Letter from the Editor

Dear Reader,

Our bodies should be the simplest things in the world: mere vessels for the consciousness, glorified houseplants that we just need to water and feed, a collection of material that carries us around.

But of course, as we all know, bodies are far more complicated than that. Philosophers have been pontificating on the mind-body split for centuries, but the fact that our bodies can feel so separate from who we really are is still a very real, daily issue for most people. Not only that, but because our bodies are the mediators between ourselves and the rest of the world, they’re vulnerable to the forces of other people and society.

In this issue, we see a wide array of problems complicating people’s relationships with their own bodies and others’. Cedar O’Dowd writes about how nonbinary college athletes navigate the binary world of sports, as well as how transphobic rules forced them to make the painful decision between their identity and staying on the team. David-Elijah Brown also discusses injustice imposed on his body in a short, poetic piece about his blackness and the struggles and joys that it brings him. An anonymous writer talks about losing control over her body as she loses her sense of self to a deeply toxic and violent relationship—ultimately, though, she finds a way to reconnect with her body and uncover the happiness it can give her. All three writers experience the vulnerability that being a person in a body gives you, and all three find ways to rediscover what’s great about the hunks of meat they live in.

Hannah G. Peak and Courtney Knerr talk about other bodies smaller than their own. Peak reflects on her relationship with her boyfriend’s son and his tiny body through the act of doing laundry together, while Knerr makes an argument about the commodification of animal bodies through dissection.

In this aptly named Body Issue, we’ll be exploring the widest range of bodily issues. Despite the fact that I, personally, would often prefer a houseplant to a human body, this issue makes me realize that there really are some pros to this crazy piece of machinery I live in—and I hope it does the same for you. 

Corporeally yours,

      Kat and the rest of the Cipher staff

Body Issue | February 2020 

Moments

By Martina Alvarez

Body Issue | February 2020

Lines, Legs, and Laundry

A stretchy rubber chicken, a tiny monster alien, and a jack: the epitome of little boy laundry. The first rule of each load of jeans in a house of boys is to thoroughly check and empty all pockets. The second is to return the random trinkets to their homes before the washer starts the spin cycle, consequently sending each item bouncing into various corners of the room. Depending on the day, this might mean slipping on my shoes and going out to the garage with a handful of little nuts and bolts squeezed tightly in my palm. 

I always thought I knew how to launder jeans.

The first time I taught you how to do laundry, our hands searched the pockets together, emptying the dirt, rocks, and yo-yo string. Our arms poked down the tunnels of each inside-out pant-leg and turned them right-side-in before filling the machine. 

Even on the tips of your toes, you couldn’t see over the lip of the soap tray, which momentarily stumped me because it hardly ever crosses my mind that you are still so small in this world. You wanted desperately to press the bubble button on the soap dispenser, so after aligning it over the proper slot, I let you hold down the button; I watched the max line and waited for the moment when it was time to tell you to stop. 

Trying to fill the silence between us, I explained the difference between the detergent, color-safe bleach, and fabric softener. Instead, you asked: Why do we put jeans in at heavy duty instead of bulky?

Because bulky is more like the comforters on our beds––the ones that fill the entire tub of the machine and swallow your arms as you carry them outside and help me stretch them across multiple clotheslines so they don’t touch the ground. The ones that carry the freshness of the outside that your dad adores into our rooms the first night after they’re clean.

Bulky is more like our thick socks that we wear when we hunt; the ones that keep our toes warm in places where the chill of the earth tries to creep through our bodies and into our bones; the same ones we wear when we run through the snow wearing boots that are now the same size—when did you grow so big?

Bulky is also your sweatshirt with the fluffy interior that you love. But love is the time I spend plucking out all those little strands and seeds of the outdoors that fill its inner lining, removing the evidence of that week’s well-lived life so that you can start anew, because a washer can never get them all out.

Then, within months of moving into this house, our first home, the handle on that washing machine snapped clean off, making it nearly impossible to open. Your fingers, still slight and young, don’t possess the strength to open the door and, some days, mine don’t either. 

And as my fingertips throb red with the afterburn of slipping off the jagged plastic edge of the broken handle, I think about how I thought I knew how to do laundry. 

This year, however, through an odd stroke of luck, I finally found a replacement handle. After the sun dipped below the flat horizon and the lights were off in preparation for bed, I passed through the hallway in front of the washer. When my socked foot came down in a puddle of water, my lip curled in disgust and irritation, but then I had the peace of mind to question why there was water on the floor in the first place. 

I turned the lights on and discovered that the washer, despite being empty and turned off, had filled itself with water and overflowed. While mopping up the water, I pulled out the drawer on the washer to check for puddles. Now, imagine my excitement when the first thing I saw laying on top, still wrapped in plastic, was a replacement handle for the washer. It was right beneath us the whole time. 

Out of habit, I still follow you to the hallway when I ask you to switch the laundry over, and the fan at the end of the hall watches us both and waits for the next flood of water. This must have been the fourth or fifth time it’s happened, but I lost count after the third. 

That time, the door on the washer was latched closed, and the inside filled up completely with water, unbeknownst to me. When I opened the washer door, a tidal wave rushed out, drenching my legs and splashing across the floor.

And to think, I really thought I knew how to do laundry.

And then when you came home from church on that Wednesday night, you approached me with the hem of your t-shirt in your hands. I sat in bubblegum on the bus. 

Glad to see that you kept your shirt out of the sticky pink mess smeared and stretched onto your waistband, I said to carefully put the jeans on top of the dryer before your shower so the gum wouldn’t spread onto anything else.

What I didn’t say was that I had no idea how to get bubblegum out of clothes, but I knew that for you, I would learn.

Food coloring, on the other hand, I couldn’t scrub from the seat of the pants you wore the day we made “moon slime” with baking soda, water, and dye. You pulled your sleeves up to your elbows, took a sparing glance at the directions, and announced boldly, “Eh. Directions aren’t really a Smith thing.” You proceeded to empty the entirety of both bottles of blue and yellow dye into the tray in front of you. 

The green goo ended up on any surface it could find: the table, the floor, and somehow, the chair you were sitting on. You held your slimy green hands in the air, laughing and asking me to take your picture, and I said okay because I already had. Moments like these and memories we build together keep me grounded when I leave. 

When I was closer to your age, I opened the dryer door and, for the first time in my laundry experience, a battered, worn, and warm five-dollar bill dropped onto the floor. After tamping down the spark of excitement that had just exploded in my stomach, I gave the bill to my mom, who proceeded to tuck it back into my hand and explain my favorite laundry rule: If you find money while doing laundry, it’s yours to keep.

Today, I tell you this while exchanging smiles with your crooked-tooth grin—the one that forms a deep divot in your cheeks—and your eager eyes crinkle and crease in the corners with joy, just like your dad. 

On days we didn’t use the dryer, days during those summer months when the sun was just an exposed white circle in the sky, I would follow my mom out to the laundry line, the basket in her hands and the clothespin holder in mine. We couldn’t afford to run the dryer for each and every load. 

Those same Kansas days ended with layers of thick black clouds rolling and boiling over one another, eventually filling our previously uninterrupted horizon and sending gusts of wind through the trees like whispered warnings. As the sky cracked in celebration, it would send the first spittle of water sprinkling lightly across the ground––followed by my brother’s and my mad dash for the clothesline, the air clinging to the hair on our arms and cautioning us about the oncoming onslaught. 

And with the sky threatening to open overhead, one of us would frantically unclip the laundry while the other held their arms out expectantly to carry the load. Those nights are filled with memories of the fresh scent and soft, stiff scratch of the bath towels fresh off the line as we folded them away.

And now, instead of spending the warm hours of summer taking running starts at the tall silver T-post of my mom’s clothesline and swinging by the palms of my hands, I spend those hours with the sun on the back of my neck at my own clothesline, with my own clothespins and my own basket at my feet. My own clothesline that only has three wires rather than four because the fourth is coiled up and pinned at one end, having been broken before I had the chance to call it mine. My own clothespins that find their home in the bottom of my own basket at the end of each day because I don’t yet have my own clothespin holder. 

Our dryer can’t afford to run for each and every load.

When you’re with us, it’s your turn to follow me to the laundry line, begging for my company on the trampoline as you dig through the laundry basket to find the scattered clothespins. Your dad got you that trampoline for Christmas one year and we assembled it that summer. We never finished making the stakes, so when tornado season blew through last fall, it blew your trampoline with it––through the alleyway, over the retired baseball diamond, past Piper’s car in her driveway. At this point, metal pieces were flying off and leaving a trail across the gravel road and over a barbed wire fence, where it finally came to a lopsided rest in the McDowell horse pasture. 

      We tied a strap between the trampoline and the hitch of the truck, towing it home where your dad heated rebar until it glowed red hot and hammered the shape of each one into a rounded-over stake. I pounded them into the ground over the remaining legs of your trampoline to hold it down until that week’s storm finished blowing through. 

By the time we finished, the hems of our jeans were caked and splattered with mud from working on the sloppy surface of the earth. 

When I was closer to your age, my mom not only taught me how to wash and hang laundry, but she also taught me how to camp, and with camping, how to build and light a fire. We’d stuff the lint from the dryer into an empty toilet paper tube to use as a firestarter, and when there wasn’t a tube to stuff, I fell into the habit of emptying the dryer trap and leaving the lint atop the machine––which drives your dad crazy, but he laughs anyway, asking why I do it. 

And I guess I do it for the same reason you like to scrape and collect the thick blue lint from the trap after emptying a load of jeans for me: one neither of us will ever quite understand, even though I thought I knew how to do laundry.

Because then when it’s time to fold those same jeans that you emptied the pockets on, washed, and dried, my hands begin to fumble with the material, trying to recall the muscle memory that usually guides my hands through the process. Rather than folding the waistline in half, followed by the two folds of the pant legs, I have to pay attention to the size of the waistline and how many pant legs each pair has or else it doesn’t work.

The first time I tried folding your jeans, I fought with the scrunched-up waistband of one pair, trying my damndest to get it to flatten out. But the waistband was squinched so tightly because it was being held in place by the strands of elastic buttoned on the tightest hole, and it strikes me again just how small you are. But it strikes me even harder when I realize that my arm is the same length as your pant leg, and that if I were to fold the pant legs twice as I do on my own jeans, the material would just flop back open because there’s simply not enough of it to justify a second fold. 

And when I hold your dad’s jeans, my knees begin to ache with the memory of the cool hardwood floor beneath them and the hard, unyielding plastic handle of scissors pressed into my palm as your dad grips either side of the right pant leg directly beneath the empty space of his knee. And the silence filling the air is as deafening as the metallic ringing snip of the blades as they slice away the material. 

There are no words to say.

So, after the waistband is folded smoothly in half, I lay the shorter pantleg across and then tuck it into the longer one before the final fold. Otherwise, they won’t stay folded either. 

And I thought I knew how to launder jeans.

While I was home over Christmas break, we went through all of your clothes together: shirts, jeans, pajamas, swimsuits, socks—the same way my mom would do with me and my siblings once every year. Everything had to be sorted­––not only because you physically grew out of some, but also because you’ve now matured out of the Spiderman swim trunks, the superhero t-shirts, the colorful monster socks, and even the dinosaur pajamas. 

But when I held up your blue long-sleeve shirt with a Brachiosaurus on it, I saw the hesitation flicker across your face because you wanted to say keep and you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it out loud. So, we tucked the shirt into the closet again and I suggested that you wear it on weekends and seasonal breaks––times when you’re not in school, because you’ve officially reached the age where your peers notice your clothes. As hard as I try, I don’t always have the words to make you feel better.

I thought I knew.

I thought laundry was another chore—going from bedroom to bathroom to bedroom to collect baskets; sorting items into bedding, delicates, whites, normal, bulky, jeans, and towels; getting on my hands and knees to sweep out the lost sock from beneath the couch; turning each dirty inside-out sock the right way; clipping and unclipping one load after the other to the clothesline and then finding the motivation to put the clothes away. And while doing all this, with my mind stuck on loop as time slipped through my fingers, I often questioned, Is this life?

But then you taught me how to launder jeans.

You showed me that laundry is the time you spend telling me that once, you thought the yo-yo string hanging out of your pocket was a snagged string from your jeans, so you snipped it off only to discover your mistake later; it’s the face you make when I pass the chilly wet comforter into your arms, fresh from the washer to be carried outside; the laughter we share while chasing the dog around the yard for our clothespins.

It’s the love I hold for you and your dad, and the soft smile that plays on the curve of my lips as the warmth of each piece of material glides between my hands, fresh from the dryer. It’s the contentment of knowing that this, this is my life.

By Grace Peak

Art by Amy Raymond

 Body Issue | February 2020

Parasites

Parasites

And all the other things that leach our nutrients

Index of Characters: 

Kim Ki-taek: Kim patriarch; driver for the Parks 

Kim Ki-woo “Kevin”: the Kim’s son and the character first employed by the Parks; Da-hye’s English tutor 

Kim Ki-jung “Jennifer”: the Kim’s daughter and Da-song’s art therapy tutor 

Kim Choong-sook: Kim matriarch; housekeeper for the Parks 

Nathan Park: Park patriarch

Park Yeon-kyo: Park matriarch 

Park Da-hye: the Parks daughter; tutored by Ki-woo  

Park Da-song: the Parks son; tutored by Ki-jung 

Moon-gwang: original housekeeper for the Parks; has been hiding her husband in the Park’s underground basement against their knowledge for the past four years. 

Min: Ki-woo’s wealthy friend. 

“Parasite,” Bong Joon-ho’s blockbuster class warfare dramedy, is catching fever with audiences worldwide hitting a record $165.4 million for its distributor, NEON. It took over award season, winning both a Golden Globe and the 2019 Palme d’Or while also making history as the first foreign-language film to win the Oscar for Best Picture.

“Parasite” follows the Kims, an impoverished family in South Korea, become parasites in the house of their wealthy employers and eventual hosts, the Parks. They need to do this in order to get ahead in a system that unfairly devalues them. The Kim clan systematically replaces every member of the previous house staff, including the maid and driver, to make space for themselves. They create fake identities and pose as four employees vaguely connected to one another through word of mouth recommendations—but what starts as an almost playful infiltration ends in something much more sinister. 

The film takes a turn when Choong-sook discovers that the former housekeeper, Moon-gwang (Lee Jeong-un), has been using the secret basement beneath the Park house to hide her husband from loan sharks. The two families go head-to-head when Moon-gwang captures the Kims on film, proving they’re connected as a family. The Kims trap Moon-gwang’s husband in the basement, and both parties threaten to expose each other to the Parks, leading to the climax of the film at Da-song’s birthday party.

Quick pans and tracking shots build the film’s tension to a breaking point where what began as class conflict devolves into a bloodbath. Moon-gwang’s husband escapes from the basement and stabs Ki-jung (Park So-dam). The Kim patriarch Ki-taek (Kang-Ho Song) then murders Nathan Park (Lee Sun-kyun), the head of the Park household, in a final act of desperation. Ki-taek’s only recourse is to retreat into a life of solitude beneath the Park house waiting for the day he will see his family again. Despite their brief climb up the economic ladder, the Kims are prisoners to their economic class. The remaining family members end the film where they started: in the slums of Seoul, hanging flyers for a pizza parlor, for which they folded boxes at the film’s opening.

The Kims are victims of the parasitic nature of money in this film, but this isn’t the only reference to parasites. Messages about the parasitic relationships between technology and humans, parents and their children, and colonists and indigenous nations crawl beneath the flesh of this story. 

The relationship between the Kims and Parks illustrates the power of money on a person’s behavior. The Parks’ wealth makes them gullible and susceptible to the cultivated helplessness that financial security affords them. For the Kims, however, the need for money is insatiable and results in their shared moral corruption. We see this tension escalate throughout the film until the Kims go head to head with Moon-gwang and her husband, who has been hiding in the basement for four years. The metaphor of an economic “upstairs” versus “downstairs” of society is literalized through this relationship. Both families vie for a chance at living among the wealthy even as the help, speaking to the desperation that can stem from the pursuit of money. The Kims are willing to turn on Moon-gwang and her husband—members of their own class—to escape being stuck “downstairs” forever. 

When the Kims displaced Moon-gwang, they gained the upper hand on the economic ladder, as well as on the upper floor of the Park house. However, this power is only temporary. Ki-taek’s eventual exile into that same basement illustrates the fleeting nature of economic stability in this environment. It also shows the corruptive pull of money. The opportunity to leach the Parks’ wealth pits the two families animalistically against each other, wrestling on the floor of the Park’s living room. 

Bong employs certain cinematic elements to convey the overwhelming need for money that brings out the parasitic side of humanity. Bong shows the Kims descending many stairs in the Park house, representing their literal distance from the Parks’ position in the hierarchy of wealth. He shows Ki-woo (Cho Woo-shik) parasitically modelling himself after his wealthy friend Min (Seo-joon Park), repeating some of Min’s earlier lines from the opening of the film, such as “When she enters University, I’ll officially ask her out,” and “Get a fucking grip!” 

Most pointedly, however, the Kims’ hunger for money is brought to life through the symbolic “scholar-rock.” The scholar-rock, a gift from Min to Ki-woo, is an object that symbolizes material wealth and prosperity. The rock becomes a recurring motif throughout the film. By the second half, the rock becomes Ki-woo’s only possession when a catastrophic flood ruins the Kims’ home. In a particularly pivotal scene, Ki-woo is seen clutching the rock tightly to his chest as his family sleeps on the floor of a gym, having been displaced by the flood. The rock is a pointed reminder of the lack of stability, or bedrock, that comes with poverty. 

The desire for stability through wealth proves to be never ending. Ki-woo seemingly lets go of his craving for wealth by relinquishing the scholar-rock, leaving it in a stream after his father retreats into the basement, seemingly forever. But the audience knows—even if Ki-woo doesn’t—that he will never let it go. Though he’s left the physical rock behind, Ki-woo idealistically holds onto the idea that one day his family will be economically stable. At the close of the film, he writes a letter to his father promising to one day buy the Park house and free him from hiding in the basement. Despite his hope, it is likely that the Kims will remain perpetually stuck in their semi-basement home in Seoul. They exist in a liminal space, halfway between the wealthy surface and the lower-class “basement” of society. All Ki-woo has is false hope.  

Another underlying parasitic relationship in the film is between technology and humans. When we are first introduced to the Kims, they’re searching for a neighbor’s Wi-Fi, holding their phones against the windows and ceiling of their semi-basement. They find it on the throne of contemporary phone usage: the toilet. Here, Bong makes light of humans’ dependence on technology. This relationship becomes increasingly ominous as the film progresses—the standout moment is when Moon-gwang holds the video exposing the Kims out in front of her like a gun. 

“Parasite” suggests that technology and constant communication have the potential to be life-destroying. As Moon-gwang and her husband hold the Kims hostage by threatening to send the video to Mr. Park, her husband laughs, “Honey, this ‘send’ button is like a missle launcher.” Coupled with the presence of older forms of communication like Morse code, which serve Ki-taek and Ki-woo, this scene sends a message that the technology-obsessed world we live in today may be corrupting humanity with the potential to turn us against one another. 

Another parasitic relationship in the film is the one between children and their parents. Both the Park and Kim families have parental figures who rely on their children to a fault. In the Kim family, the father Ki-taek relies on Ki-woo for economic support. Despite being the patriarch, Ki-taek fails to support them, and the children are left to provide for their parents. Ki-taek’s lack of effort to help his family eventually becomes toxic. The introduction to Ki-taek’s character happens when his wife, Choong-sook (Jang Hye-jin) wakes him up where he sleeps on the floor, asking, “What’s your plan?” By the end of the film, it becomes clear that he’d never had one. Ki-woo and his sister treat their parents to a dinner following their first paycheck from the Parks, where he proudly comments “Eat as much as you want kids!”, at which point his wife reminds him, “You didn’t even pay for it!” 

In the Park household, Yeon-kyo (Cho Yeo-jeong), the matriarch, is a helicopter parent. She bends over backwards for her ten-year-old child, Da-song (Jeong Hyun-joon).  She has Choong-sook, the Kim matriarch, cook him special meals, like ramdan, a courtesy she doesn’t extend to her daughter. She and Mr. Park order him luxury items like walkie talkies, Native American headdresses, bows and arrows, and a massive tipi from the U.S. Following a traumatic incident in which Da-song sees a “ghost” in the house on his birthday a year before the film begins—really Moon-gwang’s husband sneaking upstairs from his basement hideout for food—she plans a camping trip for his birthday to assure he isn’t reminded of the “ghost,” and when the campground is rained out, she arranges a party in their backyard, asking the Kims to work overtime. 

This is an absurd amount of effort to exert for a ten-year-old. At the party, the tables for the party are set up in a circle around Da-song’s tipi, symbolizing that he is the center of their universe. The tipi shows up again when the Park parents sleep in the living room to keep an eye on Da-Song after he insists on sleeping outside during the rainstorm.  

In one shot, as the Park parents sleep, the tipi is reflected in the large glass window. It takes up most of the shot, reflecting the amount of attention Da-song is given. This image leaves no questions about their priorities. 

However, perhaps the most humorous moment of the Parks’ helicopter parenting is the hiring of “Jennifer”—Ki-jung's (Park So-dam) fake identity—as Da-Song’s art therapy tutor. She cons the Park matriarch into believing that her son is seriously ill, which also ties back to the theme of technology: “I Googled art therapy and ad-libbed the rest,” Ki-jung laughs with her family members. 

Bong seems to be poking fun at the helicopter parents of the world. Yeon-kyo’s efforts to protect her son from the horrors of the world ultimately fail when he passes out again after coming face-to-face with the “ghost”—Moon-gwang’s husband, who has escaped the basement—at his birthday party.

One of the most perplexing elements of “Parasite” is its abundance of Native American imagery. From Da-Song’s tipi to the Native American costumes the Park and Kim patriarchs wear, Native Americans are uncharacteristically present for a non-American film. Perhaps Bong is drawing our attention to a historically parasitic relationship. When Europeans first colonized indigenous nations, they robbed their hosts of everything they had, much like a parasite. For example, under the Spanish crown, indigenous peoples were robbed of their land, conscripted, and forced to work in silver mines leading to death due to mercury poisoning and harsh conditions. In North America, historical events such as the Trail of Tears—where 60,000 Native Americans were forcibly relocated from their ancestral homeland, leading to the death at the hands of cold hunger and disease—also illustrate the ruthless relationship between the colonists and Indigenous nations.

The way Indigenous people are represented through commodities in this film highlights another way that money is a corrupting force. Additionally, the way the Parks interact with Native American imagery largely correlates to the way they ignore the economic hierarchy they also uphold. At the birthday party, Nathan Park gives Ki-taek instructions on how they will surprise Da-song. Nathan says that both wearing headdresses, “they’ll be a parade with Jessica carrying the cake. Then we jump out and attack Jessica. Just then, Da-song, the good Indian ,will jump in and we’ll do battle. He’ll save Jessica the cake princess and they’ll all cheer.” As an afterthought he adds,  “You’re getting paid extra.” 

This conversation encapsulates the Parks’ attitude towards the Kims and the United States’ attitude toward our history of colonialism. The Parks use the Kims as a commodity. They ignore the strain that working overtime has on the Kims and the degrading effect that dressing up for someone else’s kid has on Ki-taek. With a simple “you’re getting paid extra,” there is an assumption that it’s all fixed and the economic tension is ignored. In a similar fashion, the Native American imagery in this film is appropriated by the characters to paint themselves as brave and heroic. By commoditizing this history, the United States becomes accountable as well. To a capitalist society, a dark history is simply another beacon to make money, no matter the immorality.  

Ultimately, “Parasite” asks us to consider the parasites in our own lives. Mirrors are literally and symbolically present throughout the film to emphasize this idea. The Park and Kim families are mirrors of each other metaphorically, reflecting their opposing roles on the economic hierarchy. Da-song and Ki-woo, among other characters, often find themselves literally contemplating their own reflections mirrored in the grandiose glass wall facing the Park backyard. In the poster for the film, the characters face the viewer, like our own reflections looking back at us in a mirror. Ki-taek is prominent in the foreground facing us head-on. In the background, Ki-woo and Da-song directly face us while the Park couple crane their heads from where they lounge in lawn chairs. Yet, what is most haunting about this image is that the characters’ eyes are crossed out with thick bars. This creates a degree of separation between the characters within the film—these characters are blind to the ways they are parasitic to each other. Bong seems to be asking us, in our own lives, are we?

By Annie Knight

Art by Lauren Hecht

Body Issue | February 2020 

Science Can Be Kind

An exploration of nonhuman animal dissection sourcing and alternatives

“Now, if you want, you can take your finger, lift the flap covering the left ventricle, and reach all the way up through the aorta. This is where the oxygenated blood gets pumped out so it can be distributed to the rest of your body.”

Staring at the tip of my blue glove peeking out through the top of the artery, I take a deep breath, and something clicked. This structure that I am holding in my hand is the same as the one in my chest, that has been there my entire life, pumping blood throughout my body and keeping me alive. What looked like just a lump of tissue a second ago was actually one of the most graceful, complex, and yet beautifully simple pieces of circuitry I had ever laid eyes on. During this eighth grade anatomy lab, I discovered my appreciation for biological systems, and from that day on, I knew I wanted to be a scientist.

Seven years later, dissections have continued to represent pivotal moments in my scientific career: drawing the ink out of the pen of a squid, tracing the muscles that control the wings of a bird, seeing shark fetuses, and most recently, holding a human brain. In my neuroscience class, we even got to stain sections of a cow brain and watch the structures that we had spent hours studying appear right in front of us. These experiences have driven my love for science, but as I throw out my gloves after each lab, guilt washes over me. 

For some labs, the feeling w as strong. In one of my biology classes abroad, all of the specimens were sourced from a nearby museum, some of them up to 50 years old. I could picture the hundreds or even thousands of students that had worked with and learned from them before me, and feel a little more justified in my use of the animals. I could think about all of the lives saved and the species conserved with the knowledge that other students and I had gained. Unfortunately, though, this has not been the case for most of the dissections I have participated in. I’ve tried to block out the thoughts of where the animals are sourced from and how many lives are taken, but that ignorance is not responsible science.

So, where are dissection specimens usually sourced from? What are the laws regulating those industries? What are the alternatives to dissections, and how effective are they as learning tools?

Colorado College sources most of its dissection specimens from a company called Carolina Scientific, so if you have ever performed a dissection here, you were probably using a specimen from this company. They source everything: frogs, dogs, dogfish sharks, cats, fetal pigs, sheep organs, cow organs, and more. Scrolling through their website is actually quite shocking, with brains that you can add to your cart for $10.50. The overall display looks disconcertingly similar to any other online shopping website. 

The one thing that isn’t quite as easy to find on their website is the source of their specimens. I eventually found some information on their FAQ page. Above explanations of their sources, they have a statement about USDA compliance, stating that they “are committed to treating all animals in a humane manner.” They then state that the sharks and worms that they provide are “dead when [they] purchase them” from fishing and bait companies. They get cats from animal shelters that were going to euthanize them anyways, fetal pigs from slaughterhouses that were going to throw them out, and frogs from a farmland area for the frog leg industry that has seen “a large increase in the frog population.”

This FAQ section, however, leaves out a large number of species that are listed on their website, so I went searching for more information. The Products Safety and Compliance Manager was happy to give it to me. Dogs, it turns out, are also sourced from government-operated and regulated shelters, cow and sheep organs are byproducts of slaughterhouses, and rabbits come from commercial rabbit breeders. He added that these rabbits “would have been destined for food use had we not diverted them for educational use.”

This seemed to be the motto of this company: they were dead already, or they were going to die anyways, so why not use them for science?And why not use them for science? If they were going to be thrown out or eaten otherwise, isn’t it better to use them? That way, their deaths can create knowledge, and that knowledge can aid conservation and the treatment of disease—so isn’t that a good thing? Doesn’t that make their deaths more meaningful?

Your answer to these questions really depends on how you view the rigidity of the broader network of animal commodification, and whether or not it is possible to change the way animals are treated. This dissection company, and likely the rest of the dissection industry, has created some good out of a rather violent pre-existing situation. And in doing so, it has removed itself from any responsibility for the initial violence towards the animals that they source. They didn’t kill the animals themselves; they just saved their bodies from going to waste.

So, although it is sad that dogs and cats get euthanized at animal shelters and that cows and pigs and sheep get killed at slaughterhouses every day, is it the fault of the dissection company? You could argue that they are improving the outcome of a problematic situation, but you could also argue that they are providing moral justification to that system, and therefore cementing the avenues of this exploitation. Thinking from the perspective of people working in those animal shelters and slaughterhouses, might pulling the trigger be easier if you knew that at least this body could be used for learning? And from the perspective of the consumer, might it feel less wrong to buy a dog from a breeder or eat meat if you know that the death resulting from your actions isn’t being completely wasted and that you may be contributing to science? 

The larger the system becomes, the easier it is to justify. Even outside of the context of sourcing animals for dissection, the slaughterhouses they come from provide jobs, and the farmers who raise the animals destined for slaughter would also be out of work without the meat industry. Additionally, the animals have been bred and genetically modified to reproduce at this scale anyways, and they don’t have a habitat in the wild anymore, so isn’t it our responsibility to make use of them?

So how does dissection fit into this, at the end of this long line of exploitation? That’s the tricky part. As a student, you see the end result specimen, and you might feel conflicted about this death, but what can you do? This is how the system works, and further, howthe scientific community works. To become a scientist, at some point, you are going to have to dissect an animal. Even if you opt out of your dissections in high school, if you want to go into the medical field, you’re going to have to do dissections in medical or veterinary school. If you can’t do them in college, the ingrained societal voice in your head might ask whether you really have the stomach to be a doctor. Or if you’re going into research and you don’t want to dissect, much less kill an animal, then you might think that you should pick a different field. If you’re not committed enough to uncover valuable scientific knowledge to kill an animal, then you might question whether you care enough about saving lives (human lives, to be more specific). And even if you might have the power to conduct humane research once you’re a tenured professor, you’re not going to get there unless you endure some inhumane research internships and graduate school projects along the way.

The scientific field incentivizes the harming of animals and pressures you to demonstrate that you’re able to do so. Many times, I have felt conflicted about participating in a dissection, but have weighed it against the respect I might lose from my professor, who might be a mentor that I want to help me pursue my scientific career. For this reason, qualms about dissection can be easily silenced, and students can underestimate how many other students feel just as unsure. 

If you are a student pursuing science that has ever felt conflicted about dissecting animals, or if you are not pursuing science because you didn’t want to dissect and thought that disqualified you from being a scientist, or if you never wanted to pursue science, but have participated in and felt unsure about dissections, I am here to tell you that feeling that way is okay. In fact, it’s normal. And it is also very normal to have suppressed those feelings and feign excitement about dissections. Trying to appreciate an animal by exploiting it is a very paradoxical way to learn, and it is only because of the immensity of this system that we have come to see it as normal.

But there are many students who have felt conflicted about dissecting. One study in Morocco found that 39.1% of lower secondary school students did not agree with the use of animals in life sciences education. Because of students like these, many states in the US have Student Choice Laws that prevent elementary, middle, and high schools from penalizing students for not participating and require teachers to provide learning alternatives. Unfortunately, these are only in some states, and do not extend to college students, but many universities have created similar policies. 

CC does not have such a policy, but we do have very understanding and thoughtful professors. The few that I have spoken to have been very open when talking about the issues surrounding dissection. Over the years, they have done all that they can to reduce seemingly extraneous dissections and the number of specimens ordered, but still see immense value in dissection labs. They have been open to talking to me about my issues with certain labs, and I’m sure would be equally receptive to the concerns of other students. Part of the problem is that there is a general discomfort around the issue, so not many people are talking about it at all. We can do better as an institution.

First, we should be approaching each lab with full knowledge of where the specimens come from, and we should always ask whether or not the lab is completely necessary. The Institutional Animal Care and Use Committee (IACUC) is usually the voice advocating for alternatives to the use of animals, but they only regulate live-animal use, so dissection is instead regulated by the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA).  The USDA focuses more on the sourcing process and does not regulate the actual use of the specimens. As an educational institution, Colorado College is able to order however many specimens we think we need. It is up to the students and professors to be stringent about this quantity.

There are alternatives to dissection. However, many alternatives are quickly discounted because of the institutional strength of dissection as a scientific tradition. The National Association of Biology Teachers “supports the use of these materials as adjuncts to the educational process but not as exclusive replacements for the use of actual organisms.” Many alternatives are dismissed because of how new and underdeveloped they are, but as technology advances, more and more sophisticated dissection alternatives are becoming available, and we should give them a chance.

One alternative to ordering from a dissection company that still allows for physical contact with a specimen is to use well-preserved specimens like those from the museum that I used for my biology class in Australia. The lab’s focus was all orders of terrestrial vertebrates (mammals, birds, reptiles, and amphibians), and the specimens were preserved in a variety of ways. Some were stuffed, some were just skeletons, some were just furs and skins, and others were chemically preserved as whole or partially dissected organism. While wearing gloves (to minimize degradation of the specimens), we were able to pick all of them up, move them around, and interact in essentially the same way as we would with a newly dissected specimen. There were additional benefits to this type of variety, since you could observe the skeletal structure of a body region in one specimen, and the exterior and interior morphology of the same body region in another.

There is a similar opportunity at CC, due to our extensive collections of birds, mammals, and insects. The school has a similar variety of skins, skulls, skeletons, eggs, and nests of birds and mammals. The collections cover 425 species of birds (700 total specimens) and all mammalian orders found in Colorado. I personally was able to use the bird collection during my ornithology class. Again, with the ability to pick up and manipulate any of the structures (with gloves of course), I was able to learn a lot about external bill, wing, and feet morphology, along with the internal skeletal and muscular morphology. The bird collection was assembled from 1860-1950, and the specimens are still intact today. This option reduces the need to order new specimens for every single lab, and provides an additional level of variation for students to learn from. Furthermore, the longevity of the specimens allows the time to source deceased animals from local zoos, wildlife rehab centers, or other locations that promote animal welfare and conservation. There are other alternatives, though, that don’t involve the use of any animals.

The first is of course online websites, videos, and tutorials. Carolina Scientific sells a software called eMind that allows you to virtually interact with all the specimens that you could have ordered from their site. For example, you can click through the digestive anatomy of a frog, and when you click on a structure, it will tell you what it’s called and what its function is. There are similar websites listed on Colorado College’s website for the neuroscience course that allow you to learn nervous system tracts by going through images of brain slices. These sites will quiz you on the tracts and structures, and have information about names and functions stored for easy accessibility.

Websites and software like these are widely available for most specimens and systems you might need to learn, but how do they compare to dissection? They have the obvious benefit of not harming animals, but they also have a lot more information readily available information. Many have the built-in function of quizzing you, and best of all, they allow more individual and continuous access. During a lab, you might share a specimen with another student, and you may only have an hour or two to spend on the dissection, but with these websites, you can access them on your own time and go through them at your own pace. The only question remaining is how much does the kinesthetic aspect of a dissection matter: does being able to physically manipulate structures drastically improve learning?

A study done in Australia (where legislation requires the use of alternatives where appropriate) compared actual dissection with alternatives in undergraduate human anatomy and physiology courses and found that they were generally equally effective. Of course, this is just one study. Many still advocate for the role of kinesthetic learning in dissection labs, which many alternatives still incorporate.

One example is right here at CC: plastination. In the Introductory Psychology brain anatomy lab, instead of using cow or sheep brains, we use plastinated brains. These are real, donated human brains that have been treated with a series of chemicals that cause the tissue to feel like plastic, but retain its form very accurately. They can be picked up, and turned over, and they are split into the two hemispheres, so you can view the cortex as well as the subcortical structures like the thalamus, corpus callosum, hypothalamus, ventricles, etc. These have the benefit of showing the amount of individual variation in brain structure, allowing the students to practice structure identification on highly varied specimens. Another benefit is that they do not need to be kept in any special chemicals or location. They are always available in the brain anatomy lab, and students can use them to study whenever they need.

Plastination can also be used on other organs besides the brain, and even medical schools are using plastinated organs to teach anatomy. One study found that 39% of medical schools use plastinated specimens for education, but the main reason for not using them was that they don’t provide the same learning experience as the physical dissecting process. The same could be argued for the brains at CC. In the neuroscience course, to further students’ understanding of neuroanatomy, they dissect and stain a cow brain, and are thus able to cut apart the brain themselves, watch the structures appear, and get practice locating them in a more dynamic and challenging environment. Is this something that can ever be replicated by a dissection alternative?

There is one very new alternative that comes extremely close to actual dissection: virtual reality. This method provides not only the abundance of information associated with structures, but it allows for both the kinesthetic manipulation of specimens and the physical act of uncovering less superficial structures. The use of this alternative is actually already in the works at CC. The XR Club, run by Galen Duran and Madeline Smith, has been using the technology to run review sessions for human anatomy students, one of which I attended.

With the software for human anatomy, you step into a room with a skeleton in front of you, and you have an entire wall of options. You opt for looking at bones, muscles, nerves, vasculature, movement, or an individual system. Whatever you select appears in front of you, and you can walk around it (even through it, as one student discovered by sticking her head into the ribcage of a skeleton), select structures to get more information about their function, and even pull them apart. As a neuroscience major, I of course pulled up the brain (cranial nerves and vasculature included), and took off the cerebral cortex, then the thalamus, and then I took half of the cerebellum out and rotated it around so that I could look at all sides of it including my favorite view: a sagittal cross section. The clarity of it was spectacular, and I could see each branch of the tree-like organization of the cells in the cerebellum.

As I stuck around to observe, other students used the software to overlay different systems that they had only studied individually, and said that it helped them better visualize how everything related. For example, viewing the nerves, muscles, and bones of the legs all at once and being able to remove different structures to see the deeper muscles was a great study tool. All of the information in the simulation shows up on a TV screen, so if you have a learning assistant or professor nearby, they can see what you’re seeing and answer any questions you may have.

These review sessions, according to Smith, are very new and just starting to gain popularity, but so far the professors have been quite receptive to it. Medical schools have already started utilizing more advanced versions of this technology to practice dissections, and with its continued development, these versions will only get cheaper. In the future, undergraduate students could be completing entire dissections virtually.

For now, though, the XR club is working to increase awareness and accessibility of this technology by hosting these review sessions and looking into other VR packages. The goal for the anatomy program isn’t to replace the cadaver lab, since those are ethically and willfully donated, but in the context of nonhuman animal dissections, this option could be a promising alternative. VR packages for nonhuman animals are sold by our favorite company, Carolina Biological (partnered with VictoryVR), and they even come with a virtual professor that will review the structures with you when your professor isn’t available. The packages so far include cats and frogs, but more species are in the works. One consideration with these options is that they still have to use many animals to perfect the virtual image, but once the package is developed, it can be used indefinitely.

If you are feeling conflicted about performing dissections, there are definitely alternatives. The questions that remain are just how willing professors are to adopt them, and how far they will take you in your scientific education. For example, if you are studying to become a doctor, will there always be a point at which you have to stop using alternatives—or could the technology become so advanced that we could train doctors solely using alternatives and donated human cadavers? The same goes for future researchers. If they don’t practice on real animals, will that then decrease their ability when working with real subjects in a research lab? With the rate that technology is advancing though, it seems that alternatives will be put into practice at higher and higher levels. And ultimately, how effective these alternatives are is determined by the students using them, so it is up to us to be vocal about what we want our learning to look like.

As we start replacing dissections with alternatives, it’s important to consider how the use of these alternatives will impact animal welfare as a whole. Due to how far removed the dissection specimens are from their original source, alternatives may not directly reduce the death of animals, but removing a justification for animal exploitation could discourage both producers and consumers in other sectors such as the meat and breeding industries. Furthermore, removing this violence against animals, especially for younger students, could chip away at this ingrained mindset that we develop from the normalization of nonhuman animal exploitation.

To me, science doesn’t have to involve flexing how tolerant you are of exploiting animals. Many scientists, such as Lori Marino, who is coming to talk at CC in Block 7, have used science to gain a better understanding of the worlds of other species, and have used that information to protect them. She does research on the brains of cetaceans (whales and dolphins) in order to demonstrate why they should not be kept in captivity. The more we know about other species, and the more we know about technology and alternatives that can reduce their suffering, the more responsibility we have to do so.

Science is about gaining an appreciation for the world around us, and in that way, it’s inherently empathetic. This is what we should be passing on to future generations: science can be kind, science can be transparent, science is ever-evolving and can grow to incorporate new alternatives. Science is about breaking down old paradigms and saving all lives—not just human ones.

By Courtney Knerr

Art by Jessie Sheldon

 Body Issue | February 2020

The Six

The final insallment in an ongoing collaboration with the Prison Project

In the previous installment of “The Six,” Shin encouraged Null as she took a first step in overcoming her addiction to “Regressi,” a video game. Despite a previous rift in their friendship, the two vowed to once again support each other as Null continues to confront her unhealthy coping mechanisms.

“One more thing to do? What’s that?” Shin asked Null while they hugged. She didn’t answer, but still held onto him for as long as possible. She had made up her mind. Even though she was scared to death, she was going to give up Regressi. 

I see, thought Shin. Here I am, promising to never abandon you, but this is something you have to do on your own. He wanted to help, wanted to go into the heat of battle by her side. But this was her challenge. In the end, it came down to her. 

“Remember, you’re a mountain. You can do this. I know you can.”

She nodded vigorously and punctuated it with a sniffle. 

“I’m a mountain. Thank you Shin. I’ll do my best.” And that was it. The last words.

Then, the world shattered.

It fell apart, piece by piece, before being swept away into nothingness. There goes Tai; and now Shin, no longer clutched in Null’s embrace. Even Regressi, that evil television, even that disappeared in glittering fragments. Its voice was still yelling with an unholy rage: You can’t escape! You can’t run! You can’t…

But the words diffused into silence. Null sat in a void. No light, no sound, no scent, no touch. The solitude was empty. 

What would come next on this crazy train ride through hell? What was next to win her over in this tug-of-war of right and wrong? She wondered if she could handle it. She was on the brink of insanity, and salvation seemed to have promised her it was right around the corner. What a joke, such cruel sarcasm. 

Still, nothing happened. No one appeared, no one spoke to her. Why did she have to be alone again? Make something appear, she pleaded. Bring me some other creature to tell me how wrong I am. 

Maybe it would be a demon, or a preacher, or Mom or Dad telling her to get over it. She could hear their words: We all get depressed sometimes, honey. You need to move on. Life is beautiful. Don’t waste it in here in front of that damned TV. 

What good was any of that advice? It only made her feel worse. Does everyone know the answers to life but me? Am I that much of a freak? The void was getting to her, its writhing black tendrils seeping into her mind. Not again, she gasped. Not this again. I hate being alone. Please, don’t let me be here by myself. Stop my mind from thinking. Please!

Null began to panic. But why? There didn’t seem to be a reason to. Here, nothing happened. There was no giant death machine waiting to consume her. There was no Shin or Tai fraying the edges of her reality. 

Here, there was only safety and quiet. Null and her thoughts.

That’s what scared her the most, but that was how it needed to be. It was the only way to truly find her. 

The thoughts piled up. Not good enough, never good enough. There’s no point in trying, none of it matters in the end. Too many people to let down, too much pain. And the failure—so much failure.

Invisible nails walked across her skin. Pinpricks on gooseflesh. Beneath the bones that caged her heart, blood pumped through veins like high pressure valves. She was dizzy, lightheaded. Shallow breaths sapped the energy from her limbs and fueled her pulsing emotions. 

Her temples throbbed. She tried massaging them with her thumbs as her fingers sifted through strands of bangs. The emotions wanted control. They wanted to grasp her mind and tote her around at will. This way, that way, crying, laughing, screaming. Feelings inflated inside her skull until it was on the cusp of exploding.

Nope, it’s not there. From behind her, a voice mercifully broke the silence. None of it’s there. What are you talking about? Pain? Hurt? Pah! No, I’m good. I’m happy.

 Here she was. The girl—the little girl from before. Upon looking closer, she wore a mask, the kind Null had seen in a dramatic theatre performance. The mask was as pale as the moon and shone like porcelain. Both eye holes were painted over black, and a huge open-mouthed cackle was frozen in place below them. It was trying to portray happiness.

As for the girl herself, she seemed familiar. The tangled hair, the lazy pajamas, the gray skin. No doubt there would be a pair of circular glasses behind that plastic cover. 

It had to be Null. A younger Null, of course, but the similarities were too much to be a coincidence.

Stop freaking out. Seriously, I’m good. Come on, everyone is happy, why wouldn’t I be happy too? Let’s play some games. Null crouched down to the little girl’s level. She tried to reach for the mask, but the girl turned away at every attempt. 

Ok great, a rebel. Null lacked empathy for the young fighter. Children had never been her strong suit, so she took on the tone of a stern mother. You’re me, Null accused.

Wow, awful presumptuous aren’t you? I’m definitely not you. You’re sad, I’m happy. Clearly a difference, said the girl while tapping the fake smile on her face, sass dripping from her words. Null would almost feel insulted if it wasn’t so clearly a lie. She wanted to walk away, return to reality where Shin and Tai were, but something prevented her—a kind of persistence that needed to hear the girl admit they were the same person. 

What’s your name? Is it Null? Null asked.

That’s your name, silly, the girl responded.

But it’s your name too, isn’t it?

Maybe…

Maybe? She’s playing 20 questions wrong, Null thought. But if that wasn’t her, then who was she? No, it had to be her. They were the same, unless—

Are you Regressi? Null asked. She was scared to hear the answer. Could that monster be here too?

The girl shook her head. She shuddered with fear at the name, folding her arms tight as if trying to warm herself up. And then a noise, a soft moan. Was she crying? How does one handle a crying child? Null was flabbergasted, but she had to say something.

Are you okay? she blurted insensitively. The girl perked up.

Okay? Me? Yes, I’m okay. I’m fine—wonderful even. That’s right, I’m good. I’m…

And then noise again. Suddenly Null realized why it was familiar. It was the same whimper before crying that she herself let out so many times in the past. The floodgates hadn’t opened yet, but they were right around the corner. This poor girl was suffering. How old was she? How was she already feeling the weight of the world bearing down on her?

Null wanted to help. Gingerly, she reached for the mask, but the girl recoiled.

No, don’t! Don’t touch it. It’s not a big deal—if everyone sees me smiling, then they won’t have to worry about me. The mask is important, it saves others. Please, don’t touch it. 

But you’re hurt, aren’t you? I just want to make sure you’re okay, Null said.

I’m fine. It doesn’t matter, the girl retorted.

It does matter. How will anyone know how to help you if you’re wearing that thing?

The girl didn’t answer, but the whimper returned. I’m going to take it off, okay?

The sound grew more desperate, but the girl did not object, and Null lifted the sheet of plastic from the child’s head. 

There they were: tears, streaming down the little girl’s cheeks. Her brow was furrowed, her eyes squeezed shut, her teeth digging into her lips as if her willpower could keep her from frowning. It was all very familiar. A mirror into her own self. Just seeing it filled Null with emotion again. But she had to keep control. Shin and Tai were counting on her.

There was a fragile line between her and the girl. Null wanted nothing more than to be her pillar of strength. She could tell her that they had the knowledge to overcome fear and anguish if they worked enough at it, but they both knew that was a lie. There was no conquering the adversity, just like there was no way she could hide everything behind a plastic mask. Null had to know what caused the tears in the first place. 

There we go. That wasn’t so bad, was it? encouraged Null while tossing the mask aside. And now I can see your pretty face. By the way, I love your choice in glasses.

The girl gulped. She looked like a gazelle coming face-to-face with a lion. Still, she didn’t like the way the woman treated her. Narcissist, she murmured while adjusting her frames.

Null flinched with annoyance. She didn’t remember being so blatantly disrespectful as a kid. Her rudeness was always refined, a playful insult or quip.

Well, maybe she had been a little narcissistic. She cleared her throat to recover.

Uh, right. Well, why are you crying? 

Because of what I am.

What you are? But, you’re me, Null said.

So, you see my point. 

It was surprising to see such brash insults flowing as easily from the girl’s mouth as tears did from her eyes. Stifling a giggle, Null wondered if it really was so bad to be the two of them.

Maybe not for you, the girl argued. You get to escape. You got to avoid the world and play games while I have to sit here and watch. It hurts to be us after a while. It hurts to be me.

The change in mood was so quick that Null was ashamed for almost laughing. You act like you’re different from me. How can you hurt more?

At least people listen to you. 

This is what Null came here for? To be chastised by an 8-year-old? She felt like this was getting nowhere. 

I listen to you, Null said quietly.

Do you? But you don’t even know my name? You need to work on your listening skills.

But I do know your name! It’s Null, just like—

Wrong! the girl snapped. She stood up and wiped her eyes. Assumptions, assumptions. How about making a good guess next time?

This girl was toying with her! 

Cut it out. You’re being obnoxious, Null stammered. Fine then, I guess I don’t actually know your name, so stop the charades and tell me. 

You know who I am. I’ve told you plenty of times already. I’m done repeating myself.

Now, Null was angry. Before she knew it, she was shouting at the child. 

Are you trying to be mean? If I knew your name, I would’ve said it. Enough games!

You’re the one playing games! the girl fired back. You’re looking in a mirror and getting mad at the reflection. How about you open your eyes for once? I’m here. I’ve always been here, begging for you to see me. Can’t you see me, Null?

Me? Null asked.

Yes, you. For so long I tried to get your attention, but instead of seeing me, you became me. You know my name because you know your name. Say it.

What do you—

Say our name!

Null couldn’t. She felt it swell inside, but pushed it down. The sensation twisted as she realized who she was talking to. In the beginning, the pain started small, manageable, but rather than seeing it for what it was, she escaped it with Regressi. It was easier, but it was a lie. Instead of confronting the elephant in the room, she turned to the helpless girl inside. They huddled together in a bubble of darkness while Regressi festered and duplicated, a black hole that devoured every aspect of her life.

All Null saw was a happy TV that doused her feelings like a small kitchen fire.

Say our name, the girl urged. Careless, dull, apathetic.

Don’t, please don’t, Null pleaded.

Forgetful, numb, blind.

We’re not—

Distraction, deception, a lie, escape!

No! Null shrieked.

Say it! Say our name! the girl demanded.

Ignorance!

The world flew out of her mouth. It was an outburst unlike anything she’d experienced before. She felt the energy vibrating throughout her body. Her face muscles strained and her voice shook violently. But she didn’t stop. Ignorance, Ignorance, Ignorance. Your name is Ignorance, Null repeated.

Yes, finally, the girl sighed.

I know. Of course I know. How could I not? I chose to follow you so long ago, she said with venom in her tone. Is this what you wanted, for me to look at my mistakes as if I don’t regret them? For me to get a taste of my own medicine? Everyone look at the girl who ran away from her pain! She’s weak, point and laugh.

The words echoed between the two girls. Even Null herself was stunned that she had said them. The ridicule was so deep that it had etched itself into her mind. Her aggression was washed in a melancholy bath. Ignore the hurt. Become numb so you don’t have to feel. I was so tired of suffering. I just wanted relief.

After hearing herself use the term she so despised, she felt wrong. For once, she asked herself the question: Is Regressi right? Am I really weak? 

Shin’s voice rang true in her ears. Remember, Null, you’re a mountain.

She repeated it to herself silently: I’m a mountain, I’m a mountain.

And did you get relief? Ignorance asked. 

No! Null cried. Now it was her turn. The emotions came rolling back from a place long hidden, and they all hit her at once with hurricane-force winds. It was worse, so much worse, and I couldn’t go back. Regressi, my pain, it stayed there and ate me from the inside out. And I let it because you told me once to ignore it. I listened to you, I became numb like you asked, but it never stopped aching.

Ignorance nodded enthusiastically. Of course it didn’t. Does a wound heal by slapping a band aid on it? No, you have to change the dressing once in a while. You have to let it breathe. Yeah, it stings for a bit, but if you don’t do it, it won’t heal. 

Then why did you tell me to ignore it? Null wailed. It was a betrayal. She trusted Ignorance to take the suffering away, but it was nothing more than a lie. Why did you lie to me? she sighed.

Did I lie to you? Or were you fooled by the mask?

Null was exhausted. Did everything have to be a game? It was nonstop riddles with this girl. She stared at Ignorance with a pleading expression, but she knew this was it. This was what she’d come here for. 

Listen again. This time, hear me—really hear me, Ignorance said.

Null submitted a nod. She was unsure of what was happening, but there was no point in arguing now. Ignorance took her hands and the two of them tried to share a breath. It was embarrassing for Null to see the girl faring so much better than her, but it was okay here. No one was watching, and the clock was forgotten at 8:37. 

Eventually, her breathing slowed. Her thoughts became peaceful and lucid. The two gazed deeply into each other’s eyes, and Ignorance began to speak. 

 My name is Null, and I’m happy (I’m hurt. I’m hurting). There’s no need to worry about me.

There are so many people suffering in the world, but I am above that because I am immune. I can ignore the pain. (I’m alone. I’m all by myself and I’m afraid of it.) 

If I become numb, apathetic, then the pain has no control over me. (Help me, please. I need your help.) 

My worries aren’t nearly as bad as others. People lose their houses, they get injured and lose control of their body, they even watch their most loved ones die before their very eyes. My problem can never be as bad as that. (I matter too, don’t I? This pain is real, isn’t it?)

Let’s play games. Let’s go out. That’s what happy people do, right? I want you to see that I’m a regular person, just like everyone else. (Don’t ignore me. Ask me if I’m okay. I’m not okay, I’m not. I don’t know how to say it, but can you please try to understand?) 

Don’t worry about me. I’ll get over these emotions. I can do this alone. This pain is an illusion. (This pain is real! I can hear you! See me! Can’t you see me?) 

Null didn’t expect something to actually be different, but it was. Passionate pleas were rooted under the surface of a sweet voice. What she first heard as a polite reassurance was now an earnest cry for help. She had to act. Shin and Tai had lit a path of insight for her and she wanted to share it. 

It’s real, it’s real. Your pain is real. My pain is real, Null claimed with soothing vigor. I hear you, I see you, I feel you, and I’m so sorry for what I did. I’m so sorry that I ignored you. I became you because I thought it would save us both. I didn’t know I had already fallen in the snare of ignorance. I spoke when I should have listened. I jumped into action with assumptions when I should have stopped to understand. You didn’t want me to follow you—you wanted me to see that you were there!

Bullseye. 

By D. Verda

Art by Jessie Sheldon, Tia Verling, and Madison Wells

Body Issue | February 2020

Hey Mama, I Took a DNA Test

Hey mama, I took a DNA test. I am black. I grew up wanting to be white, but I am black, brown, stupid, ugly––at least that’s what I am thought to be, and if not that, I am so exquisite that I am captured in every photo the school’s photographer takes because being black is beautiful right? Especially when you want to promote an environment where so many drop-dead gorgeous black souls can coexist with their superiors in a manner that you almost second guess because it’s too good to be true. 

Many days I think: what if I had not been a descendant of slaves? What if my blood had not been diluted by my great-great-grandmother's master? What if I had grown up in Africa? Then who would I be? 

The world, also known as the white world, kind of likes the way I look because the color black is a cool color and it’s chic and hip like the Hip-Hop and R&B you hear spewing from my mouth when I speak. Still, I am despised. Every day I am seen but never heard. Every day I challenge, I am dismissed. Every day I love, I am hated, before they even find out that I like boys—I’m not sorry.  

My voice remains imprisoned for crimes I did not commit. No matter the trial, the bigotry that has locked me up stares while I sing. Then those stupid, swimming-pool-blue eyes strip me until I am ass-naked and open for their entering. I must keep my head held high. I must continue to sing.   

This past summer I turned 20 years old and as a gift, my boyfriend at the time got me a 23 and Me DNA testing kit. I was grateful—finally I would get to know where in Africa I am from. However, I could not shake his whiteness from this very generous and thoughtful act. He has been to Africa, he has seen my people, he has lived, walked, and talked with my people before I could, before anyone in my entire family could. He, a white man, has brought me ease and clarity in silencing the ambiguity which has haunted my heritage. I’ve always envied him and my other white friends for knowing exactly what, when, where, why and how their ancestors came to America. And now, I too have a place in that conversation. 

I am predominantly Sub-Saharan African; the rest of me is mainly British. Makes sense given my last name (Brown) and light skin (also brown). Knowing this hasn’t changed much regarding how I live. When I look in the mirror, I did and still do see a black man, and my family has only ever lived in America for all we know. 

Nonetheless, having this information allows me to understand my identity, genes, and culture, has caused me to ponder the “what if?” and has forced me to rethink my presence in the present. 

My blackness—or brownness—is relative to my whiteness. Today, I know that my blackness has never been a curse but a gift, and frankly, the best gift I’ve ever received—thank you God, whoever you are. My blackness is my struggle and also my light; my power. 

My blackness is a weight which I am in love with. I love myself now, or something like that—and we all know love makes us do crazy things. 

Love you, mama. Bye.

By David-Elijah Brown

Art by Martrice Ellis

Body Issue | February 2020

The Courage to Look

The search for pleasure after a violent relationship

Cold leaked through my shirt and my body melted into the wall behind me. I felt the small of my back tingle as he lifted up the loose fabric of my shirt, exposing my skin to the cold plaster. His hands crept up my hips and past my waist, finally landing on the soft fabric of my bra. I focused my attention on the rough wall behind me, trying to mentally distance myself from the weight of his body against mine.

So much for taking things slow.

The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth where his teeth ripped into my lips. As it coated my tongue, I tried not to think about the pain and instead focused on the tips of my fingers.

Left pinky. Right pinky. 

Left ring finger. Right ring finger. 

Left middle. Right middle. 

Left index. Right index. 

I ignored his sharp teeth on my lips and his body grinding against mine. For a moment, my mind was miles away from the two of us. Just press each finger against the wall. Slowly work your way inward. But he kept going. His hand snaked along my chest, reaching up to encircle my throat. Despite my desperate gasps for air, his fingers only pressed harder on my windpipe. I felt my body go numb with panic as my heart pounded in my chest. I froze, disregarding any futile attempts at hiding my paralysis and wondering if this is how a rabbit feels when it crouches down to hide from a circling hawk. I should have said something. I could have told him to stop—but I didn’t. I abandoned all logic and just stood there, praying the moment would pass as his eagerness betrayed itself in a hard mass against my thigh. I closed my eyes, wincing as his grip around my throat clenched tighter with each successive thrust. I held myself still while he finished, and after he was done, I remained stuck against the wall as he pushed himself away from me. I fought back tears as we said goodnight. Those could wait until he was gone. 

How do you document a relationship? 

When I walked home that night, I felt damaged. Did he even know? How could he? If he relayed his version of our time together, I’m not sure it would align with what I had experienced over the months we were dating. I don’t know if he would even recognize himself in my account. I’ve come to accept the fact that he’ll never really understand how I felt, or what he did to me. But I don’t want to document this relationship to send a message or assign blame. I’m left alone, sifting through the countless memories we shared for my own sake, to answer the questions he left with me that still haven’t gone away. Some days they retreat to the back of my mind, only to come crashing back days later, demanding answers. What happened? How did I ignore a long chain of red flags? Why did I dismiss my fear and let that night, and so many more like it, come to define the way I experience and conceptualize sex? Could I have known where this relationship would take me? 

He said this type of sex was something he needed. He said it was like a hamburger: if he was hungry, he couldn’t be a good boyfriend to me. By letting him take care of his urges, I was really helping myself. He said that his ex had been okay with it. He said that she understood. So how could it be that bad? How was I supposed to know what was bad, anyway? No one else had ever treated me like this, but then again, I’d never been in a relationship. Maybe this was how people avoid getting bored with having just one partner for months on end. 

I don’t know if I ever believed the stories he told me, the explanations he weaved together in an effort to appeal to my logic. I tried to convince myself that this was working for me; it made him happy, so I should be happy, too. But on some level, I knew I wasn’t okay. No matter how hard I tried to rationalize my fears away, suppressing my concerns with the explanations he provided, my body screamed out to tell me I wasn’t safe. 

After that night in the basement, he didn’t even need to touch me for anxiety to flood my system. I felt tension build up whenever we were alone together, like electricity that charges the air just before a thunderstorm. That energy had once been an invigorating force—an inexplicable high only he could give me. At first, I couldn’t ask for more. Passion prevented gentle sensuality; desire made us rough in our haste to consume each other. I loved the rawness of it all. The excitement of a new relationship left my stomach churning, my heart racing, and my mind preoccupied with the next time our bodies would collide. But after that night in the basement, my attraction toward him was tainted with fear.

The shift was gradual, small moments of discomfort building on one another. Maybe everything would have been different if I had only spoken up. I didn’t want to see a problem, though. I wanted to keep playing out this fantasy without addressing the uncertainty rising up in my chest. I wanted to stay lost in his eyes, holding onto the thrill of falling in love through my rose-tinted glasses. I could brush each concern aside, but they were never truly gone. Doubt gnawed at the back of my mind, and unrest tainted every touch. A small part of my brain vigilantly kept lookout, painfully aware of my vulnerability.

Over the months we dated, I came to expect the unexpected. I knew that there would be no warning before he tried a new instrument of control. I knew that if I expressed any reluctance, he would be heartbroken, taking my hesitation as a sign of rejection. I learned to desensitize myself, to transport my mind somewhere else while he handled my body as if it were a tough piece of clay. Looking back, it feels like it all happened to another woman, like I’m reading someone else’s story—except for the disgust that fills me when I write about it. My skin crawls with the inexplicable desire for a steaming hot shower to burn off whatever remnants of him may still cling to me.

He put his hand over my mouth without a word of notice. No matter how hard I struggled and bit, his hand remained clamped over the only defense I had—my voice. He gripped my throat, leaving me desperate for air. He pinned my arms down and took control of my body. His legs wrapped around mine and kept me in place no matter how hard I fought. Each move felt like a ploy for control—I was stuck in an endless power struggle, defeated before I had an opportunity to protest. As the relationship developed, so did the surprises. The handcuffs came first, and I lost my ability to tap out. My fingers strained to hit the bedframe and catch his attention when my oxygen-deprived brain begged for air. Sometimes he would notice. Sometimes he wouldn’t. I never complained, even when I had to hide the bruises that flowered across my neck. His pocket knife would hover over my body, a threat that managed to paralyze me in an instant. My mind would race through the inevitable accident, the slip of a hand that could maim me. I was gagged and blindfolded and left without any way to communicate with him when, for the first time, I felt what it was like to be hit with a riding crop. I simply had to wait out the pain while I felt purple ink flow into my breasts, my arms, my thighs, and my waist—a promise of the bruises I would discover the next day. 

How can one person be responsible when communication becomes impossible? I was unsure of how far he would go; he left it as an unspoken, one-sided understanding between us. He never asked permission, he never checked in, but I never confronted him about it either. I didn’t tell him to stop. I didn’t tell him what scared me. Instead, I just gave up before he’d even begun.   

Every day he reached out in desperation to see me. Every day he spent hours claiming each and every inch of my skin. Every day he would take priority as I blew off friends, sleep, and meetings to spend time with him. I sought space as desperately as he sought my body, trying to reclaim my treasured solitude in stolen moments, hiding from the invasion that was creeping into every corner of my life. Space was a foreign concept to him—he took it as a sign of dwindling affection, a problem that needed to be fixed. He was an inescapable presence that haunted my room, my phone, my email, draining what little energy I had left. He engulfed every aspect of my life, and I was suffocated; I couldn’t turn him away without seeing pain and disbelief in his eyes, even when I reassured him of my unwavering affection. How could I turn him away? He needed me. I had come to dread the precipitating text, the scheduled “Come by after class,” but my feet would still carry me to his room. I felt like I was fading into his dirty sheets, watching my own skin meld with the patterned fabric. I had to breathe, if only for a moment.

“Can we not do anything this week?”

“Sure.”

 I decided a few days apart would be long enough for me to disentangle myself and reemerge a full person—but I wasn’t comfortable being alone anymore. My relationships with my friends seemed hollow. I didn’t care about my classwork, and my confidence had become inextricably tied to him. The moment I started to reassemble myself, I felt drawn back to the same lifeless sheets. It was an addiction. I knew that every word we exchanged and every touch we shared was slowly killing me—yet I couldn’t get by without them. My identity had been stripped away. Each time his body loomed over mine, his glassy eyes looking straight through me like I was nothing more than a glorified sex toy, I lost part of myself. The only person left to qualify this bag of skin, meat, and bones as human was him. He was all I had left to define myself. Yet even in my desperate need for him, I’m not sure it was ever truly love. 

I was drawn back to his bed two days later by the magnetic force of my own dependency. 

One strap of my revealing black dress held firmly onto my shoulder while its torn-away twin hung limply against my side, in mourning of the fissure that separated it from my skin. Beneath the dress, he had torn my lace underwear apart, and now he struggled to hold me down long enough to take advantage of the opening he’d created. I’d given him permission to rip the dress, but as he threw me off the bed and pinned me to the ground, I wondered how things had escalated so quickly. While he readjusted, I bolted up and rushed for the door, terrified, but my scalp screamed with agony as he yanked a fistful of hair and threw me back onto my stomach. My eyes were level with the grimy wooden planks on the floor and my cheek made intimate contact with the dust bunnies that lived beside my bed. I didn’t hold back as I fought to get up—scratching, kicking, and punching as I attempted to remove his body from mine. I begged him to stop. I don’t know why he kept going. He heard me—did he think I was playing along? I had no safe word to use, no way to tap out. My legs were strong enough to grant me a few moments of freedom as I desperately tried to recover my autonomy. I was barely able to get to my feet before I was reunited with the dust. Panic enveloped every other emotion, welling up inside my mind as he finally overpowered and took advantage of my exhausted, empty shell of a body. Was this what I had wanted? It must have been, otherwise I would have done something more to stop it. Why couldn’t I stop it? 

Afterwards, he seemed so happy with me. I only ever wanted to make him happy. For a moment, the look in his eyes went soft, and I felt like a person again. I wanted to soak in his approval and share in his happiness, but I couldn’t. My body wouldn’t stop shaking.

“Can I punch you?”

His eyes widened with surprise at the request. “I guess?”

After everything that had just happened, he must have thought I was harmless. Fueled by the little power he had granted me, I swung my right fist into his arm, exposing the pent up fear, anger, and frustration that had infected my body—the disease he’d cultivated in me for over a year.

“Ow! That was hard.” He seemed mildly taken aback as he cradled his left shoulder. “What was that for?”

“Sorry,” the response jumped from my lips automatically as I returned to my detached state. “Just needed to get some energy out. I’m going to take a shower.”

The steaming water washed off the dust bunnies, while I practiced moving the muscles around the corners of my mouth to see if I could still smile. What a wonderful birthday present.   

I didn’t want to see him after that living fever dream. When I did, I was repulsed by every detail of his body, his facial expressions, his mannerisms. But the drug-like desire was still there. Our relationship left a hole in my life that only he could fill. I was insatiable—I craved his presence even when I feared him, even when he hurt me, even when I knew it was toxic. I needed him. Not for his mind or his body or his soul, but just for his ability to lend my life meaning. The fear I felt towards him was outweighed by my fear of floating adrift without a tether. No matter what problems we may have had, he was familiar—stable. For once in my life, I felt that somebody truly loved me. He would never abandon me. He would always be there, and giving him my body was the best way to ensure that he would stay. He could have whatever he wanted from me, just so long as he didn’t leave me. He had already taught me that I was nothing without him, and I’m a good student. I learned the lesson by heart. 

How did I come to be the neurotic one? Needy. Clingy. The emotional girl I had worked so hard to distance myself from. Why did I beg for him to stay when, not long ago, I would close my eyes and pray for him to leave? I knew the only way I could escape was to remove myself from him, and yet that was the one thing I simply could not do. I would try to break up with him: I would walk out of his room having called it off—self-assured and determined to reclaim my life—only to fall back at his feet a few days later, apologies tumbling out of my mouth. How could I leave him when he still owned my soul? When he took me back, I felt just as miserable and neurotic, but at least I wasn’t alone. 

Until I was. Thoroughly and utterly alone. At first, I was filled with restlessness as I thought of what he might be doing, if he was okay, if he was still thinking of me. I hadn’t really let him go. His ghost haunted the crevices of my life, emerging from any small reminder of our time together—but I was finally free to struggle and suffer on my own. Free to collect the broken shards he had left behind, free to pull myself together, and free to stand up on my own two feet. I have so many questions left to explore: What does it mean to be alone? What will a healthy relationship look like for me? How do I talk to people about what happened? I still don’t know how to answer those questions. At times I’m overwhelmed by loss, or yearn for the stability I thought he could’ve given me. 

But I also find peace as I become reacquainted with myself. I missed the independent, stubborn, strong-willed woman I was before him and will be after him. I missed being comfortable in my own skin. I missed having my own voice. I never belonged to him, so I have nothing to take back. It’s simply time to discover what was always there, waiting inside me for the moment I had the courage to look.

Relaxed, I closed my eyes and focused on how I felt, abandoning all my insecurities as my mind tuned in to my body. My entire being was flushed with a feeling of shock as my skin tingled with the same sensation that comes from transitioning between blistering hot water to snow. My legs spasmed uncontrollably, the muscles beneath my waist clenched and my body shook. Everything released as my eyes fluttered back for a moment before I sat forward and said, to no one in particular, “That was it.” 

I had bought this little pink device to discover my body on my own terms. He had never asked me what I liked, and I had never questioned it myself. Now that he was gone, perhaps it was time to find out. I was on a quest to discover what sex could be when I wasn’t trying to bend my will to his demands. I never would have guessed that I could actually enjoy my body. Who knew this didn’t have to hurt and tear and bruise? Who knew this didn’t have to leave me feeling empty and hollow and in tears? My little pink friend won’t fix all my problems—there is no fast track to rebuilding my identity after a toxic, codependent relationship. Yet, as I step into the shower, I feel more like myself than I ever have before. My addictive need for him, for his ability to define me, has dissipated. I get dressed and start one more beautiful day, alone.

By Anonymous

Art by Patil Khakhamian

 Body Issue | February 2020

Picking Teams

Moving beyond the gender binary in the world of college athletics

I joined the girls’ track team when I was twelve years old because I had a massive crush on an 800 meter runner. Falling in love with the sport was an unintended side effect. I stayed with it through my sophomore year at Colorado College, long after my doomed crush on a straight girl had faded. Puberty had mutated my body into shapes I couldn’t recognize, but I could still lace up a pair of running shoes, hit the trail, and disappear into the rhythm of my footsteps. Running taught me to love my body like a machine—despite my aesthetic grievances with its design, the damn thing fulfilled its purpose efficiently. This detached, utilitarian love for my body carried me through the toughest years of my gender dysphoria.  

Running had once been my release. But after coming out as nonbinary and transmasculine my sophomore year of college, the sport became the biggest cause of my dysphoria. Spending almost all of my free time in a strictly gendered space made me feel alienated and unseen. In some ways, it was worse than being closeted—though my otherness was now known, my identity was still unaffirmed. I gradually sank deeper into depression. I stopped taking care of myself, and because I wasn’t getting proper nutrition or sleep, I struggled to keep up with my training. I had breakdowns and panic attacks daily. I truly believe that my all cisgender coaches, trainers, and teammates wanted to support me, but the burden of teaching them how to do this fell largely and unfairly on me. 

I wanted to start taking testosterone, but this would disqualify me from the girls’ team by the National Collegiate Athletic Association's (NCAA) regulations. I realized that aside from the intimidating amount of paperwork it would take to join the boys’ team, I would be even worse off trying to conform to the social expectations of male jock-ness. I was expected to pick not just between manhood and womanhood, but between my gender identity and my identity as an athlete. So, I quietly quit the team. 

During my last season on the track team, I felt entirely isolated in my pain and frustration. But it turns out that I wasn’t as alone as I’d thought in my experiences as a nonbinary athlete on a binary athletic team. Many athletes have struggled to navigate the binary division of gender in sports. Yet despite the growing presence of nonbinary and gender nonconforming athletes on both NCAA and college club teams, we are little more than a sidenote in most leagues’ official guidelines for transgender athletes. There are few resources for coaches, teammates, and trainers on how to support us. Nobody really seems to know what to do with us yet. 

When Rin (they/them) is on the climbing wall, they feel liberated from the confines of gender and are fully present in their body. As they poetically phrase it, 

“I’m in my element, I’m an athlete, a climber, a person excelling at what they love, pursuing their passion through each move. Not a boy or a girl or a non-binary person or a female climber … just a climber, a person.” 

During their senior year, Rin came out as nonbinary to their teammates on the Colorado College rock climbing team. Though they received overwhelming support and affirmation on the team, the competitive climbing community as a whole was another story. For competitions, they were still forced to choose between competing as a man or a woman. Announcers at climbing competitions would misgender them over the loudspeakers, even after Rin explicitly told officials to use they/them pronouns. It got back to them that a competitor had mocked their nonbinary identity behind their back. On the wall, feeling invalidated was very distracting for Rin—they were often preoccupied with looking “like what people think a nonbinary person should look like” in order to avoid being misgendered. Another nonbinary climber on the CC team reported that self-advocacy on the team was extremely difficult for them (the climber, who uses they/them pronouns, wishes to remain anonymous). Despite being out to other friends, they have not felt comfortable coming out to their team. As the climber said,

“I’ve known most of [my teammates] for a few years but have heard some comments about they pronouns feeling ‘impersonal’ that have made me not want to bring up the subject,” the climber reported. “I wish they would ask for my pronouns.” 

Self-advocacy presents a steep challenge for trans and nonbinary people who are early in their coming out process. Even in generally open-minded communities like the CC climbing team, speaking up for oneself as a gender minority can be socially terrifying or otherwise just exhausting. Rin’s climbing partners supported them in ways that made existing as a nonbinary person in a binary sport possible. Rin, however, had to constantly advocate for themself to earn this support. They had to create a space for themself where one previously did not exist, and often faced pushback in the process of doing so. To again use Rin’s eloquent words,

“I’m not trying to make things complicated. They’re already complicated. For me, for any non-binary athlete. The burden is on us to explain, to feel guilty and awkward for putting other people in the weird and uncomfortable situation of struggling to use they pronouns or call me by a different name.”

Bridget (they/them), an agender, nonbinary player on the CC Cutthroat rugby team, expressed feeling lucky that the task of educating their teammates had never fallen solely on them. “The team was one of the first places I felt comfortable being out,” Bridget told me. The Cutthroat team competes in the women’s division, but many of its members are gender nonconforming, nonbinary, and transgender. The team has been making efforts to adopt more inclusive language since before Bridget joined—naming themselves the Cutthroat team and referring to one another by the gender-neutral term “mates.” The Cutthroats wear more or less the same uniform that the Colorado College men’s rugby team wears, which Bridget feels also makes a difference in making sure trans and gender nonconforming athletes are comfortable. The coach occasionally struggles with Bridget’s pronouns, but their teammates always step in to correct him. Bridget feels like the Cutthroat team has their back. In their words,

“The love of the sport is still there. I’m willing to play on a women’s rugby team if it means I get to play rugby but it feels so much better when my team is like ‘no, we’re not a women’s rugby team, we’re a team for everyone.’” 

Bridget experienced a similar duality to the one Rin reported on the climbing team, noting the stark contrast between the inclusive atmosphere of the CC team and the exclusivity expressed in games against other USA Rugby club teams. “It can be a little bit weird when we play other teams or go into other spaces where they still do all refer to us as ‘ladies,’” Bridget notes, “There’s this weird interplay of the decisions that our team makes and their impact on other teams.” Some of these other teams have mistaken nonbinary and gender nonconforming players for cisgender men during games and confronted the CC team, accusing them of having an unfair advantage. This sentiment about an unfair male advantage is not confined to the field, but is reflected in institutional policies as well.

As things currently stand, the majority of official club and NCAA policies on transgender athletes center invasive and demeaning hormonal regulations, focusing on how coaches should assist us in assimilating into existing binary gender teams. In the NCAA, athletes must provide a physician’s documentation of their transition if they wish to join the other gendered team. Transfeminine and assigned male at birth (AMAB) gender non-conforming or nonbinary athletes are required to be on hormone replacement therapy (HRT) for a full year before joining any women’s NCAA team. NCAA policy says that transmasculine and AFAB gender nonconforming or nonbinary athletes can join a men's team without going on HRT, but are disqualified from competing on women’s teams the day they start HRT. USA Rugby requires a three-step testing process for transgender athletes who wish to switch teams. Though USA Rugby’s website does not specify what the medical interview and “eligibility work” entail, Bridget reports that rugby players can be required not only to be on HRT, but to have undergone gender confirmation surgery as well. Buying a gun in the United States requires less of a background check than simply joining a different gendered college sports team often does. 

Not only do current policies put athletes who don’t strictly identify as men or women in a complicated position, but they also fail binary trans people who either can’t medically transition or don’t wish to undergo a turbulent second puberty. Ironically, in the same official NCAA document in which its prying and exclusionary regulations are outlined, the importance of respecting privacy and providing equal opportunity to all athletes is emphasized. These institutional barriers functionally exclude many athletes who don’t go through the expensive process of medical transition and violate the private, medical histories of athletes who do. The opportunities for transgender, gender nonconforming and nonbinary athletes are far from equal to the opportunities for their cisgender peers.

Despite the already rigid restrictions, some opponents of transgender inclusivity in college sports feel that NCAA and club team policies don’t go far enough. Various federal cases and bills propose amendments to Title IX which would force college and high school athletes to compete as the sex they were assigned at birth. R.G. & G.R. Harris Funeral Homes Inc. v. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission, an ongoing Supreme Court case, asserts that allowing AMAB athletes to compete on women’s teams “will reduce the number of athletic opportunities for biological women and girls.” H.R.5702, the “Protection of Women and Girls in Sports Act of 2020,” proposes that “sex shall be determined on the basis of biological sex as determined at birth by a physician.” Under H.R.5702, federal funding will be denied to any athletic team or association that permits “a person whose sex is male” to participate in women’s athletics. If these proposed amendments to Title IX pass, they will greatly reduce the already limited number of athletic opportunities for transgender and nonbinary athletes.

One way that nonbinary and gender nonconforming athletes have dealt with strict gender regulations is by finding sanctuary on co-ed teams. Elizabeth (they/them), a nonbinary student at Vassar College, found validation on their college co-ed quidditch team. Elizabeth had given up on any organized sports in high school after finding them too strictly gendered. “Though I didn’t expect to actually stick with a sports team, the atmosphere was so welcoming and laid back in comparison to my previous experiences,” Elizabeth said. The Vassar quidditch team was already an inclusive space for LGBTQ players, and Elizabeth’s teammates had little trouble using their new pronouns or understanding their identity. “I felt compelled to classify myself as ‘non-athletic,’ so joining a sports team where I feel welcomed and wanted has been really empowering.” Yet despite its overall inclusivity, quidditch has a “gender maximum rule” that states “a team may not have more than four players who identify as the same gender in play.” The player’s gender is determined by how they self-identify, meaning that nonbinary players like Elizabeth sometimes have to publicly identify themselves on the pitch. Even though the gender maximum rule is pretty loosely enforced, it can put trans and nonbinary players in an awkward position. 

Despite the potential for co-ed teams to be inclusive spaces for nonbinary athletes, it’s not uncommon for nonbinary people to still feel unwelcome. Marley (they/them), a nonbinary, transmasculine sailor, was recruited out of high school to compete on the Tufts women’s sailing team. The Inter-Collegiate Sailing Association (ICSA) divides the sport into a co-ed team and a women’s team. These categories are largely unregulated, meaning that athletes’ hormone levels are not tested by ICSA. While on paper, this sounds like an inclusive environment for nonbinary sailors, the culture of competitive sailing in New England made Marley feel isolated in their queerness. Even after they came out as trans to their other friends, they stayed closeted at sailing practice. “At that point, I was presenting myself as woman-lite,” Marley told me. “I molded myself to fit the expectations of the team.” They eventually quit sailing rather than switching from the women’s team to the co-ed team. Marley now spends more time in student activist spaces where they don’t have to hide to feel accepted.

Bella (she/they), a nonbinary, genderfluid “girl????” (their words) on the CC co-ed Esports team expressed her concern that despite the potential for inclusivity in Esports, the culture of competitive videogaming tends to be hypermasculine, transphobic, and exclusive of nonbinary players. The Esports team operates within the NCAA’s Southern Collegiate Athletic Conference (SCAC), the same conference that I competed in as a runner, but the conference regulates Esports far less than running. “With SCAC being hands-off and saying ‘you don’t have a men’s team and a women’s team,’ I don’t have to identify myself as male or female which is awesome,” Bella said. However, they also feel like this unregulated approach allows Esports to remain an alienating and sometimes hostile environment for trans and nonbinary gamers. 

The hard truth of the matter is that there is no one-size-fits-all fix to make sports teams an inclusive space for nonbinary and gender nonconforming athletes. Nonbinary is an umbrella term which includes a plethora of different identities, and what we need to make us feel safe and comfortable varies widely. This article by no means completely represents the diverse range of trans identities outside of the binary. No one I spoke with had been on a men’s team, and hyper masculine spaces can present their own unique challenges. This article doesn’t reflect nearly enough of the experiences of nonbinary people of color, intersex nonbinary people, or disabled nonbinary people in athletics—all intersections that should not be ignored when creating a plan to confront the discrimination nonbinary athletes face. That being said, based on my experiences and those of the other athletes quoted in this article, I’d like to suggest a few simple things that would greatly improve gender inclusivity on college sports teams. If you are a coach, trainer, administrator, teammate, or captain who wishes to begin making your team a welcoming space for nonbinary and gender non-conforming athletes, here are some very basic best practices to follow.

First of all, you should consider making teams and competitions as co-ed as possible. There is often less of a performance gap between AFAB and AMAB athletes than is commonly assumed, and there are certain sports where the playing field levels out entirely. Even though AMAB athletes typically tend to be faster over shorter distances, sex matters less at ultramarathon distances where tenacity and grit are more important than physical strength. Yet, more often than not, ultramarathons are still scored in men’s and women’s categories though there is little reason for them to be. Even if a sport still holds gendered competitions, there’s no reason why every competition has to uphold a men’s and a women’s category. In 2019, the CC climbing gym hosted a climbing competition where everyone was scored in the same category. Even in a sport traditionally dominated by men, within this smaller competition, the highest scores were spread fairly evenly between AMAB and AFAB athletes. Surely events like this one could be far more common in college athletics. Creating more spaces where athletes don’t have to “pick one” to compete would be a huge step towards the inclusion of nonbinary athletes. I personally would love to run in a race again, but have not found a race where I would not be forced to gender myself, and won’t be competing until I do. 

Secondly, if you simply must divide athletes into gendered teams, consider making both of these spaces as gender inclusive as possible within the confines of this restriction. Explicitly acknowledge that while athletes may compete on a men’s or women’s team, they may not be men or women. Get gender-neutral uniforms. Everyone is doing the same movements with their bodies. There’s no argument in support of gendered uniforms that’s good enough to outweigh the dysphoria they cause transgender and gender nonconforming athletes. Always use gender neutral collective nouns and nomenclature. It may seem small, but it can really help us feel seen in spaces that can seem deliberately designed to keep us out. I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude the day that the track team changed its GroupMe name from “Women’s Team” to the more gender inclusive and creative name, “Running Away from Men.” Do these things even if there are currently no nonbinary athletes on your team so that when someone does join, the space is already open to them. If you can’t get rid of gendered categories, simply minimize their importance. 

Thirdly, you must openly oppose official policies that restrict who can compete on which gendered teams based on hormonal levels or “biological sex.” While Bridget expressed that they would have reservations about going up against a 200-pound cisgender man on the rugby field, they also noted that any attempt to regulate teams based on gender supports a toxic environment for nonbinary players. “I don’t want a clear definition—I think that would make it worse,” Bridget said. Indeed, we can look at the Olympic committee’s regulations as a real-world example of how regulating sex has made things worse—not just for trans athletes, but for cis athletes as well. “Sex-verification testing” in the Olympics was first practiced in the 1950s, based on Cold War paranoia that Soviet women were actually men in disguise. More recently, sex-verification testing has been used to single out black and brown women athletes for not fulfilling white, eurocentric standards of femininity. The invasive practice of investigating an athlete’s biological sex is not only transphobic, but also racist and sexist. Coaches and trainers have a responsibility to protect young athletes from the humiliation and heartache that Olympic athletes like Caster Semenya (she/her) and Dutee Chand (she/her) have suffered from their very publicized experiences with sex-verification testing. If the restrictions to Title IX proposed in H.R.5702 or the Harris Funeral Homes case pass, NCAA athletic administrators must choose to ignore the new rules, and have the power to make a collective impact by doing so. Athletics administrations will probably be sued either way, and may as well be on the right side of history. 

Last but not least, you need to have our backs. Now more than ever, we need allies to go to bat for us. This means educating yourselves on how to be supportive teammates, coaches, and trainers to trans, nonbinary, and gender nonconforming athletes. Recently out people tend to have a hard time sticking up for themselves, and even those of us who have been out for a while get tired of constantly correcting people. Just because your athlete or teammate doesn’t correct you when you misgender or deadname them doesn’t mean they don’t mind. Ask us what you can do to help us feel welcome in the space and then take action. Avoid asking intrusive, personal questions or challenging how we identify. Bring in trans, nonbinary, and gender nonconforming coaches to be role models and allow coaches to come out to their teams. Rin’s boss at CityROCK told them not to come out to the youth climbing team Rin coached. This was not only uncomfortable for Rin, but unfair to young, queer climbers on the team, many of whom were bullied at school. “I wanted to be a role model and show [the kids] that there could be situations in their future where they could be unapologetically out, and that they would be supported and safe.” Rin said. Denying nonbinary athletes nonbinary role models in this way does us a huge disservice. No one knows how to support trans, nonbinary, and gender nonconforming athletes better than trans, nonbinary, and gender non-conforming athletes. Ultimately, uncompromising support can be the difference between someone staying on or dropping off the team.

Trans, nonbinary and gender nonconforming athletes should not have to shape our bodies and identities to fit into the structure of organized sports. Rather, a sport should adapt its structure to the needs of its participants. We need a dramatic cultural and institutional shift or we risk losing an increasing number of talented, driven athletes along the way. The transition may be awkward in the beginning (I know firsthand that transitions often are), but it will be a transition worth making if it means that NCAA and college club sports can do what they were originally intended to do: empower all young people to get active, build community, and have fun. 

The summer and early fall after I walked off the Cross Country and Track team were emotionally turbulent. I was in denial that my time on the team was over and told many people I would rejoin the team as a man. Or maybe I could delay medically transitioning for just a few more years to run as a woman? I became angry with myself for not enduring, for not sticking with the sport through my dysphoria. I blamed myself for the parts of me that didn’t fit neatly into a men’s or women’s team. I got depressed again. I felt like a failure for quitting, for not hanging around to improve things for athletes like myself, for giving up. 

By the time November rolled around, however, I’d accepted my hand. I will not be racing on any men’s or women’s running team because I am not a man or a woman and that is not my fault. I now know that I didn’t fail my sport, but that it failed me. I finally made the decision to go on testosterone, and I have no regrets. I’m learning to love my body in an unconditional and far less deranged way—not as a machine, just as a part of me. I’ll admit that I’m not always great at the whole “radical self-love” thing, but I’m certainly getting better at it. My girlfriend, Annabel (she/her), is also an ex-runner and has been enormously supportive of me throughout my transition. Yes, I do realize the cosmic irony of joining a running team to get with a girl, only to leave once I started dating one. I still run from time to time, but recently I’ve gotten into roller skating for exercise with Annabel and our friends. We’ve built a community around it where there’s no pressure to pick a team. 

*Having somebody to talk to makes a world of difference when coming out on a sports team. If you connected with the experiences of the athletes in this piece and want to chat, feel free to reach out to me at l_odowd@coloradocollege.edu, Rin at gentry.rin@gmail.com, Marley atmarley0137@outlook.com, and Bridget at b_galaty@coloradocollege.edu or Bella at b_christoffersen@coloradocollege.edu. 

By Cedar O’Dowd

Art by Nik Chapleski

 Body Issue | February 2020