By Genine (blog)
Guest Contributor
Yes, women like nice guys. Guys also like nice women. For argument’s sake, everyone likes people who are nice. Aye, but here within lays the rub: nobody likes someone who’s pretending to be nice or uses it as a manipulative device to get their things to go their way. What makes a person the latter “nice guy” and not a genuine nice guy?
By Jenn Anderson
Staff Writer
She had been experiencing pain for a few days, but it wasn’t until the fourth day that it became unbearable. She arranged for a family member to watch the baby and went to the hospital. The nurses found her a bed and every once in a while checked back with her to gauge the level of pain she was experiencing. After three hours, one of the nurses offhandedly remarked, “If you were a guy, you’d already be in surgery.” Apparently, it is common knowledge between the nurses that many men who come in with pain don’t do well with having to wait and endure before being treated. Instead, they are very vocal about being in pain, and insistent that they be treated right away.
By Maddie McClouskey
Staff Writer
Dear Marcus from the A Train,
First off, I’d like to say that I have never written a letter like this. Also, I truly hope this doesn’t read like a Craigslist “Missed Connection.” Anyway, thank you for hitting on me the way that you did.
By Samantha Wilson
Guest Contributor
By Emily Smith
Staff Writer
It’s safe to say that the mainstream media loves mannequins. Mannequins don’t have eyes, lips, or ears with which to function, or protest; rather, they are blank slates with the sole function of conveying an image. Women exhibit the image of a child-bearer, and virtually disappear from media and pop culture after their expiration dates – that is, menopause. Notably, only 26% of women on TV are over the age of forty.
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By Alicia Dillon
Staff Writer
For three years, I performed in a burlesque group. It was the time of my freakin’ life. I always bounced between insecurity and a desire to take the stage, and burlesque was the perfect avenue to use that desire and kick my insecurity right in the ass. You see, I was always chubby, and I never grew breasts. These two factors led me to believe my body was the opposite of sexy. I loved to watch burlesque; I was enamored with the extreme, retro, femme-y glamour, the vaudvillian performance aspects, and the bare ladyflesh that matched my preferences in a way mainstream media never would. I was thrilled when a burlesque troupe sprung up on campus. Granted, I was too terrified to audition, and I came in through the back door. I emceed my first show, proving to the troupe and myself that I could hack it onstage.
By Cherie
Staff Writer
I flipped the light switch, entered the bathroom, and took a look at myself in the mirror. My hair perfectly curled, my eyes painted with a pretty pink shadow, my lips slicked with a cupcake-flavored gloss. I turned around and twisted the handle to the shower, the hot water rushing out, as steam lifted and filled the cool evening air. The moment I stepped into the water, my curls disappeared without trace, and as I lifted my hands to wash my face, my makeup vanished as well. As I stepped out of the shower looking at myself in the steamy mirror, my face bare, my hair dripping and unfixed, I reran the words my friend had spoken to me earlier that day. “I’m just not pretty without makeup. I just—I need it,” she confessed. “You always wear makeup. I know you know what I mean.”
By Melissa A. Fabello
Founder & Editor
I remember it distinctly, the first time I recognized street harassment as a legitimate problem. Having grown up in a not-so-great-but-not-that-bad neighborhood in my hometown of Boston, Massachusetts, my coming of age was riddled with leers and lewd comments from the men in my city. But this experience had nothing to do with where I grew up. Rather, it had everything to do with the body (and therefore, social status) into which I was born. As a female, I was subject to this kind of aggression. Hot, wet whispers in my ear, “Hey, sexy.” Low whistles and comments in languages I couldn’t understand. Stares. Up-and-down inspections. That one guy who even chased me out of the subway station just to let me know that I had a phenomenal ass. It’s part of growing up female.
By Stephanie Ambroise
Staff Writer
I had been waiting for this weekend for a couple of semesters, and every other time the conference was scheduled, I was busy. But not this weekend. This weekend, I was free to cry my eyes out while hearing women speak about their abortions. This weekend, I could finally go to the CLPP (Civil Liberties and Public Policy) Abortion Speak Out. It was hosted at Hampshire College in Amherst, and I went with a couple of friends of mine. I was extremely excited, but I had no idea what I was in for. In my most somber dreams, I could have never guessed how moved I would be by the entire experience
By Rosara Torrisi
Guest Contributor
