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“We want to thank everyone who played a role in advocating for this cause. We thank the tribal youth who initiated this movement. We thank the millions of people around the globe who expressed support for our cause. We thank the thousands of people who came to the camps to support us, and the tens of thousands who donated time, talent, and money to our efforts to stand against this pipeline in the name of protecting our water. We especially thank all of the other tribal nations and jurisdictions who stood in solidarity with us, and we stand ready to stand with you if and when your people are in need.“

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Last week’s V-mail included a couple of suggestions on how to use your voice and/or your spare cash in the coming days. Still need to sign up for Vagina’s weekly e-newsletter? Go here!

* * *

Call the following numbers to say that you oppose the DAPL and the brutal treatment of the water protectors:  Jack Dalrymple, Governor: (701) 328-2200  Morton County Sheriff Kyle Kirchmeier: (701) 667-3330  Glenn Emery, Energy Transfer VP: (210) 403-6762  Lee Hanse, Energy Transfer Executive VP: (210) 403-6455

* * *

Purchase items for the Sacred Stone Camp's Amazon wishlist or for the Standing Rock Medic & Healer Council's Amazon wishlist

* * *

On December 8, ACLU of Texas is hosting a webinar to introduce folks to the upcoming 2017 legislative session. Sign up!

* * *

Volunteer with Inside Books Project to send free books and educational materials to Texas prisoners

* * *

Support the Affordable Care Act in Two Minutes (or less!) - Call (202) 225-0600 and press (2) to participate in the survey. Sit through the recorded message, and then press (1) to express your support of the ACA

* * *

Donate items on Austin's SafePlace wishlist which includes food, hygiene items, and books

* * *

Do you have a few coins to spare? Consider donating them to these folks! Planned Parenthood - The Trevor Project - Southern Poverty Law Center - The Mexican American Legal Defense & Education Fund - ACLU - Transgender Legal Defense & Education Fund - NAACP

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Big News! Big News! Big News! Big News!

Vagina is approaching her 6th anniversary! What better way to celebrate than with a new issue?

Submissions and sponsorships will be due by 10pm MT on Monday, January 2 (Vagina’s anniversary!). The Winter’17 issue will premier featuring the voices dozens of smart, talented, creative self-identified women on Friday, January 20 (Donald Trump’s inauguration day! Isn’t that a funny coincidence...). Artists will receive $20 for their work and a copy of the magazine.

I want to send you some of my work! Great. Go here.

I want to ensure women are paid for their work and that your independent, not-for-profit printed magazine stays alive for another year! Thank you. Go here.

I want to buy one of the old issues and pre-order the Winter ‘17 issue at a reduced rate! You’re an angel. Go here.

I have questions/feedback/a picture of my dog that you need to see! Yes, please. Go here.

*It’s been nearly a year since the last issue and for the sake of transparency here’s why: I was having a rough year. The kind of rough where you doubt everything you’re doing and have done, the kind where you avoid going out in public, the kind where you hit the metaphorical reset button and bid farewell to the life you’ve known for 9 years to embrace a new life and new challenges and new opportunities in a new home. It’s been good for me, but I know it’s been hard on the magazine and I sincerely apologize to anyone who was left saying Hey, where’d you go? to a full inbox. I’m back now and I’m ready to get back to doing great work with y’all!

Sincerely,

Hillary-Anne

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Fetch 2 by Chelsea Crossett

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By Briley Noel

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To Be Proud Of

Today

you said

you’re proud of me.

 It kind of

fell out your mouth

like a string of spit-

just hanging there

until it hit the ground me.

 And as I gathered myself,

 I watched it drip from your lips

unconvinced

in me.

Yes,

I know

you’re proud.

Just like

the president

is proud I pay my taxes

& Ray-Ban

is proud that I bought their glasses.

 I wish you knew

proud doesn’t connect

to passion

but pastimes.

 I like to rhyme, are you proud of that?

I like to waste my time

on capturing time,

are you proud of that?

And what if I told you

I love you

but I fight everyday not to be like you-

are you proud of that?

 Or are you expecting your subtle bombs

of pride

will blow away the debris

and uncover the life

you think I should be living?

 I want to amaze you

 Look at me

like you look at

Jordan

Talk of me

like you talk of

King

Let freedom ring in your heart

so it can ring of me.

 Please.

Keep your pride

Give me a reason

To do more than

Survive

-- By C. Camille

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Monster

Los Angeles, 2015

The woman behind me in line at Northgate Market in Boyle Heights piled 6 chocolate chip muffins on to the conveyor belt. I had grabbed the same type from the panaderia when first walking in. They make it irresistible. The muffins aren’t actually chocolate chip, they are only sprinkled on top. Inside, these muffins taste like love and butter and a middle aged woman’s bosom. Those muffins taste like pillows. Her six muffins were the same as the one I placed on top my basket, treated more gently than the ripe avocados rolling around at the bottom with the peanut butter and cheddar cheese. I liked that we matched.

The deep leather craters under her eyes only came to light when I saw her put 6 cans of Monster on the belt, behind the muffins. Six cans and six muffins. Who was she buying all this stuff for? Where was she headed with groceries like that? Six people, herself included. Six muffins with little chocolate chips atop. Six energy drinks. I looked at those dark leather craters and noticed the vest she was wearing, utilitarian and coarse. She hadn’t bought it for herself. It was given to her to wear during her graveyard shift at the El Pato plant that runs along Mission Road. “Walker Foods” in a southern accent the patch said, cursive script, reminiscent of auto workers and unions and pride and paid vacations and regular haircuts. A large patch with “EL PATO” and a mallard sits on her back. Nikes filled out her feet, found used at a neighbor’s yard sale.  She was so goddamn tired.

The EL PATO plant made all of Mission Road reek of boiling tomato. The steam plumes could be seen from the 101 and the EL PATO hand painted sign brought some pride to the little industrial stretch. It provided jobs and never turned the lights off. When I was growing up my mother loved to buy the little 49 cent cans and add chopped up jalapenos to them. I grew up loving those little tins with the different green and yellow and red labels. The cute little mallards.

Standing with my own tiredness, my own sleepy eyes, I tried to imagine the rate this woman behind me with a muffin just like mine expelled energy into the night, moon after moon.  Spaced out in line.

Those Monsters weren’t meant to hype you up for a second, only to come back down. They were her security against termination. She was after endurance, longevity. Four hours at a time. Sure, the first few times it had made her sick, dry mouthed and light headed. Never had she had that much sugar, never had she sought out leg jingling jittery ass anxiety in a can. After a few times she realized if she ate a muffin or bread before, it wouldn’t turn on her so much, instead the second wind would be found to get through the night. The breeze would come beneath her aching arms and rocky neck and shoulders so that she wouldn’t fall asleep on her feet just like she’d seen the others do. She couldn’t lose this one. What a journey it had been for her to find herself working for the first manufacturer of salsa in the United States. To come from Mexico only to be manning a vat of tomato juice labeled “salsa.” Finally she had found the balance that kept the money coming in and down to Mexico. The Monsters she drank put her kids through a boarding school in the city, away from the mountains and cartels. Strict nuns and abstinence classes. She didn’t want them to know about sex. Not yet. The longer they were in the dark, the better. Sometimes she fell asleep thinking of them as angels, studying hard with crisp and fresh white shirts, their little heads like islands. They were looked after by adults with educations and the kids were taught to believe that they were special. That they had something others didn’t, that just by being in the school and wearing the uniform they were gonna to be somebody.

Those Monsters paid for an alienation those kids began to feel from their friends and families back home that would help them stay in the city after they graduated and go on vacations to other cities in South America during their grandmother’s 60th birthday because they weren’t that close to her anyway. Muffins with little chocolate chips and Monsters and Nikes found at her neighbor’s yard sale kept her going day after day, the tin box under her bed filling up and out with the cash she was paid from her jobs. She counted it every night, just like Selma in Dancer in the Dark. Just like Selma the cratered woman had been stolen from before, that tin box of dreams and hopes and rocky necks emptied by the sweating hands of the guy she’d brought home because she’d let the drink relax her and the guy caress her. She’d thought she’d lost everything from wanting to feel alive for a few hours. After she woke up, the guy and her little tin box of dreams were gone. She’d kept back the tears all morning, bus stop after bus stop consoling her hunger pains, she had made a silent oath to forget herself. Forget her needs and desires and the period that kept coming and the flowers she walked by and those dark brown bottles full of the liquor that had made her lose the vigilance she knew to recommit to. Recommit or die.

This woman in the line behind me had never been told that she was special. Never heard that she was meant for anything, that her talents were endless. She had learned only the self-sacrificial role of mother, of plow, of curator of opportunity for the little beings she had unwillingly brought into this world. She had been told that the only good she could hope to make and leave and offer was children given the opportunity to learn and breathe and escape the place she had come from. The poverty and depression and resentment. The domestic violence and unwanted pregnancies. The drug addiction and manual labor so intense that every year you age five, the stress and anxiety diagnosed and treated by burning special candles and dropping scented liquid into the small bowl of water kept at your altar where you placed Our Lady of Guadalupe. I watched that woman walk across the parking lot and turn right at Soto, marching into the darkness of the wet trash strewn sidewalk. I watched her go from behind my dirty windshield. I thought about asking her if she wanted a ride. I didn’t and drove home.

-- By Julia Somers

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SXSW Music 2015 - Hillary-Anne Crosby

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Renderless in the palms of adversity by Michelle Avery Konczyk

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You Said I Should Take Up Gardening

You said I should take up gardening.

I took up gardening. as if filling holes in the earth would do the same to the one you left in my chest.

I think I’ll plant a willow tree in that spot. so that as my heart doesn’t beat, that poor tree weeps.

did you know that Begonias shrivel and die in freezing weather? they cannot handle your cold touch.

those little pink Roses are timeless flowers - but all is well that ends with you.

some people boil Chrysanthemums  to make a sweet tea from their juice. I brought tea to you in bed once and you told me it was flat.

Amaryllis will not sparkle when you place them in the shade of your mind.

Yucca plants are used in starting fires via friction. The only fires we started were in setting each other’s dreams aflame, watching them smolder into ash on opposite sides of the room.

The sun burns my skin and my knees are stained from sitting still on beds of rocks and ants, but I would rather be crouched over merciless nature than sitting comfortably in your bed of lies.

 -- By Bethany Swoveland

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Kiss Ellipsis

The room was cloaked in red

as I made my way over to you.

Sitting down on the bed I

stretch out along the soft sheets.  Your skin

feels like the last smile I’ll ever hear and

the moon pushes milky light into the room.

I ask if you’ll make room

for someone with skin

as rough as mine but you

just tell me how red

my lips look against your tired thoughts.  I

close my eyes and

listen to your bones fold and

mold into the darkness.  Red

light whispers at our sleep but I

stumble across the room

to close the blinds as you

reach through your dreaming for my skin.

You trace your fingers along the freckles on my skin

and tell me it reminds you of the night sky and

I fall asleep to the rhythm of your touch as the room

spins us in its web of red.

The dreams we have must be intertwined because I

can feel you

there next to me.  You

breathe into my sleep while the room

carries us forward, together, into the red

of the night.  I look to my left and watch our skin

melt together.  Our bodies get cast in bronze and

statues are formed in the sand.  I

walk hand in hand with you but I

stop to look in the mirror as our faces form like death masks and

you just smile.  I watch our skin

separate from the molds as you

begin guiding our bodies, like ships, to the room

where we are blanketed in red.

This room wasn’t expecting to see our vulnerable skin

talking with the red of the walls and

I didn’t know that you were only a season.

-- By Chelsea Crossett

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By Layla So

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The Matriarchs by Whitney Turetzky

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Tectonic

Last year, I stopped wearing seatbelts

and learned to ignore the sound of the alarm.

Took up running marathons

because I couldn’t get far enough away from myself.

Started putting out fires with whiskey

and soothing headaches with more.

 I punched clocks with my forehead.

Told myself I’d try boxing instead

but got bored with the bruises.

I prefer pain that is easier to hide.

Earthquakes over volcanos;

Tsunamis not monsoons.

This series is seismic, sweetheart.

Each time you seize my throat

and grip the breathe right out of me,

I die only to come back to life in your arms.

 But now I feel the spring weather, and I’m still without seatbelts.

I’m done with the punches, but you keep me running.

26 miles, .2 left to go

– Tell me, love –

Are you cheering me on?

Will you be at the finish line?

Or holding the gun that sets me off again?

I’m not sure how many miles I have in me;

how much more I can handle.

Can’t you just put down your weapons?

Release the trigger?

Let go of the gun?

I swear, the only thing you need the right to bear in your arms is me

-- By Amelia Hruby

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Carnival by Maggie Svoboda

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My Mind Is Peeling

I am shedding personalities like last

year’s skins.  I am soluble, floating

from mindset to mindset, looking

for the exit marked solace.  I have already

found and rejected hope, pity and anger.

Padlocked love myself – that was a bitch.

I have the bandages to prove it – and avoided

memories at all cost.  (I know a trap

when I see one).  Now I walk in planned

circles of diminishing shadow, talking

to my selves.  One of us will eventually

declare itself queen, convince the others

to obey the laws of silence.  Until the next

moon rises, and my mind breaks like the heart

I am missing, and we start this perpetual

dance all over again.

-- By A.J. Huffman

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I Had An Abortion And I Feel Fine

The week before I had my abortion, I read a piece on Gawker that saved my life. The writer normalized my experience, and I was able to breathe again.

I have been through many things that I would classify as more emotionally tumultuous than getting an abortion. The act itself was surprisingly relaxing. I went to a clinic that was decorated like a grandmother's living room, with women that spoke softly and confidently. The doctor who performed the operation was energetic, kind, barely older than me. She chatted about her favorite form of birth control (a copper IUD) and she slipped me her card in case I was interested in coming back to see her specifically. In fact, I wanted her to cradle me in her 30-something-year-old arms as I thanked her for making me feel normal.

Abortion is a funny thing. We are not "supposed to" get abortions, but one in three women has. We are made to believe that it is an intensely emotional experience, though it is not always. Unless you have actually been through it, you have no idea what it entails because we are not allowed to talk about it, even if we have been through it. Even if we made that adult choice for our adult selves in a world that does not support women's choices. Keep it quiet. Do not talk about your personal choices. Do not talk about your personal pain. And by god, do not glorify abortion. Do not make people feel like it is a natural, safe, personal decision that is definitely okay to make. 

I noticed that women say "my abortion." Mine was two months ago, and I have already noticed that I say it too. The experience is so personal, and I am assuming that is why it becomes such a "my" instead of an "an." I did not have an abortion, I had my abortion. I had my choice that changed the course of my life. I had a heavy decision to make that I even surprised myself with. It is my abortion as much as it would have been my baby. And since it is my choice, and it was my abortion, and it was my decision, then it is my prerogative to talk about it. 

 The other day, my much-younger friend was complaining about how she hates when people brag about the painkillers they get after their wisdom teeth get taken out. "Oh, who cares," she snickered. "I don't brag when I take medication for my knee." I joked about how I should have bragged about all of the giant pills they give you when you have an abortion. It threw her off. She got sympathetic and serious, and I get why. I am not a comedian. I do not make jokes about unsavory topics. I am the girl who people come to for serious conversation, for advice, for love stuff, and body image issues. I am not the girl people come to for jokes about abortion, or death, or even divorce. As my friend prodded, "Really? I had no idea they give you so many pills. I don't know anything about abortion, really," I grimaced. Obviously my friend knows nothing about abortion. Why would she? I knew nothing before I was actually going through the motions myself. By myself. I knew nothing when I called my local clinic and was told that my abortion would A) be three weeks out and B) cost NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS. Hey, I am a writer. I do not have 900 dollars for anything, let alone an unexpected pregnancy. I cancelled my appointment, dodged the inquiring, invasive questions of, "Did you change your mind? Are you keeping the baby?" and made an appointment at a clinic in the bigger city south of my home. 

 Women that actually need abortions do not have a lot of resources. Everything for me was self-researched. I did not call my mother, who has also had an abortion. I did not call my older-friend who has also had an abortion. I did not cry to anyone or ask anyone to hold me or talk to me about my choices. I had a boyfriend who was incredibly supportive, albeit entirely freaked out in his own way. He is a good man and it is not his fault that he cannot at all relate to anything involved with being a woman. I did not lean on him. I had my best friends, none of whom have even had much sexual experience, not to mention been anywhere near my situation. 

 I had my dearest friend who is like a sister to me who has three children. I held her baby when I found out I was pregnant, cradled her to me, tried to imagine myself in that same position in nine months. Nothing clicked, nothing was working, and I was absolutely exhausted thinking about my life. Try making a decision when you are that hormonal. Nothing makes sense, and everything makes you cry, and you are completely out of your element. 

 I read an article recently about how we can help make abortion clinics safer. I managed to make it through reading about the deaths of the doctors that are brave enough to perform the operation. I had a hard time breathing as I realized that the women who changed my life put themselves at risk every day. I have given a thought or two to people who might view me differently now, but I have not given consideration to them. I pass by abortion protesters in my tiny, liberal town on occasion, and yeah, they were the first people I thought of when I considered having an abortion. I hated myself for that. I hated the fact that the people I have always disagreed with and looked down upon were the people I thought of first. I had nightmares for a solid week before it. Sometimes, they were about the pain it would cause me. Sometimes, they were about the regret I felt afterwards. Sometimes, they were like a Sex and the City episode, where for the first time in my life I was a Miranda and not a Carrie, and I didn't go through with it. Sometimes, there were people that called me a baby killer and didn't want to talk to me anymore. 

 Every time I woke up though, I was okay. It is impossible to go through something like this without feeling every feeling, without being aware of every possible outcome, and I was relieved that when I woke up, I was always still myself, with my views, and my certainty.

 The last thing you should know? Just because you had an abortion does not mean you cannot have kids.

 The strongest thing I have learned about myself through this all is that I know now, finally, that I do want kids--I just want to have them in a very specific way. I do not want to have kids that were conceived on a drunken night when birth control failed me. I do not want to have been with my partner for one month, no matter how well I know him. I know that I can be a single mother, and I know that I would be a great one, but I do not want to do that. I want my child to be conceived in love; with intention; to be born into a great life. I want to give my children everything I was not given, and I cannot make those promises right now in my life, but I know that I will be able to make them later. And that's okay. 

 Ultimately, I chose to have my abortion because I could not give a baby what she needs, not because she could not give me what I need. I can make anything work, but when we are talking about a child, that should not be the given consolation. When I am ready, she will be ready, and everything will happen as it should. 

 The article I read saved my life because she spoke of her abortion with such normalcy that it reminded me that I am not alone. I did not cry when I had mine. I did not cry the night before. I wasn't very nervous. The procedure was easier than when I had my decaying tooth pulled. The hardest part for me was being high. I went shopping afterward, and I thought of how I can continue to buy my size because my body will not continue to change. I fell asleep watching Hitch after eating pizza with lots of olives, something that I had done a million times. Something that reminded me that my life could go back to its original state. 

 Yes, I would have loved my child. I would have been a great mother. But sometimes not doing something, even though you would be great at it, is an even more powerful choice. And thank god we have that choice. Own your choice, ladies. And always know that you are not alone.

  Here are some things you should know, that no one tells you because we aren't allowed to talk about abortions:

 Planned Parenthood works on a sliding scale. That can work in your favor, and it can also not. If your abortion is going to cost almost one thousand dollars, please research as much as you can to make sure you are finding the most affordable price for you. 

 Having an abortion is not a bad thing. You are not a bad person. You are a very good person who is thinking about the quality of life of your possible child, and if you know that you cannot provide for another human, having an abortion is an incredibly selfless decision. You are not killing anyone; you are saving multiple people. Remember that. 

 One out of every three women has had an abortion. That is not a random number. You know someone who has. You know multiple people who have. I found out that many of my close friends have had abortions -- I just never knew until I opened up about my own. 

 Your body is 50-75% physiologically ready to have a baby when you are only eight weeks along. Your heart is stronger, your estrogen levels are greater, and your body has become not your own. Does that make it harder to bounce back and feel like yourself? Yes, it does. Let yourself relax and adjust. You may think you're a tough guy (like I do) but your body needs it. And you can tell people that statistic when they try to downplay your experience. ("Well, you were ONLY 9 weeks, you don't really know what it's like...")

 You have a lot of time to change your mind. Listen, life is not a television show. If you are even the least bit unsure, there are people that will talk to you before you go through with it, whether you want to talk or not. Be honest, with them and yourself, and only do what you definitely want to do. (It is also okay to hug your counselor.) 

 You will have an ultrasound. You will have the choice to see the ultrasound. For full disclosure’s sake, I chose not to see mine. 

 You will not be knocked out, but you will take enough relaxants and painkillers and antibiotics that you might finally know what the '60s were all about. I cannot say that it doesn't hurt, but mine did not hurt. It is not the same vacuum that cleans your living room, though plenty of "pro-life" websites I perused tried to convince me otherwise. The operation is about 6 minutes long. I have had pap smears that were more uncomfortable. The emotional aspect is the hardest part, even if you feel like you're doing fine. Your body can handle anything. You are woman.

 And unfortunately, not everyone will support your decision. You do have to be a new kind of brave, from here on out. People talk about babies a lot. They joke about pregnancy a lot. People will assume that you have no idea what it is like to be pregnant, even though you do. People will assume that you have never thought about kids before, even though you have. If people know, they will assume you are irresponsible, though you very well may not be. You can tell them that birth control really is not always effective. They might not listen or care. They might still judge you. Things change from that moment on. Your life is changed now. You can handle anything. You really can. Don't let people make you feel like you have done anything wrong. You have not.

 And lastly, most importantly, thank your doctor. They are not a normal doctor, they are a warrior for women's rights.

-- By Jess Tholmer