A Message From the President: Walking the Talk

Dear F*ST! community,

I write this letter because I have a penchant for writing when I have a lot of thoughts. Maybe that’s why I’m the president of a storytelling org. But jokes aside, I come to you to apologize and take accountability in an effort to walk the ally-ship talk.

At our show last night, the term “gypsy” was used. Although absolutely no harm, malice, or negativity was intended, this word has been recognized as a slur against the Roma (also called Romani) people.

Many might still be unaware of the derogatory connotation--I myself was uncertain of why it became a negative, when my personal affiliation with the word was my favorite character in Disney’s The Hunchback of Notre Dame (and we know Disney has a plethora of harmful representations across their media empire, so I’m not getting into it right now). However, the Roma people are a marginalized group (made up of multiple ethnic affiliations) in Europe (and in America) that are still actively fighting for their human rights.

For starters, the term was derived because the Roma people were mistakenly believed to originate from Egypt, even though they were from the Punjab region of India. (Not off to a great start, conflating different peoples of color as if they are a monolith in opposition to whiteness.)

Dating back to the medieval period, the Roma people have a long history of being discriminated against in Europe, being enslaved and disenfranchised, not permitted to participate in the economy, subjected to horrible and inaccurate stereotypes about their work ethic and morals, and generally being demonized by various European governments, societies, and institutions. They suffered massive genocide at the hands of the Nazis in WWII that almost wiped out the entire group. In modern times, the Roma diaspora still faces discrimination across the education, housing and healthcare sectors, and unfortunately is still subject to hateful prejudice, particularly in some of the regions where they have the longest histories.

I want to point out that many people use the word for its association with a nomadic, free-spirited, natural or mystical lifestyle, free from the confines of capitalism (as was the case during our show). And don’t get me wrong, I will happily slander capitalism any day of the week (come to one of our workshops if you want proof), but rejecting capitalism by adopting the reductive stereotype of people of color is cultural appropriation and exploitative erasure. When you know better, you do better, and we would be remiss to not call out the use of this word in a situation where other options convey the intended meaning without the harm.

With any group that experiences systemic oppression, the women/woman-identified people within the group experience the additional harshness that comes with intersecting marginalized identities. As stated on the blog of the National Organization for Women, “while the use of the word… seems innocent, it is dangerous to Romani women. It conjures up a romanticized image of poverty and sexualization, which doesn’t acknowledge that there is nothing romantic about being a victim of institutionalized racism. There is nothing romantic about the link between perceived uncontrollable sexuality and forced sterilization. There is nothing romantic about being a victim of domestic violence but afraid to speak out because law enforcement won’t believe you or it will further oppress your community. There is nothing romantic about lacking political power and representation, and being left out of both anti-racist and feminist politics.”

F*ST! aims to be a safe space that amplifies the voices for ALL women. To disregard the plight of marginalized communities, and particularly of women in marginalized communities, is simply not in line with our values. We all can tell our stories, but the words that we use to tell our stories matter, and we should choose them with empathy and intention.

So I want to apologize for this mistake, and assure you that I will take purposeful steps to prevent this from happening in the future.

We teach and we learn because we are all works in progress. I urge our community to continue to learn about the vast array of experiences in the world that are unlike your own, and to continue to grow from the knowledge, the lessons, the stories. That’s what gives us our humanity.

In all sincerity,

Tiara B.
President of F*ST!

List of sources used:

• https://now.org/blog/the-g-word-isnt-for-you-how-gypsy-erases-romani-women/

• http://www.errc.org/what-we-do/advocacy-research/terminology

• https://www.nationalww2museum.org/war/articles/roma-european-culture

• https://www.cnn.com/2013/10/21/world/europe/roma-discrimination/index.html

• https://eefc.org/wp-content/uploads/Roma-FAQs-CS.pdf

• https://www.hsph.harvard.edu/wp-content/uploads/sites/2464/2020/11/Romani-realities-report-final-11.30.2020.pdf

• https://www.npr.org/sections/codeswitch/2013/12/30/242429836/why-being-gypped-hurts-the-roma-more-than-it-hurts-you

In Support of Drag Queens, Bookman's, and Freaking Literacy for God's Sakes

Dear Tucson Community,

We want to let you know that F*ST! stands with Bookman’s, with the drag queens that provide this community service, with the trans community, and with the LGBTQ+ community at large. 

The drag art form is an exciting and beautiful form of pageantry with roots in very classical forms of storytelling and theater. Like virtually every aspect of United States culture, it was popularized here by Black queer individuals, the first drag queen being a former slave named William Dorsey Swann. While originally only found in nightlife venues, we now have the privilege of seeing drag queens at their finest while they give back to our communities through events like the Drag Story Hour.

It is appalling the outpouring of hate that certain groups have spewed in response to the wholesome and community building event that is the Drag Story Hour. Drag queens have been condemned, along with trans people and anyone else who rejects the conservative view of gender behavior, and they have come under (quite literal) fire for merely existing. We are devastated that the unabashed violence has forced the event to be postponed. These recent attacks are sickening, and we simply won’t be quiet about it.

 As a performing arts organization, we have had the honor and pleasure of having trans storytellers grace our stage. We have been grateful for their presence, enriched and enlightened by their shared experiences, and we actively, enthusiastically seek to continue sharing our mic and platform. 

In a time where the McCarthy-esque targeting of trans folks is amounting to a government-sanctioned genocide, it is even more critical to allow everyone to live loudly in our truths, so that we can gain more understanding of each other and of ourselves, and so that we can build a future that looks better than our past. We should be teaching the next generations how to be authentically themselves and respectful of others. Instead we are seeing history repeat itself in the worst possible ways; a rise in oppressive indoctrination, an outburst of tyrannical censorship, and a withering in the potential of humanity itself.

For too long, we have been told a single story about the “right way” to exist, that there’s only man and woman, with strict boundaries to define them. But that has never been true, and if we are to achieve full happiness, we have to have open representation of other options. To quote Marian Wright Edelman, “You can’t be what you can’t see.” It has been proven over and over again, across multiple disciplines, that diversity in perspective and representation leads to better outcomes. There is a direct correlation between better mental health and access to gender affirming healthcare. Existing in our truths is what lifts all of us up. 

There is nothing to be lost and everything to be gained by encouraging the visibility of the drag art form, and the visibility of the bountiful ways that humans can express gender. For children especially, Drag Story Hour provides a learning opportunity about acceptance and appreciation for what is different - in others and within ourselves. But it is a subtle lesson and an undertone of the actual purpose of the event, which is pure, wholesome, sassy entertainment. Despite the fear-mongering and uninformed accusations, there is nothing predatory about drag queens reading stories to children.

We hope that you show your support for Bookman’s, their Drag Story Hour, and the trans and LGBTQ+ community.

Sources:

https://www.pbs.org/wnet/americanmasters/william-dorsey-swann-from-enslaved-to-queen/18722/

https://nmaahc.si.edu/explore/stories/brief-history-voguing 

https://rewirenewsgroup.com/2023/03/06/the-political-war-on-trans-people/ 

Chanukah Lights, Freedom to Pray

Carol J. Wechsler Blatter has contributed writings to Chaleur Press, Story Circle Network Journal, Writing it Real anthologies, Jewish Writing Project, Jewish Literary Journal, New Millenium Writings, poems to Story Circle Network’s Real Women Write and Covenant of the Generations. She is a wife, mother, and grandmother, and a recently retired psychotherapist. 

It’s December. It’s a time when snow and ice typically cover streets and sidewalks. Colored lights appear on many houses. Santa Claus and reindeer decorate many snow-covered lawns. Indoors, many homes have trees that are lit up at night, often with angels on top and shiny balls of various colors hanging from branches on them. It’s different for Jews. You’ll recognize Jewish homes when you see menorahs lit with little flames shining through their windows during the Chanukah holiday. 

*

Some of the rest of us celebrate the Jewish holiday, Chanukah. It’s the Festival of Lights. Sometimes it is celebrated around the time of Christmas but it has no connection to Christmas. The dates of celebration differ each year because Jews follow a lunar calendar. On Chanukah, an eight-day holiday, we light candles each night in our menorahs placing each candle in its place, and adding one each night until all eight candles are lit. There is one special candle, the shamash, like an attendant, that sits on the top of the menorah and lights all the other candles. We have several menorahs. One in brass. One in silver metal. One in limestone. This holiday celebrates our freedom to pray as Jews because the Maccabees, a priestly family of Jews, successfully fought the Seleucids, Greeks who tried to eliminate our religious practices. Afterward, Jews rededicated the Temple which the Greeks had desecrated. The name Chanukah (or Hanukkah or Hanukah) means dedication. All spellings are correct.

*

Sometimes Jewish children envy their Christian friends who are inundated with gifts at this holiday time. Sometimes Jewish children do not understand the different meanings of these holidays. Jewish parents have the task of helping their children understand what is important about this observance. Some Jewish families give gifts to their children every night of Chanukah. I never grew up with this custom. Chanukah gelt, gelt is a Yiddish word for money, was given to me by my grandparents and parents. Handfuls of pennies were typical gifts in my childhood. In recent years gold colored chocolate faux coins are given along with gelt. We give our granddaughter one large gift each year. This year it will be a Nintendo game called Ooblets which she requested. Far from pennies given to me in my childhood on this holiday, and absent computers then, this is an expensive and sophisticated computer game. What are grandparents for anyway? To enjoy and indulge our grandchildren. 

*

The preparations for Chanukah begin. Our Chanukah menorah’s candles are ready to be lit, each candle is of a different color. Our granddaughter is playing dreidel (a spinning top) on the bridge table with grandpa. She hates to lose. She gets upset when grandpa wins. I hear her protesting the rules, you cheated, Grandpa. I saw you.

Of course, she is delighted when she wins. She claps. She jumps up and down. 

I’m better at the dreidel game than you, Grandpa! Grandpa, don’t forget I want to sing the dreidel song. 

Ok. Sure. You’ll sing it tonight. 

Grandpa, can you show me the picture again when you were a boy celebrating Chanukah? I remember the picture of you wearing those funny clothes. And there was a picture of grandma making latkes. Can you find it?

I’ll try.

Grandpa takes out the photo album and they spend some time together looking at the photos. She points to one photo, one when she was much younger, maybe two or three. 

Grandpa, I can’t believe I was so little. 

You were. You were very cute just like now. What a pretty dress you were wearing for the holiday! And black tights to keep you warm.

Grandpa, do you like my dress? I picked it out. I love these ruffles and the puffy sleeves.

Yes, it’s beautiful. You look so pretty.

And I’m in the kitchen hearing her giggle as she looks at the family photos. I am wearing a long apron to keep the oil flying from the frying pan away from my clothes. I fry these potato pancakes, in Yiddish called latkes, in lots of oil that make continuous sizzling sounds. And the pleasing smell of these pancakes emanates throughout the house. As these latkes fry, the excitement of the celebration of Chanukah builds. 

Our granddaughter comes into the kitchen.

Grandma, those latkes smell so good. Can I have one?

Yes, of course. 

Can I have applesauce with it?

Yes, certainly.

I don’t like sour cream so I won’t take that.

She eats with delight.

Grandma, this is so good. Can I have another one?

No, you’ll spoil your appetite for dinner.

I want another one.

I told you, no. That’s final.

She stomps out of the room.

I heard her say in a stage whisper, you’re so mean grandma.

Come here, our daughter said. I heard you. Apologize to grandma. Now.

I’m sorry, grandma.

*

Making pancakes is a big deal. Our daughter helps me peel and slice the white potatoes, peel and slice the sweet potatoes, peel and slice the carrots, dice the onions, add a little garlic powder and pepper, and put it all into the blender. This is the modern way of making these pancakes. My grandmother grated all these ingredients by hand. It’s hard to imagine anyone making pancakes that way while still enjoying the holiday.

Our guests arrive. We sit down together as we light the menorahs, one from each family. It is the first night of Chanukah so we light one candle plus one for the shamash. 

My husband recites the blessing:

Blessed are You, Adonai our God, Sovereign of all, who has kept us alive, sustained us, and brought us to this season.

Then we sing holiday songs. Our granddaughter is the first to sing. 

Well I have a little dreidel 

I made it out of clay

and when it’s dry and ready

Then dreidel I shall play.

Lots of applause from everyone. Our granddaughter beams. Grandpa takes a photo of her.

After a few more songs we eat. Our menu includes latkes with sides of applesauce and sour cream, a green salad with vinegar and olive oil dressing accompanied by slices of warm French bread, vegetable soup, a combination of tuna and egg salads, and various kinds of cheeses and crackers. For dessert, I serve a variety of cookies and fresh fruit. And sufganiyot.

For this holiday some Jews offer an alternative to latkes, sufganiyot, which we call jelly donuts. Like latkes, sufganiyot are fried with lots of oil. Oil is symbolic. One understanding is that oil was needed to renew and purify the desecrated second Temple by the Greeks. With only one flask of pure oil, it would have been impossible to light the menorah. In a miraculous way, one flask of pure oil lasted eight days. And the menorah was lit. This also explains why Chanukah is an eight-day holiday. 

*

I remember when our young daughter placed our menorah near our kitchen window during this holiday so others could see its radiating lights. Now our granddaughter places the menorah near the window as the bright little lights linger. We hand down holiday traditions from generation to generation.

*

Chanukah lights burn quickly. They have very short lives. Like these candles, my time in life is getting shorter with each day. I’m eighty. I’ve already lived most of the years of my life. I pray that I will live long enough to see our granddaughter grow up, graduate from high school, and be there as she leaves for college. I will give her a menorah and candles to put in her suitcase.

F Word Brainstorm

Thank you to everyone who came to our Instagram Live/Impromptu Virtual Workshop on September 8th! Here is the list of all of the words we were able to write down (and if we missed your suggestion, please let us know!). If you have a story relating to any of these words, consider submitting it for our upcoming show “The F Word”!

• Family

• Forgot

• Fangirl/Fandom

• Fabulous 

• Fettuccine

• Friends

• Fury

• Ferocious

• Future

• Fingers

• Follicles

• Fortitude

• Flour and flower

• Fairy

• Fertility

• First

• Films

• Fiery

• Feather

• Fundamental

• Fallacy

• Flabbergasted

• Flummoxed

• Freeze

• Fungus

• Flatulence

• Fine

• Foreshadow

• Fender 

• Flashlight 

• Food

• Flounce

• Fabric

• Fleece

• Frozen

• Fantasy

• Fuchsia

• Favorite

• Fencing

• Fish

• Fox

• Ferret

• Frivolousness

• Fruition

• Fruitfulness

• Funding, fiscal

• Foundation

• Feet

• Fix

• Freedom

• Frustrating

• Floundering 

• Figure

Ladies for Labor Day

Happy Labor Day, FSTerhood! Since this COVID era has all of us thinking about our relationship with our work/jobs, this is a friendly reminder that unionizing and collective action is how we improve the lives of the masses! Even beyond the impact of the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory Fire of 1911, women like Lucy Parsons, Dolores Huerta, and several others all fought for better working conditions for women (and children, because child labor hadn’t been outlawed yet--good grief). If you didn’t know that there were women taking leadership throughout the labor rights movement (and in the face of open sexism during the labor rights movement) well, now you know.

After the Triangle Shirtwaist Fire of March 25, 1911, a march on April 5 attracted thousands of women calling for safer working conditions and union representation.

We’re also thinking about the relationship that women have historically had with the workplace. There’s still a wage gap in every single career field, and as a whole, professions that are associated with women (teachers, care work, etc.) are severely undervalued and underfunded. Black women were enslaved and forced to give free labor that has still not been paid back. Women of color overall are more likely to have higher financial responsibility for their households and lower pay/benefits. And workplace harassment of all forms is a lurking threat. Clearly, the work to FIX the workplace is ongoing.

Do you have a story about your work life? Constantly putting up a FIGHT? We’re taking submissions for “The F Word” until September 16th, and we take submissions for the Unclenched blog on a rolling basis! Reach out to us for more info. 

Sources:

• https://www.thegazette.com/staff-columnists/this-labor-day-remember-the-ladies/ 

• https://parade.com/1082241/jessicasager/labor-day-women-history/ 

• https://www.archives.gov/news/topics/labor-day

• https://nwlc.org/resource/resilient-but-not-recovered-after-two-years-of-the-covid-19-crisis-women-are-still-struggling/ 

• https://nwlc.org/nwlc-in-the-press/celebrate-labor-day-with-this-brief-history-of-women-in-the-labor-movement/

The Blue Toilet

The author of this story wishes to share it without her name.

For most of my life, I had never had a real boyfriend. I grew up in a conservative, religious household, where sex was a sin and I wasn’t allowed to date. I even got in trouble once for holding hands with a boy on the church van in high school. When I went to college, I was allowed to date (because at this point, I’m supposed to be searching for a husband), but none of the Christian boys from my college youth group wanted to date me. So I kinda just stayed single.

Eventually I stepped away from religion and started living my own life, and started dating. While I got some great stories out of it, nothing really stuck, because dating men in your early twenties seems like constantly dodging sexual advances. And I was scared to have sex. Even without the religious pressure, I still had this deep seated fear of my first time, because I had spent my whole life hearing how this was supposed to be a special thing, and if you didn’t do it right, you were used up and would be full of shame and regret. So while I had opted out from the belief I couldn’t have sex until I was married, I still didn’t want to have sex until I was certain that the person I had my first time with really loved me and wasn’t using me.

Then I met Connor. He was very sweet and cared about me in a way that no one I had dated before him did. I was honestly very suspicious of him, because why was he being so kind and thoughtful? He had to be up to something. But no, he was just a good person, consistently respectful and meeting my needs. So I decided that I would have sex with him.

And that was why my first pregnancy scare happened when I was 26 years old. 

One Sunday night, after going to bed early, I had woken up to use the bathroom, and I noticed my toilet seat was blue. I tried to clean it off with chlorox wipes, but it wasn’t changing. So I pull up google on my phone to see how I could fix it, because I was going to be mad if I was going to have to ask my apartment complex to replace the toilet seat in my apartment. Was that even a repair that maintenance would do? I wasn’t sure.

But Google came back with an absolute gut punch. The top two reasons toilet seats turned blue was because a) you had been wearing blue jeans and the dye had come off on your legs, which I immediately ruled out because I literally never wear blue jeans, or b) you had very serious hormonal changes, which were reflected in your butt sweat when you sat on the toilet. Oh and by serious hormonal changes, that means you’re pregnant.

It’s important to note that my period wasn’t quite regular, but since I was living that abstinence-only lifestyle for so long, I didn’t quite keep track of it. I was always prepared in case my period started, and I could usually tell within a few days whether it was starting, but I couldn’t count the days on the calendar from my last recorded period and be like, “I can expect my period on August 18th” with any kind of certainty. So tell me why I went to the calendar and saw that the last time I had my period was five weeks earlier, and decided I had missed my period. Which, combined with the blue toilet, obviously means I’m pregnant.

I immediately felt sick to my stomach. Morning sickness, I presumed. Because that happens at 11:43pm. I immediately started googling how to get an abortion in this super fucking red state. I was already struggling to make ends meet working my full time job during the day and doing food delivery at night--there was no way I could afford a baby. Thankfully, the Tucson Abortion Support Collective provided a lot of useful information. I was able to set up a consultation at a clinic for that Friday.

I also felt ashamed of myself. Connor and I had only been using condoms--I had never been on birth control because I had never had any major health issues that required hormonal regulation. But I was angry at myself for being so reckless--I knew that I shouldn’t have sex without at least 2 forms of birth control. I should have pushed off having sex until my birth control was in order. And since that was my fault, I couldn’t tell him I was pregnant or ask him for help with it. Even though he absolutely would have helped me.

I also knew I couldn’t tell my sister, who was also my roommate. She has a tendency to panic over little things, and I couldn’t take that energy with this situation. I was trying not to panic, myself. Plus, at that time, I was the “more responsible” sister of the two of us, and I was embarrassed that I could have made such a stupid mistake by not getting birth control first.

All week, I would go to work, feeling sick and stressed, thinking about this unwanted burden. Thursday night, me and my best friend were supposed to go to the All Time Low concert at the Rialto. I met her there, and she knew something was off but I was trying to insist everything was fine. But I finally broke down and admitted that I was pregnant. She asked when I had taken the test. I told her that I would take one at the clinic tomorrow and I didn’t trust the store bought tests. (I was clearly very rational.) Besides, I didn’t need to take a test: my toilet seat had turned blue and I had missed a period and my parents both had come from big families, so I come from a long line of fertile women. I was definitely pregnant. This was my fault for not getting birth control before starting to have sex. Maybe God was punishing me for premarital sex after all. She assured me that I wasn’t being punished, and asked if I wanted to leave the concert. I told her no, because this could be the last fun I have before I become a single mom. (Irrational and dramatic. I’m really a winner.) She asked if I wanted her to come to the clinic with me--I told her no, and I already set an appointment with a clinic for the following day. So we went to the concert, and while I was still certain I was experiencing morning sickness during the concert, because that happens at 8:22pm, I still had a great time.

The next day, Friday, the doomsday, I leave work at lunch and head to the clinic. The receptionist was very nice to me as I filled out my paperwork, and handed me a cup to pee in for testing, and a paper gown to wear on the table. A nice gentleman doctor comes to see me and explains the process--depending on how far along I was, I could take a pill and the fetus would eject and I would recover in a couple days. It was actually at that appointment that I learned that pregnancy is calculated by the first day of my last period. Which means I was already five weeks pregnant, and if wanted the pill abortion, I had to have that happen in the next month. He leaves the room with the nurse to go get my test results while I panic about how I was going to get an entire extra $1500 for this abortion, when I could barely pay my rent.

The nurse comes back with a slightly confused look. Apparently, my pregnancy test came back negative. They even ran two tests, to make sure, and they came back the same. I told her that couldn’t be right. My toilet seat had turned blue. She offered to do an ultrasound to physically look inside and see what was there. I all but demanded it. 

The ultrasound also came back with a fully empty uterus.

The staff were very kind about my obvious stupidity while I changed back into my normal clothes. I guess they were just as equipped to deal with religious-trauma-based-hypochondriasis  as they were equipped to deal with people who had the entire trajectory of their lives hanging in the balance. Because to be afraid that you’re pregnant, and blaming yourself for it, and trying to get an abortion and not really having the financial resources, and generally feeling like you can’t talk about it to the people who love you the most, is a harrowing experience.

The whole appointment cost a mere $60. I got my period the following month.

Rueful Reflections on Roe v. Wade

This morning, we saw yet another bomb drop from our oligarchical Supreme Court and decimate a person’s right to bodily autonomy if they have a uterus. Once again, we are angry, anxious, and despondent at the blatant attack on our very lives. We vote, we protest, and yet this domestic war continues to be waged against us. We will continue the fight, but if you are tired today, then honor that, and take as much of a break as you are able. In this wretched time, please remember to be kind to each other, and particularly be kind to the people of color with uteruses, who are disproportionately affected by these laws that make access restricted to those with enough economic privilege to overcome these barriers. Not everyone can afford even a regular doctor’s appointment, let alone flying to another state where they might be extended a little more respect than the federal government has for their existence.

As with most injustices in America, the strongest way to support those who are being oppressed is to direct funding and resources to those who are oppressed. So here are some options:

• Donate to the Tucson Abortion Support Collective (they collect both funds AND tangible items, and provide useful information): abortionintucson.org/contact

• Donate to the Abortion Fund of Arizona: abortionfundofaz.org/donate

• Donate to Planned Parenthood

The Haircut

Written By: Julie.

Content Warning: Violence/Assault.

When I was 5 or 6 years old, I spent the summer with my grandparents. They lived in a small village in southeastern China.

I was not very welcome in my grandparents’ house, though, because I was a girl. My family wanted a boy, especially my grandparents. My mother often told me that almost everyone was sad when I was born because I was a girl.

As my grandma took care of me that summer, she started to get annoyed that my hair was getting longer. She didn’t want to spend too much time combing my hair; this was apparently a burden to her.

One night, after my grandma complained yet again about my growing hair, my grandpa decided to take me to the only hair salon in the village. We walked to the salon in the dark, as there were no street lights. The only illumination was the faint light coming from houses lining the quiet streets.

After a short walk, we reached the main street. There was a commotion up ahead in the dark. A group of people was gathered outside in front of a brightly lit house. We could hear women screaming, but could not yet see what was happening. The screaming really scared me, so I grabbed and held on tightly to my grandpa’s sleeve.

As we approached the disturbance, we slowly realized what was happening. The scene that came into view shocked me and stuck with me for the rest of my life.

Two women were lying on the ground, curled up, covering their heads with their arms in a futile attempt for protection. Several men were viciously attacking the women. They kicked them in the head and stomach, they beat them with heavy sticks, they punched them with hard fists, relentlessly, and without mercy. The two women were screaming and crying, defenseless, writhing on the ground.

My grandpa and I stopped walking and quietly watched the brutal assault from the other side of the street.

From the open door of the lit-up house, an old lady emerged, cursing, carrying scissors. She handed the scissors to one of the men, who then proceeded to roughly cut off the women’s hair while the other men continued to beat them.

I was absolutely horrified by the violence, the terrified screams of the two women, the frantic aggression of the men, the suffering of the women.

I was holding my breath, desperately waiting for somebody to come and help the two poor women, to make it stop. But nobody came. There were no neighbors coming from their house to help. There was no police coming to help. My grandpa did nothing to help. We just stood there and watched quietly.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, my grandpa pulled me away from the gruesome scene, and we continued walking towards the hair salon.

I asked grandpa what happened, trying to comprehend what I just saw. He said dismissively, “Nothing. Nothing. Just two wives they just bought, and now they want to run away.”
“Why did they cut those women’s hair?”
“So they will be ugly, and too ashamed to run away again!”
Grandpa did not seem to understand why I was so upset and scared. He was a man, and his attitude made it clear that he agreed with everything that just happened.

We eventually arrived at the hair salon, and I had my haircut. I don’t remember the haircut. What I do remember vividly from that night was the scene of violence: the dark street, the bright house, and men beating two women and cutting off their hair.

Later that night, I overheard my grandpa as he talked about it with my grandma. My grandma did not seem very bothered by it either; it was just a piece of gossip to her. I learned then that even my grandma, a woman, didn’t understand my feelings either. According to both of them, nothing I saw was wrong.

If you are a woman, a wife, it is legal for people to sell you, beat you, humiliate you, to lock you inside the house, to make you a prisoner. Nobody ever told me it was wrong.

That experience planted the seed of nervousness of being a woman in my heart. I have been suffering, struggling from that fear, and fighting against it.

Today, decades later, I am still scared to go to the hair salon. I am always nervous to get a haircut. I am still haunted by what I saw that night when I was very little.

I am living in the United States now. I graduated from college and traveled to several countries. It seems like I am an equal woman living in a modern world. But I know I’m not. I always know that I am no different from those women who were beaten, who were sold, who were raped, and who were killed. I am a Chinese woman. What happened to them could have been my fate.

I am just luckier that I wasn’t sold or killed. I am just luckier to get an education and have had the chance to explore the world. I am not better than those women. I am just luckier than them.

While this story happened in the early 90s, the same thing is still happening in 2020 in China. Countless women are still suffering from injustice in the world. Even though I have been struggling with the fear of being a woman and the idea that a woman is just the property of her parents, her husband, and society, I have made a decision that I will live my life to the fullest.

Because I am not living it only for myself. The two women who were beaten in front of me always remind me that I am living for all of those women who should have a chance, but didn’t. And most importantly, to always fight for women who don’t have the chance to live like we do.

Forgotten Ones

About the Author: Madison is an educator and writer who teaches at a public alternative school for students with severe behavior and mental health concerns. She is passionate about equity in education and serving disadvantaged students, which are often at the center of her writing.

See her writing portfolio here: https://missmwoodward.wixsite.com/home

————————————————————————

When I applied to teach at my current school, I knew it would be a different environment. I was looking for a position that would be more rewarding and give me the opportunity to serve students with higher needs. I remember when I arrived for my interview, I was shocked at how tiny the campus was – not even 10 portables in a horseshoe shape around a patch of overgrown grass and two basketball courts with chain nets. My own high school was a half mile from one side of the building to the other, and had 4,000 students in the building every day. The principal pulled me into his office and laid it all out for me – explaining what exactly this school was like. At the end, I told him he sounded like he was trying to scare me off, but I told him this is exactly what I was looking for. To be honest, when I showed up to that interview, I knew I wanted to work at a Title I school but I did not necessarily know yet if this school was the right fit for me. Ironically as the principal told me these off the wall experiences that happen at the school, all I felt was a fire in my belly growing bigger. It was like the universe led to me to stumble into this place so I could discover my passion. Before I researched and interviewed at this school, I had very little understanding of what alternative education was. However, it has turned me into an advocate – I love my students endlessly and I fight for them every opportunity I get.

I teach at a high-needs public alternative school near Phoenix, Arizona. More specifically, I teach students who have house arrest trackers on their ankles and/or parole officers, many students with undiagnosed academic deficiencies or mental health concerns, and every student sent to my school has been kicked out of their previous school for an extreme behavior issue. I have had a student tell me they stabbed someone at their old school, and I had another student tell me at the age of six their mother used to lock them in the closet for hours without food, water, or light. Honestly, sometimes other schools in the district use our school as a dumping ground for the kids they don’t want to deal with. In a school of only 60 high schoolers, it is not uncommon to have 30% with IEPs and you may have a class period where more than half require accommodations. It is a heartbreaking reality that some of our students are treated this way, and my small underfunded school exhausts every resource to provide the most equitable education we can. This is the type of place that people will sometimes apply to be a teacher and realize in the interview they have wasted their time or just walk out. You have to really want to teach at a school like this because you will be cussed out, threatened, and students will test you in ways you never knew possible.

The thing about my students is when they show up, that’s a big win. I have had students who ran away from home and no one knew where they were for weeks at a time. I had a student who told me they were kicked out a couple of years prior and slept on the streets for more than six months before they were allowed back into their home. I have heard stories of students overdosing on campus, so far in my time there we have only had one scare, but it is something we watch out for. All students wear uniforms and are searched before they enter campus, so they try to find new and innovative ways to sneak weed and vapes onto school grounds. I have students with incarcerated parents, many live in poverty, their parents or guardians are rarely home because they are always working to make ends meet, and very few of the adults in their life have gone on to higher education. At the beginning of the year, I have all my students draw a Life Map that shows me major events in their life. I have learned of unimaginable abuse, addiction plaguing their families, past suicide attempts, crimes or violence they have committed, etc. just on the first day meeting them. They come from and continue to endure incredible trauma (sometimes including at the hands of our education system) and overcome it every single day they wake up. So, when I say them showing up to school at all is a big win, I mean that they have every reason to turn away from education and give up.

My school works tirelessly to build community on campus and establish positive relationships between all staff and students. This goes far beyond being a school that uses PBIS – that barely scratches the surface. At the start of the school year every teacher introduces themselves to the entire school and talks about why they love working there. We do whole- school meetings at least once a month to give awards, talk about field trips or events, and again try to establish community. We spend the first month of school intensely going over the rules and expectations for students and make sure we handle students who test the boundaries. There are murals painted on our portables to make the campus look more inviting. We have a garden that students built and help maintain throughout the year. Every Friday, students who have demonstrated good behavior get to participate in a club during regular school hours. We get to take our students on many field trips, host movie days, and do contests and events that are seasonal (Valentine’s bake sale, Halloween themed booths, Holiday games, etc.). Most importantly, teachers work really hard to build rapport with students and earn their trust. Our school has a revolving door, kids are constantly coming in and sometimes leaving for good - and as teachers, we have to quickly make them feel part of the community. Educator and TED Talk presenter Rita Pierson says kids do not learn from teachers they do not like; well, marginalized kids will not learn from you if they do not trust you.

I think it is clear you never know what you are going to get on any given day at my job, and quarantine has been no different. My students are warriors, and the battles only got bloodier when schools closed. Many of my students had no internet or devices to do online work when this began, and my school did its best to provide them with what they needed. I have students who are working overtime in food delivery to help make ends meet for their family. I know at least three students that have run away, and at least two who have officially dropped out since our school closed. I spend my days trying to communicate with students and families and rarely hear back from any of them – less than a third of my students have completed any online work at all. There is this saying in teaching regarding how taxing a regular day can be: “I am teacher tired!” Well now the following seems more appropriate: “I am emotionally exhausted distance instructing during pandemic teacher tired!”

Teachers were thrown into an ever evolving and crazy situation when schools closed. I know teachers who had as little as one day to prepare distance learning for students, and some who have been expected to submit proof to their supervisors that they are still working. Make no mistake, every teacher in America has been working. Some have been working more than they ever did in person, and some may be working a bit less but that is because they are not making copies, covering teachers who do not have a sub, not having to do duty, or the millions of other tasks we get dragged into. Despite all of this, teachers have tried their best to make it work. I am a part of teacher groups on social media which have been flooded with emotional teachers begging for innovative ways to engage their kids or advice on how to stay positive when everything has fallen apart. For me, my workload has honestly been nice due to the teacher- centered decisions my principal made when schools first closed. However, quarantine has been more emotionally draining than teaching in person ever was. Can you believe that? Quarantine teaching is more emotionally draining than being cussed out in 1 st hour, finding out the student you finally got on track ran away in 3rd hour, and learning your favorite student was suspended for ten days in 4th hour!

There’s a joke in teaching that being in a room of students can sometimes be like herding feral cats. For me, teaching during this pandemic has been like trying to herd feral cats with a blindfold on: I know they are out there, I know where I am supposed to lead them, but I cannot seem to actually get ahold of any of them. I have sent countless emails to families and students often with no response. Or I do get a response but then I still do not receive work from them. I have the cell phone numbers of many of my students because texting is the only way I can get them to answer me. It is incredibly frustrating as a teacher to put so much work into building those relationships, teach all year, and constantly reach out during distance learning and have nothing to show for it. Believe me, I absolutely understand why many of my students are not engaging. School is not their top priority right now, and honestly, given their situations it absolutely shouldn’t be. But ever since this remote teaching started, I have been counting down the days to summer. Not because I do not want to teach or work with my kids, but because this experience has left me pouring everything I have out, but this time nothing is filling me back up.

While I am exhausted and I yearn for the end of the school year when I can officially breathe out, I know I sit in a place of privilege. My students are the victims of this experience and not because they will miss graduation and prom or because they didn’t learn as much as they would have in person… Those things mean practically nothing to my students in the grand scheme of things. They are the victims because 99% of my students get free or reduced breakfast and lunch at my school. They are the victims because we had such a high need for more food- related support that we implemented a campus food pantry for families, which halted when schools closed. They are the victims because my school, the same place people look at and scoff because it is only portables and a small patch of overgrown grass, is the only safe place many of my students know. They are the victims because some of my students who never imagined they would even finish high school, are applying to community college and asking me if they will ever get to step foot on a campus. They are the victims because we spent all year building this beautiful community and getting them to believe that they could trust us, just to rip it away from them without a 24-hour notice. And make no mistake, the fallout of this will mark them far longer than it will mark students from comprehensive high schools and safe and loving homes.

I want everyone to know that these students exist: students from broken homes, experiencing unbelievable poverty, overcoming trauma daily; they are entirely marginalized - and they have always been the ones forgotten and they continue to be forgotten during quarantine. Politicians and decision makers do not know my students. They do not know their struggle, their trauma, their incredible resiliency. They know nothing of what it means to fight against all odds, and still lose. They have no idea what it truly means to be a marginalized student in America. These students are the reason I get out of bed in the morning and can’t sleep through the night. When the school year ends, I will breathe a sigh of relief, but the burden will not be lifted. I will never forget the students we lost to the pandemic, even if they are still alive.

Unclenched: a space for sharing stories until we can be together on stage again.

In light of the challenges we are facing from the total societal upheaval as of late, the F*ST! Executive board has decided to modify how we serve our storytellers and our audience in the coming months. 

Between the rampant unsafety of a mishandled pandemic, and the resurgence of the conversation around the state-sanctioned murder of Black people, we believe it would better serve our storytellers, our Board, and our community, to have a place to write and process without all the attachments of performance. While there is so much beauty and power in speaking stories aloud, there is also so much that can be gained from sharing our stories through the written word. 

So: for the next couple of months, we will be hosting submitted stories here, on our "Unclenched" blog.

We imagine "Unclenched" as a space where our fellow F*STers can just release everything you've been holding onto during this time of chaos. Holding your hands in a FIST (pun intended) and constantly fighting this battle that we take on, to further justice and promote empathy, without stepping back to rest can also cause us to hold on to pain. While not a substitute for proper professional mental health care, the therapeutic nature of storytelling is something that we truly believe in at F*ST!. We encourage you to engage with it, and let us uplift your voice, as is our mission.

For the months of June and July, we ask you to write whatever you want--no theme, no prompt, just whatever it is you want to say--and submit to FST for publishing on "Unclenched" by emailing storytelling@fstorytellers.com. We are accepting submissions on a rolling basis.

Please note that in the submission process, we still retain discretion over which stories are selected for publishing. But without the constraints of event planning or the pressure of public speaking, we really hope that you will feel empowered to share your stories with us, and allow us to share them with the world. Additionally, we still will have performance shows, and our next virtual performance show, "The F word," will take place in late August, so keep an eye out for that!

Let us know if you have any questions. Otherwise, please share this with your friends, send us your stories, and let us be of one heart.