how frequently and casually my British friends and other uni students used the words frape and rapey. Rapey, I learned, could be used in just about any situation. It could be used to describe facial expressions: Youre looking at me with rapey eyes! Or gestures: The way you just moved your hand was so rapey! Even entire personas could be rapey. I was absolutely stunned, puzzled, appalled. Why in the world would people associate themselves with such a vial act, and enthusiastically proclaim that they themselves were rapey individuals? It made no sense to me, and still continues to bother me. For a while, I tried to make excuses for it and blame it on the Brits sense of humor, which tends to be more vulgar than the Americans. But that just wouldnt cut it. No. To me, calling someone else or even yourself rapey is inappropriate and offensive. It can be triggering and upsetting for survivors of sexual assault or rape. Its just wrong. The worst part was not being able to prevent my friends from saying frape or rapey. It was so imbedded in their daily vocabulary that there was absolutely nothing I could do. Or at least thats how I felt in the moment. In retrospect, I couldve interjected and told my friends how uncomfortable those words made me feel, and suggested they use other, more acceptable words to convey their message. All I can say is Im glad to be back at Kenyon, surrounded by students and friends that dont consider the people they love to be rapey. And where I can sneakily post Wiz Khalifa lyrics on my friends statuses and have it them be called hacks. A lame hack, yes. But a hack nonetheless.

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whenever i see a rainbow

whether its hung, flung, waving from a window in the bullseye, whether its stuck, pinned, clung onto a classroom door, laptop, backpack, whether its taped, draped, tucked away on a wall, dresser, somewhere in a room, however its displayed, wherever, by whomever, whenever i see a rainbow it makes me smile. admissions, unity

Except When I'm Not: Gender, Sexuality, and Me

I almost walk into the men's restroom. Almost, because the girl I'm with grabs my arm and says "The women's is on the left. You are a woman, right?" The last part is supposed to be a joke, I'm sure. Yes, I'm a woman and live in a girl's hall. Yes, I'm a woman and use the women's restroom, the women's locker room. Except when I'm a man and forced to room with a girl in a girl's hall. Except when I'm a man and forced to use the women's restroom, the women's locker room. I'm someone whose gender doesn't match their sex. Except when it does. It would be easier if I was transgender, FTM. But I'm not. I'm trans*. I'm genderqueer, genderfluid, and fucking proud of it. Except when I'm not. Sometimes I'm a man; sometimes I'm a woman; and sometimes, sometimes, I'm somewhere in between. I can spend weeks as a man, go days as a woman, oscillate between the two in the space of a fifty minute class and feel stuck in the middle by the time dinner hits. Some days it's okay; some days I'm proud of who I am. I smile and laugh and practice my sarcasm. Some days it's fucking stinks; some days I hate myself. I want cry and shout and curl up in my St. Louis Cardinals blanket, because it sucks when you're a dysphoric mess and all you want is a flat chest and a cock. I hit on guys when I'm a guy; I flirt with girls when I'm a girl. I'm gay. I'm lesbian. I'm queer and I love it. Now can someone tell me how to start a relationship? Because I have no fucking idea. I live in a world of paradoxes, and somehow I'm always on both sides. But I'm okay with that, because paradoxes have the tendency to resolve themselves. Except when they don't.

Blowing Smoke
I wish to be upfront about the nature of this piece. It is not about race, class, gender, sexual orientation or any other typical topic pertaining to issues of diversity. Rather, this piece is about a social phenomenon I have observed at Kenyon, namely, that smoking cigarettes widens one's social circle. Now before anyone writes an angry response article saying that I am stereotyping smokers, let me make clear that I

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am not passing judgment but merely stating an observation I have made. Additionally, this piece is not a comment on others actions but instead questioning whether or not I would have had a different social experience at Kenyon if I smoked. I smoked cigarettes occasionally in high school and for the first few months of my freshman year in college but eventually chose to stop all together. However, I noticed that smoking can enhance ones social situation at Kenyon when a friend of mine picked up smoking. He began to talk to more people (who also smoked), because he now had a reason to talk to them, a common ground. This is normal, and if two people are having cigarettes outside of the library, it is natural for them to strike up a conversation. However, particularly among freshman this year, I have noticed that entire groups of friends are formed because of cigarette smoking. Granted, these people may have a lot in common and just happen to have met because they were smoking. Nevertheless, this phenomenon strikes me as odd. For example, social groups wouldnt be formed among coffee drinkers, but the cigarette holds a kind of social power, especially at Kenyon. As I said at the beginning of this piece, I am not passing judgment on anyone who smokes, but merely reflecting on what I have observed. Based on these observations, I think if I had smoked regularly during my time at Kenyon, I would have had more people to talk to.

An Open Note to Kenyon:

We are not all white, elite, and wealthy. We are the daughters of public school teachers and the sons of local line cooks. We can fill out the FAFSA and CSS Profile in our sleep. We are Pell Grant recipients. We agonize over our accumulating student debt, but are thankful to attend Kenyon. Our grandparents were farmers in the West and migrant workers in the South. We shop at Goodwill and the Salvation Army. Our friends pay for our dinner out. You see us working in the library, student activities office, KAC, etc. We save up money in the hope of traveling home for school breaks. We proudly work minimum wage. We are black, white, brown, and every color in between. Our bank accounts barely have enough for next semester's textbooks. We speak out for social causes and perform community service, but are silent about ourselves. For the last few years at Kenyon I have passed at the typical Kenyon student: (White, wealthy, privileged).

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I am tired. I need to be heard. We need to be heard.

The Little Things

I love it when random people smile or wave at me on middle path. It reminds me why I chose to come here. People should do that more often.

Living under another language...

Iggee Hu

Every time I started learning a new language, it is something like the delight of a conqueror within myself that worked, conquering the myths of another culture, conquering the barriers of my up-bringing that try to confine my vision. The experience of learning english really sends me to an ideal in which being able to master multiple languages is like being born in multiple countries and enjoying the kaleidoscopic mindsets they will give me. Id think of Chinese, my native language, as nothing more than one of them---Id sometimes loathe it because I know it too well, much better than I know other languages. And that makes me feel like I am not getting there. In high school I studied English much harder than any other subjects. Id memorize a long passage, write an essay, watch a couple of English films and speak with my tutor. Seeing myself gradually gain a good grasp of the language made me dizzy with joy. Id memorize around 200-300 English words every night before I took tests for entering schools in the United States, and make my mom check them. She teared up and told me: You need to stop doing this, this is not right, this is not healthy. Before I left home some of my English teachers told me I would be able to trick others into thinking that I am not a foreign-speaker. I left feeling that Id rock with what Ive got, and a new world will be born oblivious of the previous one ---the world that makes me go to school 12 hours a day, that tries to make me believe that who I am is not as important as what I am supposed to be, a world that tells everyone: Actually, you dont get to decide your life, and you have no voice to complain. The first year seems to be like a rebirth. I made friends, I learnt more slangs, I was able to talk about relatively sophisticated subjects with people, I got away with writing papers. The hidden uneasiness was shadowed by the thrills of learning English contextually and all the other new things that happened in my life. I felt good about myself, and I took two other languages in Kenyon, so that I can carry on my grand ambitions. Times goes by and I have cooled down from my brand new life. And questions start to surface (they came after incidents that happened in life that makes me look into myself more, of course). The first one is that I realized that I was never to regain that particular sense of humor and personality I had in Chinese; I got some of it across, but mostly, as I recollect from the past, it is simply lost. Id say incorrect, sarcastic, villainous, jestful, friendly, affectionate...but the combination of these vocabulary simple does not make sense or convey who I felt I was. I tried to re-live this feeling in order to know what it is---I remember I was able to play with my words so agilely that every corner of my sentiments pops out whenever I wanted. I tried talking

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to my friends and family back home---and I was speaking Chinese with English syntax, my feelings as depicted orally were rough and imprecise. I panicked, what will happen to me if I were to be trapped inside like this forever? I began to miss the time when I talked freely, without constrain, when I was able to pinpoint and verbalize all the slight observations I have in life. And I was finally, terribly nostalgic. I asked myself where the first question even came from, and I was forced to admit, during my crisis, that living under another language, as time elapses, can be a constant strain on the mind, embarrassment and alienation. It was a strain on the mind because to speak accurately and precisely I have to always consciously orient myself towards it; an embarrassment because I miscarry what I meant all the time; an alienation because I feel there is a wall, so much more powerful and omnipresent than I thought, between me and the beloved English language, me and other people around me. Sometimes Id sit in front of my friends at dinner and the horrifying thought would emerge in my mind: these people never actually knew me, my closest friends dont know who I am, they dont know that Ive felt in so many ways that the English language dont even have words for. I felt dry, suffocated and uprooted. I was reminded of a Chinese restaurant when I visited in Texas---it was so outdated, bizarre, people who work there carry an expression that frightens me. It was neither American nor Chinese. It was an expression of misplacement, a ghostly dream contrived by the two lands who haunted them. I became unmotivated about my two other language classes. Also, since they are on the same course level, Id often find my mind stuck with the word I wanted in another language when I try to speak. I wonder: how do other people, who have the similar experience as I do, deal with these things? Ive not yet had any satisfactory response to my questions. Sometimes I thought its just that I am simply too psychotic and sensitive; sometimes I thought the problem might be the excessive degree to which I disavow my native language (and everything behind it) in order to achieve my goals, which leaves me groundless as a learner of language and as a person---but doesnt that mean that this assiduously planned path of mine is overall an illusion? Other times I would feel, disheartened, that I am either too old or badly-endowed for it. Last night, when I was at the international formal, two of my fellow Chinese students asked me in Chinese: Can you take a picture of us? I was inebriated, happy, my head cloudy with all sorts of passing thoughts about what just flashed before my eyes. I did not understand what they said, so I leant towards them and asked in English: What? They said in Chinese again: Can you take a picture of us? I was a bit annoyed that I could not understand them so I asked again. They said in Chinese again and I paid attention. Can you take a picture of us? They said in English, and they looked at me. I took a picture of them. My eyes fixed on them as well, and they disappeared somewhere inside. I wonder if they feel it as well?

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Out of place

note: A recent Kenyon alumnus

I remember during the summer after high school I received a packet in the mail with some vague details about my roommate-to-be for the upcoming year at Kenyon. I was really surprised and somewhat shocked when I noticed that his current address was in Manhattan. My parents were very excited, as just like me, they knew few people outside of our slice of Middle-of-Nowhere, Ohio, and when it came time to move into Lewis Hall that August I was filled to the brim with excitement at meeting him and getting to know someone from a place so different from my own. Even the thought of meeting other first year students was both very exciting and very daunting - after all, if my roommate was this cool, sophisticated city-kid (as I imagined him to be), who knew what the other students would be like. As it turned out, my roommate and I got along really well and had a great year getting to know each other and adjusting to college life. In fact, aside from being in awe of where some of the people on my hall were from (Beverly HIlls, DC, all over New England, etc.) and what their parents did (one persons father was an agent for the star of one of my favorite movies that summer), I was pleasantly surprised when some of them took an interest in me and hearing about my background. I happily told my new friends about my hometown, my high school, and even somewhat ridiculous stories, such as chasing raccoons away from my familys chicken coop as a child or being served squirrel stew at a memorable family holiday dinner. While this initial Welcome to Kenyon! period - of being enthralled by these interesting people with really nice cars and clothes, from places I knew nothing about - was certainly exhilarating for a while (I guess growing up in the area around Kenyon had left me jaded to the stock Kenyon-adjustment phase of becoming smitten with Amish handicrafts, pristine forests, and rural life), the charm soon began to fade. I started noticing things that I had never experienced before and that would often leave me feeling foolish, out of place, or embarrassed. The first instance that I explicitly remember feeling shamed by was when I overheard a young woman sitting behind me in one of my first classes at Kenyon talk (not quite discretely) to her friend about how slummy and trashy my clothes were and how I had probably bought my shirt at Walmart (I may have). I would become more and more conscious of how I looked to my well-dressed classmates as the semester went on, and eventually my speech even became a source of embarrassment for me at times. As I met more students on campus, some would be taken aback or even chuckle when they talked to me, due to my rural accent (which I wasnt aware existed prior to Kenyon). Later on, even my friends would use my appearance, my mannerisms, or even my familys background as the butt of jokes - one specific parody involved multiple people pretending to be various imagined relatives of mine shouting with exaggerated twangs and chasing me or each other with pretend guns and jugs of moonshine. Although I would feel painfully embarrassed and demeaned by this, I would go along with them and pretend to enjoy the mockery simply because I didnt know what else to do - basically everyone I knew came from wealth and privilege. As me went on and I learned about Townies, I found myself sometimes compared (both implicitly and explicitly) to the dirty, sketchy, meth -addict stereotype of a local that existed in the minds of some of my fellow students. At this point, I had started to get used to my caricature and my friends jokes or the occasional sneer from a particularly arrogant student had begun to trouble me less. Regardless, I would still feel tremendously sad when my friends or others would make degrading jokes about people they saw at Walmart or Goodwill or other places in Mt Vernon - not necessarily

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because I felt like I was personally being attacked, but because I could realistically picture my own aunt or uncle (who would sometimes shop at these very same stores in Mt. Vernon) being the objects of ridicule. By the time I graduated, I had come to expect this kind of behavior from some people at Kenyon. I certainly did what I could to avoid being in contact with these people whenever possible, although this was always a struggle given the reality of the campus. I eventually gravitated towards more accepting and less patronizing social circles and some of my old friends even stopped acting as outwardly condescending as they had in years past. Nonetheless, during my four years at Kenyon I rarely found this kind of behavior or sentiment a topic of serious discussion, and ultimately, in a place where I had grown up only minutes away, I never really was able to completely escape from feeling out of place.

The Queer Womens Collective

I wish my mother could see this: A room full of women - not straight-identified - and the house isnt going down in flames or sinking to hell. Were having fun. I cant concisely describe the atmosphere in that room. Its the buzzing feeling of excitement, and smiles on everyones faces. Its the tension of the voices knowing that, at any second, the conversation could erupt into laughter. Its the dozens of jokes flying back and forth during the hour of incessant banter. For an hour, were a group of friends who might not even know each other that well, but with jokes no one else will understand, histories many people will never learn, and pasts that link together in too many ways to count. Everyone has a coming out story. Everyone has a discrimination story. Everyone has a shared hurt in Prop 8 and a shared celebration in New Yorks marriage victory. I could walk into that room and feel comfortable sitting down next to anyone, talking to anyone. In that room, I do not feel judged. In that room, I do not feel afraid. In that room, I do not feel self-conscious. In that room, I do not feel defensive. In that room, for one hour a week, I feel more me than anytime else. We share our preferred pronouns, plan things like Brozier and Homo Hoedown, support those having a hard time and celebrate with those who have a positive story. We discuss happenings on campus, both good and bad, squeal uncomfortably during conversations about STIs, and listen in fear to stories about street harassment. We eat Cheetos, talk about celebrity crushes, and suggest a field trip a K-Stew art exhibit. We plan ways to make the future better. I dont know how to describe the feeling of the Queer Womens Collective except that when were united in one room, I feel like everything will be okay. This is the epitome of a safe space. I know that we focus on the negative a lot because those stories are the ones that get us riled up, and rightfully so. But this is the positive and thats important. I dont love everything about Kenyon, but I love Qdubs, and I love Kenyon, and sometimes I need to remind myself of that. I dont know how to get the feeling in that room out to the rest of campus, but Im going to try, because the feeling of a safe space is too damn great not to share with everyone else.

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I know youd do the same for me

Last semester on a Saturday night I saw someone throw a bike down to the lawn outside Mather. It was late, around 3:00 AM, and I was walking home alone. As I walked up the path that curves up from the side of Gund to Mather and McBride, I saw a drunken student heave this bike over the path ahead of me, over the fence, down to the lawn. I got frustrated and mostly very annoyed. This was around the time when our campus was experiencing a lot of random, irresponsible acts of vandalism, and here it seemed like I found a person contributing to that. Not only is it disrespectful to damage another persons property, but it suggests a sense of entitlement and lack of social awareness. Its also just really lame. Yes, this person was drunk, but that does not excuse such acts. This is a community that we all decided to be a part of. I sometimes think that we all assume a lot of things about each other at Kenyon. For some, having a bike is a financial investment. Maybe that was a gift or maybe it was simply purchased at a garage sale. Regardless, it has some sort of value for someone, and the fact that a drunken guy carelessly threw it, and possibly damaged it, is an act of disrespect and even dominance. Maybe Im even assuming: perhaps, it was that guys own bike after all. The bottom line is Kenyon spaces are owned by all of us here in the community and we need to exercise mindfulness and respect. When you do that to someones property it directly affects me too. The other annoying part of this situation was my reaction. Instead of stepping in, maybe telling him that wasnt cool, I sped up walking. I wasnt sure how to handle it. I am a woman, I was walking home late, and a lot of weird things were going on, safetywise, around campus in general at that time. But I couldnt stop thinking about a POV narrative I read last year about someones own bike being damaged, and how frustrating that was for them. I witnessed someones bike being damaged, and instead of acting like I thought I would, I let someone down. So the responsibility isnt just on that bike damager, but its on me too, as a witness. We need to all be a little more kind to each other, especially kind to those who we dont see, or personally know, that whole anonymous Kenyon Student Body. Because Kenyon is a community and should be a safe space for everyone. And when you are walking past all those bike racks full of bikes, those are all individual people. When we are walking down Middle Path, were making footsteps along with thousands of individual footsteps of individual people. We are all unique people but we all chose to go to this wonderful school and be a part of this small community. So I apologize on behalf of that drunken bike thrower and myself, the un-acting witness, to whomever found their bike on Mather lawn. I promise next time Ill really look out for it. I know youd do the same for me.

Growing up in the heart of the Midwest

Wanufi Teshome

Growing up in the heart of the Midwest ensured that I was no stranger to racial insensitivity. My life was like a bad Disney Channel show, I was the black best friend who made everything look more progressive and integrated. I was the good black kid who was black enough to be cool but white enough to not scare anyone. My existence made their lives more colorful (literally and figuratively) without forcing them to reevaluate their behavior or mindsets. My status as an immigrant did not help the situation. Since I had grown up with very few friends (not knowing English will do that to you), I was scared to tell my new white friends that some of their comments bothered me. When I was twelve, I was less concerned with challenging peoples narrow perceptions of my ethnic identity and more concerned with having someone to sit with at lunch. So I smiled awkwardly through the uncomfortable moments and hesitantly stepped into my

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role as the token black friend. Before long, statements like Do you have AIDS? and Im so glad youre not that black sparked less anger and more resigned annoyance. During high school I began to resent my role as the black best friend. By this time I had read too much Maya Angelou and Angela Davis to stay in Nebraska. My friends didnt know what had happened to me. I didnt know and still dont know how to tell them that Im no longer the friend hungry tweenager I once was. I knew I could never be comfortable in a community where I was typecast into the role of the exotic and sassy black girl. I decided to move to the east coast. I was aiming for New York but I only made it about half way and I ended up at Kenyon College in Gambier Ohio. I thought that Kenyon would be a slightly less angering repeat of Nebraska. I came prepared for the possibility that Kenyon would not be comfortable for me. I was ready to treat Kenyon like a stepping-stone to get to my true home somewhere on the east coast where I would finally see this thing called diversity. But the more time I spent at Kenyon the more I began to love it. Not because there arent ignorant people her, but because those people do not dominate my experiences. After a lifetime of relationships with people who treated me more like an exotic accessory and less like a friend, I am happy to be in a community where this is less of a problem. This community is not perfect but I feel empowered to communicate with others about my experiences, both positive and negative.

White Plains

Sam Del Rowe

At the end of this semester, I will be leaving Kenyon. I am neither graduating nor going abroad. Rather, I intend to transfer to another, larger school; preferably, one in an urban environment. The institution I have in mind particularly is NYU. With my time at Kenyon rapidly fading, I have reflected on my experience here and realized that the most important thing I learned was to let go of bullshit. In this piece, I am going to discuss one particularly misguided piece of bullshit that I long held in my mind. This piece of bullshit stems from my parents choice to raise me in Westchester instead of Chelsea. A choice made before I was even conceived became the cross I still bear (to a lesser extent) today. For those of you who are not familiar with the geography of the greater New York City area, Chelsea is an artsy neighborhood in Manhattan, and Westchester is the suburbs. In other words, Chelsea is the real shit, and Westchester is lame as hell. Going to school in Ohio, I thought Westchester would simply blend into the City and I could say I was from New York. This idea was drastically wrong for many reasons, not the least of which being that Kenyon is probably fifty percent New Yorkers. The reason I so desired to be from New York instead of Westchester was because of the Citys workings. I despised (and still dislike) Westchesters reliance on cars and ubiquitous mall culture. I preferred the Citys public transportation and plethora of small, independent businesses. However, the idea that I came to Kenyon with was that I had to live in New York in order to appreciate these things, and that by living in Westchester (or anywhere else outside of the City), was inherently bad. I relied heavily on the facts that I was born at NYU Medical Center in Manhattan, and that my Mom was from Greenwich Village for a connection to the City, for a way to distance myself from Westchester, which had obviously tainted me. This idea changed when I was introduced to the wonders of thrift shopping by a friend from a small town in New England (far from New York). I (gasp!) had never thrifted before. I blame Westchester. Anyways, my friend took me to the Goodwill in Mount Vernon, Ohio. After purchasing a shirt and sweater at this Goodwill, I knew two things: first, I had been missing out on something huge; and second, that the area in which you live does not make you who you are. While I knew this second part in my mind, I had yet to accept it entirely. Now, I had no choice, because I had just bought clothes from a source other than a mass manufacturer, in an area far away from New York City.

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In short, the point of this story is that I learned your hometown does not inherently make you a certain way. If I prefer the workings of Manhattan to Westchester, I can lead a life with these preferences in mind, regardless of where I am from or where I currently live. I realized this fully with the help of a small-town friend, in a smalltown setting. Now, as I set off for an urban area, I will not carry Westchester with me as baggage. As I was told by a junior (now a senior) when I first came to Kenyon, dont say youre from near New York, say where your hometown is. My name is Sam Del Rowe and my hometown is White Plains, Westchester, New York. Its just my hometown.

I will not be stretched

I will not be stretched Molded and broken and spun around until all my thoughts are chased out of my head I refuse to let you turn me over and shake my essence out of the holes in my body I will not be stretched To fit into whatever idea, role, caricature you have in mind I refuse Refuse to be your martyr To be the example for my race To show society that, OH SHIT! brown girls can be educated too That we can walk and talk and carry ourselves just like our white classmates Because I dont look like you, I must work my ass off to prove my worth to you Prove that I deserve to be here Because I have potential Because I was lucky Because I made it I refuse I refuse to elevate myself above other brown women just so I can prove your stereotypes wrong I refuse Because I am not your teacher, your martyr, your rubber band I am your equal You cannot stretch me, sculpt me, stamp me Burden me with responsibilities that create distance between us You. Cannot. Ignore. Me Because I refuse to fit into your expectations I refuse to keep on pretending that I am not a human being With the same wants and needs and desires as you I refuse

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To fit into your extremes To either let my ethnicity consume my life Or set myself apart from my brown origins and be an example for others I refuse To hold myself accountable for your goals To end oppression, or to ignore it or to chastise your fellow white man You cannot make me the other any longer You cannot make me more or less than any other human being I will not let you I will not be stretched I simply refuse

FAQ

Melanie Shelton

I'm lucky in that I've never been the victim of a blatant act of homophobia and I have generally found my peers' intentions to understand and accept my identity with regard to my sexual orientation as positive and open-minded. That said, I get a lot of questions about my sexuality that put me on the spot and make me feel uncomfortable. I'm not the best at thinking on my feet, so usually my response is to avoid conflict and diffuse awkwardness. Because of this, I end up giving answers to questions I don't think people had a right to ask me in

the first place, or questions that I feel are inappropriate given the context. I describe details about my sex life that I would never expect or want somebody else to tell me, and I leave the conversation feeling confused and dissatisfied, without always understanding why. Sometimes it takes me a year or more to realize why I felt so upset by a question posed to me by a friend or acquaintance. With the understanding that most people have good intentions and genuinely want to connect, Im laying out some (definitely not all) of the questions I've been asked by my peers, mostly cisgendered straight women. I've attempted to answer these questions honestly where I feel comfortable. In addition, I've tried to explain why these questions have the potential to be so hurtful, and in some cases Ive presented more productive alternatives. While I know that many people have had similar experiences to mine, I'm not presuming to speak for anyone but myself. Q: So, are you like...a lesbian, or...? A: I get it; it is really awkward to ask how somebody identifies in terms of sexual orientation. I've frequently be tempted to ask girls, "So, are you like...straight, or..." to see if I had any chance with them. The thing about this approach is that when you ask me if I'm a lesbian or...(something else), that puts me in the position of having to say, "No, I'm not a lesbian, this is what I am and here's why." Id prefer it if youd ask me, "How do you identify?" That way you wont put me on the defensive from the start of the conversation.

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To answer the question, I usually identify as "bisexual," by which I mean that I fall in love with men and women. I really hate the way that word sounds, though, because of how "sex" is embedded in it. I think that sex is important, I just don't like labeling myself with such a sexualized identifier. More importantly, it implies that if someone identified as other than a man or a woman, I would automatically not be attracted to them, which is not the case. That's why I prefer the word "queer" an umbrella term for anyone who doesn't identify as cisgendered or straight. That said, I understand the limits of this term in that it lacks specificity. I'd really rather use a verb instead of a noun or an adjective. Instead of "are you a lesbian?" or "I am bisexual," I'd rather say that I am attracted to people regardless of gender. Q: Is there one gender you prefer over another? A: In certain contexts, for example in a private conversation between friends in which we are both sharing equally personal information, this is a thoughtful and welcome question. My answer is not really, but I know that there are a lot of bisexual people who would answer differently. I happen to get this question a lot from people I barely know, sometimes in one of our very first conversations. I wonder if this means they feel comfortable enough with me to start telling me about their preferences for a potential partner. Q: I wouldn't ask you this unless I considered you a really close friend, but...what do you do? I mean how do lesbians have sex? A: If you are genuinely asking for advice because you need this information and are trusting me enough to ask for it, I'm fine with talking about this and sharing what I know. I think that sex education is important, and this stuff should be taught in school. But mostly I get this question from straight identified women who I'm not really close friends with. I feel that the words, the inflection, and the insincere insistence on closeness work together to sensationalize and objectify me and my sexual interactions. Also, your choice of the word lesbian makes me feel like you dont respect the way I identify, since Ive clearly told you Im queer or bisexual if weve reached this point in the conversation. I think that another reason that I feel so uncomfortable is the incredulous nature of the question. Even though you're asking how do lesbians have sex, I feel like you're asking how it is physically possible for to have sex without a penis? This makes me feel like I have to prove to you that what I consider to be sex is actually sex. Have you ever felt like you needed to prove that some of the most intimate experiences of your life "counted?" I also don't like this question because you're asking me, an individual, to speak for the entirety of a group. For example, the implied "without a penis" aspect of the question ignores the fact that not everyone is cisgendered; some women have penises, and sleep with other women. I don't know what all women (cisgendered lesbians or not) do in bed with other women (cisgendered lesbians or not). I don't presume that you know what all straight people do in bed together, either. If you want to ask me about the particular details of my own sex life, rephrase the question. But I'm not an instruction manual for the voyeuristically curious. That's why we have the internet. Q: So are you technically still a virgin? A: Again, why should I have to prove to you the legitimacy of my sexual interactions? Based on the premise of your question, I don't think my answer would make sense to

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you. Q: I still don't get it. Do you only do oral? How do you decide who's the guy? Do you always use a strap on? Do you take turns? Can you show me what scissoring looks like? A: Yeah so I was actually wondering how often you and your boyfriend go down on each other, or does he only penetrate you vaginally? And I don't really get how reverse cowgirl works, would you mind giving me a demonstration? Oh, you want me to keep my voice down because we're in a public space? That's interesting. Q: What kind of lesbian would think I'm hot? A: I disagree with the premise of your question, but I guess you could try asking a lesbian. Q: I'm afraid that guys will think I'm gay because of my short hair. What should I do? A: You should get some perspective. For example, have you heard of corrective rape? It is a hate crime involving the rape of an individual in an effort to "correct" their gender expression or sexual orientation. We live in a world where many people still refuse to believe in the legitimacy of my identity and the identity of anyone who does not conform to heteronormative self-expression. We live in a world where this kind of disbelief frequently results in sexual violence. Let's imagine that a guy happens to make a false assumption about you based on the length of your hair, a physical characteristic you chose and have the power to change. Think about how readily you will be believed when you correct this assumption. In conclusion, we hurt other people when we act out of ignorance. I've asked questions like these before, probably a thousand times, because I didnt know any better. Hopefully we are able to learn from our mistakes and to make different choices in the future. And I think that one of the best ways to have a productive and meaningful conversation is to think before you ask. Think about the implications of your question, and the context in which you are asking it. Think about what your question really means, and think about how you would feel if somebody posed the same one to you.

Negation
Sometimes I think of getting a series of face tattoos:

Sonia Prabhu

From my left temple to my left brow, No, I was born in America From my left brow to the bridge of my nose, No, I do eat beef From the bridge of my nose to my jawline, No, Im not religious From my right temple to my right brow No, I dont only date brown guys From my right brow to the bridge of my nose, No, Im not having an arranged marriage From the bridge of my nose to the left corner of my mouth No, I dont speak Hindi or any Indian language From the left corner of my mouth to my jawline No, Im not going to be a doctor

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Because thats how Ive always had to define myself- a giant X. A list of negation, of how Im not what Im supposed to be. Deconstructing what me is to you before constructing what me is to me. Youre telling me I heard face tattoos hurt, but I know how the shame of falling short brings an ache that lingers longer. There are a few I would allow to see my face tattoo first- my professor, and the finders, keepers.

To my Professor:

How much of my familys money is lining your pockets for you to marginalize me during class? Can you quantify my sweaty hands and the stiffness in my lungs in dollars and cents? Because Id like a refund Did you comprehend my hot fluster when you called on me to provide my superior insight into the economic inner workings of the caste system, somehow apparent from my pigment? Because Id like to rewind, to reveal my mind that shut off with shock Did you notice the daze I was in for the remaining hour of class, as I tried to rationalize the experience and convince myself you called on me by chance? Because Id like to resign, I cant ignore my sympathetic nervous system I dont have time or sympathy for your tired, broken rhythm. To the finders, keepers: Finders, keepers? Or stealers, keepers? Stealing is never nice But is it okay to just take the pretty things? Those fabrics, those bindis, Cultural appropriation looks cute with the right accessories Could you add to your shopping bag the baggage of submission, of having no choice but to let others define you, the exoticism, the racism, all the isms and assume that makes an ass out of you and me, that have worn out the threads of identity of the woman of Indian ethnicity, who wears those fabrics, those bindis. Maybe Im asking for far too much Maybe getting a tattoo is two leaps too large, into the amorphous void of obscenity. Maybe I will stick to introducing myself as a giant X perpetually. Or maybe pigment could just come pretense-free

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Is This Being a Woman at Kenyon?

Ive wanted to share this story for a long time. Ive stayed up hours on end thinking, and even more hours of hating, seething. Its been inside me too long, now; I think this side of Kenyon has to be talked about. Ill try to recount the events as true as I can remember them. Years ago, when I was a first-year at Kenyon, I was sexually assaulted. I was in my own dorm lounge, with my friends, and a boy from one of my classes came and joined us. Maybe my friends didnt see what was happening, how I struggled. Maybe they saw, but didnt understand what was happening. Regardless, I never felt safe at Kenyon again. I suffered through months of classes with this boy. I was afraid to speak in class, afraid to look him in the eye. It was a mostly-male class. They made misogynistic jokes before class started. They talked over me whenever I spoke. They were more of the stereotypical sexist pigs than Id ever experienced before Kenyon. The professor never corrected them. I was amazed. I thought- is this what Kenyon is? Are all the guys like this? I felt targeted. I tried to drop the class. The professor advised against it, said I was being overly sensitive to their banter. I was crying from frustration. Wasnt this atmosphere bad enough? So I told him what happened. He reconsidered, said he was sorry, and I could leave if I really wanted. He never addressed the issue, never talked to the men about the environment they created. I told my advisor. She told me that stuff like that happens and it was too bad. When she was young, girls knew better. She said I could report it, if I wanted, but that it was a hassle. I talked to an SMA (Sexual Misconduct Advisor). She was kind, and very understanding. But she also advised me against taking action. It was a hassle. I talked to a counselor. She told me about the reporting process. She said its not worth it. It was a hassle. I wanted to scream. How do I change this?! How do I make sure this never happens to someone else? How is no one talking about this? There were groups, I knew, for survivors. And discussions, during Take Back the Night. But I didnt want one night, one hour to discuss a huge social issue. This needs to be discussed more widely than a private meeting. The issue is bigger, it affects more people than just us, than a private meeting. The issue is bigger, it affects more people than just us survivors! When I look back now, I feel like the assault wasnt the worst part. It was everything after. It was the breaking of trust. It was every person who told me it sucked, but buck up, ignore it and move on. It was every person who didnt even see what was wrong with the behavior that encouraged it. After that, I couldnt believe Kenyon was the tight -knit community they promised. I thought Kenyon was just lying to itself, creating a fantasy of a peaceful campus full of brilliant students who believed in world peace and mutual respect. And maybe it is. Maybe thats a side. But there is more to it than that. There are rapes and there are casually hateful comments. There are overt and covert signals, crimes, and whispers based on stereotypes and prejudice. I dont believe that anyone is just a Rapist, or a Bigot, or a Sexist. We are made up so much more: of what we say and do every day, good or bad. We are influenced by our environment, and in turn we can influence it. I just want Kenyon students, and Kenyon staff, to look at their actions a bit more closely. Think about what they mean to people other than themselves and their friends. Thats been my experience at Kenyon.

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I know my story is a long one

I know my story is a long one. Read it or dont, but this is what I want you to know: When you say, I knew him. I cant believe it, you are defending a friend but you are also creating a culture in which victims are afraid to speak out. When you say, He would never do something like that, chances are you dont know shit about what he would or would not do. Being a good friend, a nice person, a kind roommate DOES NOT MEAN YOU CANT ALSO BE A CRIMINAL. When you say If you want to hook up with girls at Kenyon you cant piss them off because theyll accuse you of rape, you are perpetuating a myth that is unfathomably hurtful and totally false. Not only are you insulting your female peers, you are also devaluing the traumatic experiences of women everywhere. You have no right to do that. 1 in 4 college-age women have been the victims of rape or attempted rape. You could be talking to one of them. You could be telling one of them that if she ever chose to accuse the person who assaulted her, all his friends would call her a liar. In my opinion, that is a crime.

A Letter to the Cute Boy I Met the First Week of My Freshman Year of College
When you raped me, everything that made me worthwhile was taken away. You told me in the cruelest, surest way that my opinion did not matter. I said no and you had sex with me anyway. Consciously or not, you didnt think I was good enough to choose whether I had sex. No, I did not fight you. You did not drag me or hit me; I did not scream. For that reason, I will always feel guilty. But you are guilty too. I said no. I said it a hundred times. I folded my arms and shook my head. I pushed your hands away. When you took my jeans off, I tried to put them back on. I tried to get you to wear a condom. I tried, I tried, I tried. I said I dont want to have sex with you. I said it a hundred times. What was it about me that indicated I wasnt worth taking seriously? I said no quietly, I said it nicely; I didnt want to yell at you or make you angry. I wanted you to keep liking me because I wanted you to be my friend. I wanted you to keep liking me because sometimes I did want to have sex with you. Sometimes I said yes. But sometimes I didnt. And those are the times I cant stop thinking about. I never used to be afraid of you. A year ago the thought would have been laughable. Nowon the rare occasion that I see youI feel your presence like a stone, like a shark. You scare me and I hate it. I think you would hate it too if you knew. You think of yourself as a good guy, and in many ways I am sure you are. I have no doubt you are a loyal friend and a talented athlete and a loving son. None of those qualities disappeared when you raped me. Conversely, none of those qualities make it impossible for you to be a rapist. Just because you are often kind and often generous and often funny and sweet doesnt mean you cant sometimes be cruel and cold and manipulative. I dont think you think you raped me. Perhaps that is what scares me about you. I imag-

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ine that the people who surround you would not hesitate to come to your defense if confronted with the story of our relationship. That makes perfect sense; they know the good guy side of you. The amiable impression they have of you is not at all compatible with the sort of person who would ignore a girl if she said no, who would take her clothes off if she asked him not to, who would treat her signs of protest like a joke and take her eventual surrender as full-throated consent. See, I know both those sides of you. I know without a doubt that you are capable of fierce loyalty and kindness, but also of crushing indifference. Ill be the first to say that I made mistakes, though that doesnt mean I deserve what you did to me. I kept coming back even though I knew sleeping with you made me feel terrible. I fooled myself into thinking every lets talk, well just hang out, I just want to see you was genuine. Im not stupid, but I acted stupid. And for a year I thought you were a regrettable mistake. (2011) Then, at the start of sophomore year, I went down to your house to see you after the summer and you had sex with me. I made it clear that I didnt want to sleep with you, I told you my birth control had not come in the mail, I said NO and you had sex with me. You raped me. And you came inside of me without a condom. (2010) Do you want to know how old my baby would be if I hadnt had an abortion? I dont want to know either, but I do. I always will. That ghost is forever with me, and I have carried its weight almost entirely on my own. I was alone with that ghost from the day I found out I was pregnant in October until the day I told Dean Martindell about what had happened two months later. I told her only so that I could take an Incomplete in one of my courses and avoid having to drop out of school (my parents would no longer have paid tuition if I failed a class). I was so empty and isolated and utterly fragile. Sometimes I think back on the person I was freshman year and I cannot remember her. All I remember is how hurt she was, and how alone. I do not blame you for my secrecy; it was my choice not to tell you when I got pregnant, my way of coping. I did not expect you to notice that something was wrong. After the abortion, we continued to sleep together (sometimes) consensually; you continued to ignore me on the occasions that I said no. At some point I gathered the resolve to tell you what had happened in order to explain why I no longer wanted to have sex with you. I thought it was a sensible line of reasoning: we had sex and you got me pregnant; my pregnancy and abortion were painful, damaging, and haunting; sex with you reminds me of that trauma; I no longer wish to sleep with you. I thought once I told you, you would understand that it was over. I thought telling you would be a step toward healing. The night I told you about my pregnancy, do you know what you did? You had sex with me. I stood in your room and told you my deepest secret, tried to express how destroyed I felt, told you I did not want to have sex with you, and do you know what you did? You said it was okay, you were just going to hold me and we could

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talk. And then, after getting me (totally vulnerable, completely alone) into your bed, you had sex with me. AND IT WAS RAPE. You are not stupid and you are not a sociopath. You can read and interpret human emotion, and you also understand English. You may not have known the extent of my grief, but you knew I was sad and that sex with you was not what I wanted. You knew I wasnt joking around. That night I could not have been clearer. But you had sex with me anyway because you did not care. (2011) When you came inside of me without a condom that evening at the start of sophomore year after penetrating me despite my explicit non-consent and despite my plea for protection because of my late birth control pills, it dawned on me that I was being raped. It dawned on me that you had been raping me on and off for more than a year. You didnt give a fuck about my desires, my traumas, my ghosts. Throughout our relationship there was never an expectation that we would connect on an emotional level (we were fuck buddies, nothing more), but that night you did not even connect with me on a human level. I meant less to you than your orgasm. What I wanted mattered not at all because it was not what you wanted. I have been fortunate in so much of my life. Until I met you, I had never really felt powerless; and in some ways that is a privilege. Eighteen years without anguish. But you destroyed memade me a husk, a hollow thing, a girl who is timid and afraid in ways I never thought I could be. My freshman year at Kenyon was a lost yeara year of depression, of destructive behavior, of terrible grades. Two years later, I still feel as though I am trying to catch up, to compensate for a year of misery, a year spent in bed with the blinds closed. Two years later, there are still times when I hate this place, times when I feel like a stranger. There are powerful people on TV every day telling me I have no right to my sorrow. My rape was not legitimate. My truth, my story would never hold up in court. I deserved it because I flirted with you. I am a murderer because I would not bear your child. This is what it is to be a woman, to be a rape victim: to have crimes committed against you and be surrounded by people who wont believe you. I scour my body for evidence of your abuse and can find nothing but ghosts. I want to hold them out to my politicians, my peers, my professors. Dont you see? Dont you understand? But they dont. And that is what scares me. That is what I cant stop thinking about.

But I dont blame Kenyon

I was sexually assaulted my sophomore year at Kenyon. Never did I ever think I would be sharing this in a public forum, but in light of the recent indictment of a Kenyon student and the related articles and allstus concerning sexual misconduct, I feel the need to speak out not to condemn, but rather to defend the idea of the Kenyon community. It happened the first weekend back at school. I was at a party. I was drunk. A boy who had lived in my dorm freshman year came over and started talking to me. He had hit on me a couple times the year before, but I had always been sober enough to make it clear I was not interested. He had always been sober enough to accept that fact.

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This time was different. I remember agreeing to walk back to his place to hang out. Maybe I should have realized what that implied. I remember walking back with him, going into his room. Maybe I should have realized what that implied. But the next thing I remember was being in his bed, and we were having sex. It wasnt until that moment that I was able to comprehend what was happening, that this was not what I wanted, that I wanted it to stop. If it had stopped there, maybe it would have just been an unfortunate misunderstanding. But it didnt stop there. I started saying no. He didnt stop. I kept saying no. In my drunken state I attempted to talk him out of it; I was too drunk and too weak to resist physically. Eventually he stopped. Im still not sure if he stopped because my words finally got to him, or because he had finished. I woke up the next morning in my own bed. At first I didnt even remember it had happened. When it all came back to me I told some of my closest friends, but did my best to downplay it. I told them I was fine. I wanted to be fine; I thought I was. I talked to the guy. When I told him that we hadnt used a condom, he told me that that wasnt like him. I tried to imply that what had happened wasnt consensual. He told me he had been blackout, that he didnt remember anything. And then proceeded to recount several details that implied he did, in fact, remember. I didnt push it. There was no way I was going to report it anyway. I felt like it was just as much my fault for being so drunk, for putting myself in that situation. Sometimes I still feel that way. I waited the obligatory two weeks before I went to the health center to get tested. When I found out I wasnt pregnant and hadnt contracted any STDs I decided that that was going to be the end of it. I didnt want to talk about it. I tried not to think about it, pretended it never happened and for more than a year I was pretty successful. This fall, I was forced to confront what had happened. One innocent, thoughtless remark by a friend triggered everything I had held back for over a year. I panicked. I called my parents and told them everything, begged for them to let me come home immediately. They forced me to see a counselor at Kenyon, told me I needed to talk about what had happened. I told those of my friends who hadnt known. I cried. A lot. I cried more that week than Ive ever cried in my life. I felt dirty, and broken, and I kept drifting in between feelings of guilt and shame and anger at the guy, but also at myself, for letting it happen. But I dont blame Kenyon. Nor do I blame the Kenyon community. Every community has its dark spots. Sexual assault is undoubtedly one of Kenyons as it is in nearly every college campus in America. It is clearly something that we need to have an open dialogue about, because it does happen here. And it is a serious problem, more serious than most of us would like to admit. But it is also a problem within our larger society as a whole; it is not a problem unique to Kenyon. Despite everything, I do not feel unsafe at Kenyon. Call me nave. Maybe I am. But the positive experiences Ive had at Kenyon, the amazing people Ive met, and most of all the overwhelming support of my friends here when I told them what had happened for me, these aspects of Kenyon far outweigh the negatives. So lets talk about how we view each other here, how we view sex here, how we drink here but lets be careful not to blame Kenyon in this dialogue. What happened to me could have happened anywhere, at any college campus, at any city in America. It happened at Kenyon. But Im not going to let that one negative experience define what Kenyon means to me.

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To the guy I am forced to interact with

To the guy I am forced to interact with on a daily basis: I feel dehumanized. I am not your sex object. We say Kenyon is open and accepting, but we are only open as long as what we have to say is not upsetting or controversial. The problem with that is that in doing this, we ignore the reality of things and knowing that we, collectively, avoid talking about them because we refuse to acknowledge them is not actively working towards making a difference. Rape and sexual assault are all serious issues that exist, even though we do not see or hear about them occurring in Kenyon. Kenyon was always my safe place but knowing that we do not voice these issues does not make me feel safe.

Is this being a woman at Kenyon? Part II

Note: Hi. I wrote the submission in January called "is this being a woman at kenyon?" and I wanted to follow up, both in response to some of the comments and to continue the conversation about what sexual assault means to those it affects. Please note I use creative hyperbole, I do not speak for all survivors. Invasive thoughts. Thats what they call them, in psychology class, after a trauma. Invasive thoughts. How your boyfriend's hair looks like his when it grows too long.Invasive thoughts. Shuddering when your mom cups your cheek saying "your skin is so soft, baby!" because that's what he said, stroking your shoulder, your back. Invasive thoughts. How you laughed him off, told your friends, tried to do anything to make it seem normal. Invasive thoughts. How your mind returns to that night, surrounded but alone. You question every move, what you could've changed. Invasive thoughts. Over and over again. How many others? Silently suffering, believing they're at fault. Every time you question, every time you make excuses in defense of the attacker, every time you say "oh, but she was drunk," "he didn't mean it like that," or "he was just joking around," you miss the true damage. The survivor, that man or women, is broken. We cannot trust ourselves completely. We cannot see others without seeing a threat. We cannot live everyday without seeing his face. We cannot ever feel completely safe again. Invasive thoughts. It's not what he did, it's how we feel. He didn't have to touch us, or pin us down, or grope our body for there to be an assault. The threat is still there. And we didn't have to say no for us not to want it. Assault is much more than physical. Invasive thoughts. You're scared because it could've been you. Because it's not just

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some creep, some rapist "out there" that's responsible for all the threats, all the assaults. It's frat guys and geeks, its athletes and bros. It's everyday men who have power, who are used to their dominance, their control. Who take advantage. Who ignore the fear, the confusion, the doubt. Who put their desire first. Invasive thoughts. You question us and you support them. You add to the sea of power that denies us our voice. You see in terms what he did, not how we feel. Invasive thoughts. It's never over. He goes on as though nothing happened, as though he has that right. We bear the cost. The turmoil. The pain. Invasive thoughts. Over and over again.

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Policy
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Whats fair is fair

Kenyon claims to encourage students to engage with difference but if not all members of the community can afford the cost of living in an apartment, then north campus housing will continue to be socio-economically exclusive. That is not fair. That is not how a community should function. Its time for us to demand better. Its time for us to open up this campus for all students. Unfortunately, though, I do not feel comfortable saying this in publicWhy is it that I am nervous to speak up about something that makes me so upset? I fear that the reason is that I have grown far too accustomed to witnessing inaction in response to unjust policiesInequity should not be the status-quo here. I live in a North Campus Apartment. I want everyone to have the opportunity to do so.

The privilege of screwing up

In the middle of my first semester at Kenyon, I drank too much at a party, got alcohol poisoning and was taken to Knox Community Hospital in an ambulance. This phenomenon, one Ive usually heard referred to as getting hospital-ed, is unfortunately not as uncommon as it should be at Kenyon and other colleges around the country. College is so consistently portrayed in the media as the time to drink that Im really not surprised in fact, I think its only thanks to the success of on -campus programs like Beer & Sex that we dont have more students going to the hospital each year. When I woke up in the hospital, hooked up to an IV and clad in a cotton gown I didnt remember putting on, I wasnt surprised to feel nauseated, ashamed and horrified at my actions. I wasnt surprised by the consequences obviously, if youre drinking underage and manage to consume enough alcohol to require emergency transportation and the help of busy doctors and nurses, theres going to be some medical and legal fallout. What did shock me, though were the costs. $273 in court fees. Over $500 in hospital bills (and thats only because my insurance was covered through my mothers work.) Upwards of $200 in cab fees over the course of spring semester, shuttling back and forth between campus, the Knox County Courthouse, and the Mount Vernon animal shelter where I did my court-mandated community service. (At this point, few of my friends had cars or were able to drive, so I had to make expensive alternate arrangements to get to these appointments). When I went to the Health Center to inquire about the possibility of using my Kenyon insurance to pay some of the costs, I was told that Kenyon healthcare didnt cover hospital stays like mine, ones that came about through overuse of drugs or alcohol. Now, I take no issue with this policy I dont think Kenyon should have had to pay for my poor decision making but it opened my eyes to my privilege in a way that no experience Id had at Kenyon ever had before. Its hard to think of paying off hospital and court fees as a luxury, but thats what it was. When I called my parents to tell them Id gone to the hospital, they were furious and worried and disappointed as they should have been. They yelled, they lectured, but eventually they forgave me and even helped me navigate the confounding sea of expenses streaming into my PO box. They paid my medical and legal bills if Id had my

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own money, Im sure they would have insisted I pay them myself (and I would have readily agreed), but I hadnt worked since the previous summer, and the cash Id earned at my minimum-wage job wasnt going to cover my expenses. Ultimately, my parents had the money and I didnt, and the bills had to get paid. Thanks to my parents socioeconomic status, I didnt have to stay up nights worrying about how to pay off almost a thousand dollars worth of debt I definitely had sleepless nights after the hospital debacle, but money wasnt their cause, and Im only realizing now what a unique position that put me in. Kenyon offers financial aid for tuition and textbooks and the other hallmarks of the quintessential college experience, but what about money for mistakes? Im certainly not suggesting Kenyon start a In Case You Get Too Drunk and Go To The Hospital fund, but its incredibly jarring to realize that in many ways, unless you come to Kenyon with money, you literally cant afford to make bad decisions. Nobody ever intends to get to the level of intoxication that I was at, but I wonder if, on some level, my privilege informed my actions if Id had to be more aware of the very real financial consequences of my reckless behavior, would I have been more careful? I was lucky to have my parents help me with costs, but what if they hadnt been in a financial position to do so? How much would I really have had to pay if Id been supporting myself through Kenyon and living on a shoestring budget, as many of my friends are? I dont think any student should have to go through his or her life at Kenyon racked with fear about hidden costs, and I know that, to a certain extent, making stupid decisions is just a part of college, but are we all equally entitled to that painful hallmark of youth? In a way, Im grateful for my experience getting hospital-ed because it showed me how important it is to stop and consider the unspoken dichotomy that money brings onto our campus. Ever since my experience at Knox Community Hospital, I havent been able to stop considering it. I dont think theres an easy fix to this problem, but I do believe that if were honest about the ease and privilege that socioeconomic status brings at this college, a place we like to believe is beyond class divides, that will be a strong start.

Breakup letter to Kenyon

note: an anonymous senior

You are eighteentechnically adult, but still too young to hold back tears when your parents drive away welcome to Kenyon in colored photos and expensive view books the brown black white yellow tan gay straight trans queer and bi kids staring back at you with smiles of: here is different the acceptance letter camethumbs up a year after 08 when mom lost her job and the factory closed and your meager college fund dried up to support family through hard times grandma said become a plumber, a wife, a mother follow traditionmarry young, make a baby and stay in the same town as three generations of women, saying I was a farmers daughter, what makes you any different?

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the first few months are absolute bliss, in the heralded halls of academia because you fit in and no one suspects your humble beginnings and there are some lies in the truths where are the black and brown kids? and your roommates spend more money on clothes and make-up than social justice. by sophomore year you are hardened, ashamed hiding the fact that family kicked you out the college education that everybody lauded is now divisive the holidays fly by: thanksgiving, Christmas, your birthday spent on campus working to buy next semesters books. your composure chips away in the excess the lack of understanding the standards of behavior the tradition of the school the elitism of this place holding the hair of the vomiting freshman, drunk on the freedom she cant handle cleaning her up for the job that pays for your room cleaning her up for the job that pays for your room some rich, drunk kids steal and trash your bike during sendoff and you cry over the three years you spent saving up for this twisted piece of metal. you sign your loan exit counseling and the Nuge is saying that $20,000 debt is negligible. and you are disappointed because it is a mountain to you without help from mom and dad and you throw up with the realization that you are debt for these years of misery you have tried to break free of your circumstances but the CDO assumes that your parents will fund your prestigious summer internship so you return to the summer minimum wage job that fills you with a blue-collar pride maybe grandma was right about the plumbing you write a narrative for POV about internships that happily stirs the pot. there are bright moments a kiss on the gap trail coffee with a professor long walks on the trails that encompass the campus they are fleeting. the professor talks about knowledge how we have access to it because our mommies and daddies pay $50,000 so we can learn the bullshit that is sociology but you cannot speak up and contradict him to speak of the struggle that got you here, that kept you here

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that your single mother is depressed and dad is gone and you earned this chance to sit in this professors class and listen to him stereotype you. you are invisible on this campus and yet you are everywhere the front desks of the offices, answering phones earning money for tuition spending your Friday and Saturday nights doing homework while old Kenyon booms and beckons you will graduate magna cum laude yet no professor remembers your name it is not that you are quiet or reserved or mousy you do not agree and you make that clear you have challenged this school, pushed the boundaries and defiled the tradition that is Kenyon. you thought that education would be the great equalizer you cried when reading Bourdieu because he made sense, and made you understand why the mother of your old-money boyfriend has treated you with disdain Kenyon or not, shes not one of us. this school tells you that mayor Bloomberg is coming to speak at graduation this school does not tell you that a students father made this happen, that she holds influence and the staff fears her, fears for their jobs so happy that your graduation speaker symbolizes the elitism that punches you in the face every day. you are dreading graduation you cannot smile in the photos, you cannot pretend happiness Kenyon lied to you lied to us plastered the view book with tolerance without telling you that you should be grateful to be here because you came from nothing and you leave with a diploma. one day, I will donate money to Kenyon college with stipulations so that it does not go towards building shiny apartments that people like me cannot afford but until then mail me my diploma allow me one more walk along the gap trail and grant me the small privilege of not dealing with privilege on my graduation day.

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Eligibility: Must be a U.S Citizen

This has been the most common road block that I have encountered when trying to find jobs and fellowships for my post-Kenyon career. It has also been the reason why I cannot apply to the majority of the opportunities that the CDO emails to students on a daily basis. First, let me start with the good things. The CDO is great at preparing you for the job search; cover letters, resumes, practice interviews, etc. The CDO is amazing with helping students find externships and have helped a good number of my friends who are financially constrained fund those externships. While the CDO is effective in preparing you for the job search, when it comes to serving as a resource to help international students learn about job and paid internship opportunities they are severely lacking. The administration has been working really hard to make Kenyon a more diverse place. With regards to international students, the college has even hired an awesome new associate director of International Recruitment who scours parts of the world for students to add to campus life. In light of these great efforts made to recruit students, it is hard to hear administrators stutter and scratch their heads when international students ask, Can you help me find job opportunities? They are not helpful. They dont care about us. Whats the point of bringing us all the way to Kenyon and then abandoning us when we ask for a little bit of help? These are just some of the complaints that current and international alum have made regarding the CDO, and it is one that I would like to see change. I am not asking the CDO to spoon-feed internationals and hold their hands until they find them a job. Internationals tend to have to be a little bit extra resourceful to navigate the job search in the U.S and tend to use each other and alum for help. I am asking the CDO to actually BE a resource for international students. Im suggesting that maybe one of the directors take the time to look up opportunities that international students can actually apply to. Im proposing that since internationals do have more restrictions in this country, that maybe there can be a special orientation talking about the expectations and realities of the job search in the US. Im suggesting that maybe someone who focuses on graduate schools familiarize themselves with foreign application processes so that internationals and US citizens applying abroad do not have to do so blindly. I want the CDO to be a useful resource for all students on campus. When a prospective international student asks me if Kenyon helps foreign students find internship and job opportunities during and after Kenyon, I do not want to hesitate and debate how honest I should be. I want everyone to remember that even though we are a small part of the student population, we are still part of the Kenyon community, and all we ask is to have the option of using the colleges resources for students.

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think beyond oneself

When I first came to Kenyon, I thought it would be the perfect place for me to meet students from different backgrounds -- a place where I could finally get out of the social reality reflected in the great amount of social and emotional support -- and mostly a place for me to get away from my privileged position in my home country. I was wrong I had not understood how biased the American educational system was and that its just like any other private educational system; economically privileged students are given priority. It is no wonder that as a privileged international student, I ended up also coming to Kenyon (although I am not as privileged economically as most of the students on campus are). My goal, in such a difficult situation, was to remind myself that no matter what, I must not stick to one group/type of friends. I tried to befriend people who were different from me, but also those who were different from each other. I was fortunate enough to be able to do so. Sometimes I felt like a supernatural power was purposefully making my path cross into others who would add true value to my life. The greatest education that Kenyon has offered me is those students who challenged me and made me aware of my privilege. In my classes, I was given information, but I was never challenged. I could think of one, maybe two professors who have left me questioning things about life, beliefs or knowledge. The greatest source of education has been my friends. As a senior, I know very well that it is not that imaginary Kenyon community that I will miss after I graduate -- it is those students who have allowed me to challenge myself and to think constantly of my privilege and how it affects others. I will miss those students who opened my eyes to things that I was not aware of and otherwise would have totally neglected. I also feel bad for those who seek to befriend others who are exactly like them they are missing a lot most importantly being challenged to think beyond oneself.

An Even Playing Field

Adderall, Ritalin, Vyvance, Concerta, you know, study aids. I can almost guarantee that come finals, midterms, or any other significant period of academic stress you will encounter at least one, if not more students abusing these medications without a prescription. The widespread use of such stimulant medications is no secret on this campus. I mean I know my friends do. I know you dont see it as a big deal and that you mean no harm. But as a student with a learning disability that requires me to take such medications, I wish I had the courage to tell you that every time you just pop an Adderall or whatever you make my life ten times harder and you trivialize something Ive struggled with my entire life. I want to tell you that these pills make me feel numb and empty inside. That I would give anything not to take them, or more precisely not to need them. I wish you knew that when you sit down and, in two hours or less, crank out that final paper Ive been working on for over two weeks, you raise the bar and set the expectations of professors to an impossibly high standard that no matter how hard I try, I will never be able to reach. I dont have any magic pills or study aids. What turns you bionic, I need to reach normal.

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Things that typify a part of my Kenyon Experience

1. Meeting a person who talks so passionately about human rights, gender equality, sanctity of life with me. The next minute the person would insinuate that s/he cant imagine herself being close to someone who doesnt know Animal Collective or David Lynch. That person can well be the person who sleeps with someone after a party the presence of whom s/he will never acknowledge again. 2. My friends suddenly falling into deep depression/extreme anxieties, sometimes even becoming a different character, because they somehow did not take their ADHD/ anxiety/anti-depressant medications that day. Knowing that many times I am simply not on the same mental dimensions with them, even though they are great artists, great writers whom I really love and appreciate. 3. If I say to a person I like: I like you. He would be saying something meaning WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME 4. That a person once told me, which I think holds true to many, whether articulated or not: I think the United States is the best country in the world. I dont need to be anywhere else. 5. Conversations during which people compulsively glorify drinking/doing drugs. No offense to alcohol and drugs. 6. Being in a class where among students, any opinions that arent liberal at first glance dont even deserve to be looked at, and directly judged as backwards. And international backgrounds becoming something that can be used against us...Our thoughts are just not liberated enough. The whole thing reminding me of justifications of colonial conquests, hundreds of years ago. 7. And after all this, seeing an instagrammed picture (people looking at the camera fierely with a cup in their hands) with the caption: Younnggg and Freeeeeeee! 8. Fearing that this list, like many of my other thoughts, is offensive and alienating.

Habr que Enero 2011

Anabel Yahuitl Garcia

Habr que hablar algn da. Dar la vuelta, cerrar los ojos mientras los abrimos y caminar. Habr que cerrar los paraguas mientras llueve, algn da. Hablar con el agua, beberla y cantarla. Habr que pavimentar los caminos que ya existen para que existan para todos, pintarlos y humanizarlos. Habr que jugar al ciego, describirnos con los dedos y mirarnos en palabras. Habr que descifrar los cdigos de nuestras pieles, los mrgenes de nuestros cuerpos y hasta el sabor de nuestros sueos. Todo, para que un da el verde sea verde, la tierra sea nuestra y los pronombres posesivos caigan en el olvido.

Trigger Warning: Eating Disorder discussed on the next page 53

The Sisterhood of Survivors

Because I was late to class this morning, I sat behind a girl I normally sit in front of in the lecture hall. She lived on my floor freshman year, and since then I've noticed she's lost a significant amount of weight. I've mentioned it to people I know, but nothing beyond that. She and I are hardly even acquaintances; her weight is none of my business. But this morning I sat behind her and I saw her spine. This girl is starving. She is barely bones. She used to be breathtaking and now she is skeletal. I keep telling myself her weight is none of my business, but this morning it occurred to me that it is my business. It is my business because I used to look like that. Anorexia nearly killed me, and I cannot stand the prospect of watching it waste another woman's life. When my eating disorder was at its worst, I was 5'6" and I weighed 79 pounds. I was nearly dead. I had stopped getting my period, I was cold all the time, I could count my ribs and my vertebrae, the sinews in my hands and neck stood out like ropes. I could do 300 sit-ups in a row and run a 22-minute 5k. It has been years, but to this day there is a part of me that is as fucked up as I was then. Anorexia, I think, is a little like alcoholism: it never leaves you, but you can get it under control. I was lucky to develop my disorder when I did, surrounded by concerned adults looking out for the adolescents they mentored, coached, and taught in school. In college, I am not sure I would have been so lucky. Once you graduate from high school, you are supposed to be an adult. I do not know if Kenyon professors feel the same obligation to look after their students as high school teachers do. This is not to say the Kenyon faculty don't care deeply about their students' welfare, I guess I think the rules are different now that we're "adults". The problem with this attitude is that an eating disorder is a disease. It has very little to do with a person's level of maturity or adulthood. When you are anorexic, you are sick, and you need treatment just like you would treat any other illness I don't think I'm the only person who has observed this girl's weight loss. Perhaps I am not the only person who has chosen to say something about it. I hesitate to speak to her or people close to her because there could very well be things I don't know. Perhaps she is undergoing treatment, perhaps she is being looked after, perhaps she is getting better. But it doesn't look like it. Do I have an obligation to say something? To alert a professor, a counselor, to talk to her myself? Knowing how eating disorders tend to work, I am not sure that speaking to her directly would help. Once in high school my mother called me 'emaciated' and when she stormed out of the room I smiled and admired the way my face resembled a skull. I honestly don't know what to do. I don't know how much worse her condition will have to be before she gets help, before her friends stop insisting she is fine. If she graduates before something is done, goes to live somewhere devoid entirely of adults looking out for her welfare, what will happen to her? How can I look at her and do nothing? Is this not comparable to seeing someone cough up blood and suggesting they go to a doctor?

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When I think about my options, I think also about the problem of body-policing. I fear my assessment of her health by the way that she looks, my feeling of responsibility for her body, and my discussion of it are symptomatic of a societal tendency to see women as public property-- bodies inviting judgment and ridicule. This is deeply upsetting because her disease is also a symptom of this attitude. However, I am almost certain my concern stems from a desire to help this woman, not to control her. Because I know how desperately I needed someone to help me. Because --whether I like it or not--she and I are both part of a sisterhood of starvation, of bones. And I hope very much that one day she will be a part of the sisterhood of survivors.

Kenyon is a privilege

Syeda Showkat

In a country where many still don't have the means or opportunity to go to college, being at Kenyon is a privilege for all of us. Its an amazing school but like all schools it has its ups and downs. One of the most important things I've learned after being at Kenyon for almost two years is that there are incredible opportunities here, and if we want to make the best of our time it's our responsibility to take advantage of these opportunities. Make Kenyon work for you. Like something? Praise it, join it, get others excited about it. Don't like something about the school? Talk about it, raise awareness, work with others to change it. I have been amazed by the successes of the Project for Open Voices because it has not only raised awareness about issues on campus but it has also sparked change with the help of faculty and staff members. One of the greatest things about being in a place like Kenyon is that we have control over our experiences here. We can change things, enjoy things, make a difference.

What do a Kenyon feminist and a Townson University white supremacist have in common?
When I read the ban on women in combat had been lifted in the U.S. one morning in Peirce, I first thought of how it was a really important step towards gender equality. We are accepting the fact that women can compete on an even playing field with men. I said to myself, but then I realized that what this really says is that our society is just now starting to recognize that women can hold guns too, and even more frustratingly women have already been in combat because the funny thing about war zones is that you can be pulled into combat even if you arent technically suppose to be a combatant, and our military has enough common sense to equip women soldiers to fight. Talking about this with friends later again at dinner then led to discussing the history of how human beings do warfare. A friend and I were discussing how in our species past there might have been pragmatic reasons why combat was a more male dominated responsibility because when people are barred from life threatening obligations like warfare, it tends to happen for one of two reasons if not both. Either the person being barred from warfare is believed to be too weak for combat or the persons life is too important to risk on the field of combat. One could say the different reproductive capacities of the sexes plays a role in determining whose lives are too important to put at risk. That is men are more disposable in terms of what people you need to populate, while women are less disposable in this regard. Now just the mention of this possibility drew an immediate reaction from another friend, the so called

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feminist who took issue with this on the grounds that the only reason that women have ever been barred from combat was due to sexism and sexism alone and giving men privilege over women. Im not sure when being forced to kill and die for a cause you may not believe in became a privilege. Nevertheless, the first friend and I felt that sexism plays an important role in this issue especially in our society today where those pragmatic reasons to keep women out of combat no longer exists, and it is just common sense to have all willing hands be able to fight as I stated earlier, but we tried to point out that historical context is important when trying to understand these issues. To this she responded with, I dont care about the history. My immediate reaction was to loudly exclaim, Well I can say I dont care about the history of American slavery. I believe thats the example I went to because the attitude this person had reminded me of a story about a student at Townson University that had plans to start a White Student Union claiming that white people didnt have enough of a voice at his school. When hearing the young man explain his rationale I couldnt help but think that white people didnt have enough of a voice at his school. When hearing the young man explain his rationale I couldnt help but think, Wow its like he doesnt care about the first 200 odd years of United States history. What I found so shocking is the act of ignoring the relevance of history and historical context. Now of course the case of the student at Townson University is a much more serious case because he is ignoring documented history and how that history has shaped today. The Kenyon feminist on the other hand rejects a more theoretical representation of our species history for which there is much less if any documentation. However, there is still a fundamental rejection of the notion that historical context plays a role in how societies end up forming social roles at the time and thus affects how the roles are changed in the future. So this is what a Kenyon feminist and a Townson University white supremacist have in common, ignoring history if it doesnt fit nicely into your worldview. This leads me to wonder: if we dont like accepting history when it doesnt necessarily fit perfectly with our worldview then how can we come to accept people, when they dont nicely fit into our worldview? Maybe I shouldnt be using we. Maybe this person was a rare example in the Kenyon community. One can only hope.

There is so much I can say

I am a Mexican middle-class non-religious feminist militant queer woman with no hierarchy of importance and no commas. The commas could make the reading easier, but lets face it: there is no easy way to read that, not even with commas. When I got to Kenyon, I had no expectations. To be honest, as soon as I got there I was only awaiting for junior year so I could leave and study-abroad elsewhere. While the why could be pretty interesting to read, I would prefer to focus on what happened once I lived at Kenyon for two years. I pretty much secluded myself from everything and focused on studying that was the sole reason I was there anyways. I probably forgot more than once that I was there also to diversify the community. I was there so others could learn from me. I was there so others could engage with difference cos I am different. I still have that brochure with me, its a pretty one. I was never sure how many people read that section though, or how many looked for the two paragraphs that talk about diversity on Kenyons website. I mean why would anyone do it? That is why we have study-abroad programs, right?

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I guess it wasnt until I got to know about POV that I recovered my senses a bit. For the first time, I got excited about something happening at Kenyon. (Ok, exaggeration: I got excited when all the trees got funky fall colours and other stuff too). However, it was the first time I got to see some sort of student activism happening and I think this is something Kenyon should support and promote. Personally, that gave me reasons to want to stay, to see what would happen, to live through it. I saw action grow from that appealing but not quite tangible speech on diversity. I guess it is yet unclear why youth activism or student activism, if you prefer, is so important or how it made me personally enthusiastic. I do not know about everyones personal stories on why do I want to study? But, I know mine. I grew up thankful for everything I had. Growing up surrounded by people who had nothing made me think how ridiculous it was that I could dream of attending to university while others could not. Back then I thought that getting an education was going to allow me to become someone good, someone that could help and do and enable others to do the same or better or greater things. Turns out education proved itself to be weak when fighting against certain societal diseases such as inequality. Why? We could begin by answering who and why: why certain people get educated and who benefits from that education. I will leave that discussion open. There is just so much I can say in this one entry. What I consider crucial in the whole education-crisis is the lack of engagement, passion and compromise. We forget that education is not only our right, but our duty to others. As long as education is not for everyone, we cannot disregard our duty. One of the things that I think should be implemented at Kenyon is a short -course (you name it) about diversity and cultural sensitivity. Why? We always hear the speech: having different perspectives is good, diversity is good, others opinions are worth considering, etc. But, when it comes to the classroom experience, how many of us are willing to ask how a certain issue is affecting other places (economically, socially, culturally)? Why dont we talk about Arabic music in our History of Music class? How come we can get away with statements like I mean, all Latin -Americans are the same or Puerto Rico had its chance to be independent? How can we feel so righteous when we ignore so much? If we are to start any change, we should start by challenging our professors to take on action and commit themselves to engage in a discussion on diversity and cultural sensitivity. The fact that they are professors does not legitimize any hegemonic discourse that could possibly offend or, worse, hurt a student who feels unable to vocalize their feelings to someone above them. I think this would be an enriching experience for everyone. In addition, Kenyon could have a third paragraph in that diversity section that we all deserve to know and build.

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We are again so thankful to share this collection of narratives with you, and hope that these stories will not only spur more discussion on Kenyons campus, but also move our community to action. This year, we continued our goal of fostering dialogue about diversity and difference on Kenyons campus by continuing our weekly meetings as well as beginning to hold discussions and film screenings that are open to the campus. Next year, we hope to continue to build momentum by continuing all of these events. With the appointment of Sean Decatur as Kenyons next President, we look forward to working with his administration, the Diversity Advisory Council, and the Board of Trustees Diversity Committee in various capacities. This truly is an exciting time for our school and we are committed to sharing our perspectives with students, staff, administrators, and members of our community with the hope that our efforts will contribute as Kenyon continues to move forward. We also look forward to creating another publication next year -- but in order to do so, we need to continue to hear from you! We would love to hear your comments, questions, and stories all year around. You can send your reflections to us via our email account at openvoicessubmissions@gmail.com. If you would like to remain anonymous, you can send us your response by signing into the email account projectforopenvoices@gmail.com (password: kenyoncollege). Love, P.O.V. 58

We would like to acknowledge the support of the following organizations and the great work that theyre doing on this campus: Crozier Center for Women Middle East Student Association Black Student Union Unity House Queer Womens Collective The Kenyon Thrill The Horn Spoken Word Collective Peer Counselors Discrimination Advisers Transnational Collective Snowden Multicultural Center Kenyon Community Alliance Multicultural Affairs Diversity Advisory Council We would also like to acknowledge the following organizers for their hard work in making this publication possible: Rebecca Chowdhury Jenny Colmenero Melanie Shelton Andrew Firestone Sandy Stibitz Drew Schmid 59

Brett Miller Syeda Showkat Wanufi Teshome Gabriella Cooper And for sharing their artwork with us for this publication: Sandy Stibitz Mary Hollyman Special thanks to: Chris Kennerly Erin Ciarimboli Zahida Sherman-Ewoodzie Prof. Clara Romn-Odio Finally, we would like to thank anyone who submitted a publication, attended our discussions and film screenings, and supported all of us along the way.

facebook.com/ProjectOpenVoices scribd.com/doc/136073095/POV-April-2013

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