The Impact of a Zine

Around 2009, I was a freshman in high school. I grew up in the suburbs and spent a lot of time visiting family in rural parts of Virginia. I was accepted into the art specialty center close to the city. I remember getting the thick acceptance letter in the mail the year prior and sharing the news with my friends from art class. Many of them were accepted too. Some of them went to the dance program, others theater, and a couple chose the brainier route with IB. I got into the visual art program. I’m pretty sure my oil pastel drawing of a boat on a rocky mountain lake was the showstopper in my portfolio.

It took about an hour to get to the school by bus. We had three kids packed in each seat. The late comers sat on the floor in the aisles. When it rained, water would pour into the bus from the top air vents. Students would cradle their gyms bags in their laps. There wasn’t always room to take off your backpack. Students would try their best to sit on the edge of the seat, while their bags full of books, often twice the size of the kid, would take up most of the seat space. I would try to cram my portfolio along the seat in front of me. We all got to know each other very well during our commute.

On the first day, I wore a slouchy top from Forever 21 that had line drawings of butterflies with splashes of watercolor inks and sprinkled with sequins. Perfect for art class and a visual artist like me. We learned drawing techniques for 3 hours each day, occasionally throwing in some 3D design. I discovered my favorite medium was charcoal and pastels. I drew portraits of the hired figure models and myself. I was too nervous to ask my peers if I could draw them.

The teachers encouraged us to absorb as much art as we could. The most memorable excursions were with my friends at First Fridays in downtown Richmond. The city felt so special, so alive, so dangerous. I would stare at everything wide eyed. I thought everything was special, much to the amusement of people who grew up surrounded by art and city life. There was art everywhere. There were craft vendors in the street and galleries on every block. There were even paintings on the abandoned buildings. I don’t care if there “just tags.” It was unapologetic self-expression. The boldness to paint on a building you didn’t own, and not even ask permission!

Along Broad Street, some college students were waving up little booklets and shouting something I couldn’t quite make out. They gave their spiel once we approached, something about zeeens, something about consent, something about sex. My friend laughed about how it was for lesbians. I still didn’t fully understand what all that meant or how that related to their booklets. One of the college students held one out for me, their eyes so kind and empathetic, as my friends continued down the block. I grabbed one and shoved it in my purse. I’d figure out what all the meant later. I felt like I was transporting illegal contraband. I don’t know why I grabbed it, but I knew I was drawn to the drawing of the couple on cover. They had such a loving embrace, like nothing else in the world existed besides the quiet moment they were experiencing.

I kept the booklet in a bag in the back of closet for a while before I looked at it again. I was scared of it in ways I couldn’t articulate, but I couldn’t let it go. It was so explicit, yet so self-assured. It would take me months to read the whole thing. Fear flooded my body as I’d read a page before folding it up and shoving it back into the darkness.

I grew weary of the commute to the art center. I hardly slept between projects and sports, pulled in too many directions. Could I even make it as an artist? It seemed like no one thought that was possible. I purposely failed my entrance exam to the math and science center because all I wanted was art school. Had I, at 13, made a mistake that would ruin my future? We needed more women in science. If I could excel in my math and science classes, it was my duty to pursue STEM. Right? That’s the most correct decision, right? Art could be a hobby, right?

So, I left.

My circle was small. If someone went through something similar, I knew nothing of it. And I didn’t think to ask.

I look back and think about my art teacher at the center, with her white ink flower tattoo, and wonder if maybe I could have reached out to her.

I continued art as a hobby and pursued the sciences. I continued doing self portraits because my anxieties continued to prevent me from asking my peers if I could draw them. I continued to pull away from people. I was polite but guarded. The zine continued to sit in the darkness, waiting for me to open it back up again.

In college I repeated the same pattern. I got a scholarship for my art portfolio and quickly ditched my art degree for a more practical science degree, decided based on the advice I got from adults in my life who also made the most practical of life decisions. I convinced myself by then that art was just a hobby. My high school teacher who said I should have gone to New York to study art was clearly wrong.

I mostly forgot about the zine. When I’d randomly remember it, I’d frantically check to see if it was still there, but I wouldn’t read it again until years later. Sex was scary. A traditional type of scary. My previous experiences didn’t align with what was printed on its pages. I had yet to learn that consent meant more than a quiet yes. Was it possible to experience life differently? The zine represented a different kind of scary, something unfamiliar. It represented more than just sex. It represented completely letting go and letting yourself feel pure freedom. It asked you to connect with yourself through joy.

I stopped drawing around sophomore year of college. With my nose in A Sand County Almanac, I let myself love environmental science. I started my plant collection with a jade leaf I found on the floor at Walmart. The jade tree that sprouted lives on strong today. My brother bought me a burro’s tail succulent for my birthday that same year. It continues to thrive, even after many moves. I grew my love of the colors of earth, the smell of the soil, the wind and the rain and the clouds and the sky.

When the pandemic hit years later, I bought myself my first professional looking camera, a Canon Rebel T7. Flowers bloomed as the world locked down, and having nothing else to do, I took thousands of pictures.

Photography brought me back into the art world. I dived headfirst into film photography after being gifted a film camera and a roll of film at my first photo club meet up. Through that community, I was reintroduced to zines. There was a whole culture and history behind them to learn about.

Almost fourteen years after I first grabbed it on Broad Street, I reopened the folded-up zine. Over the years it moved with me across state lines and to different cities, from the back of my closet, to a purse I never used but refused to get rid of, to the drawer of my night stand. The cover said “Lips RICHMOND a zine for and by the sexual beings of Richmond, VA.” It was a photocopied collection of poems, short stories, drawings, and collages. Submitters talked about finding your identity through adversity, coming-of-age in ways that deviate from stories in mass media, and yes there were stories about sex. After all these years, I could read it cover to cover without fear. I was full of appreciation.

I can finally absorb the words on the page. I can relate to stories of feeling uncertain in life and in your body and not knowing where to go next. I resonate with stories about figuring out what you deserve by experiencing what no one deserves. I hold on to the stories about finding self-assuredness and peace in the moment. The power within the stories provided comfort even before I could allow myself to read it from cover to cover. I believe that is why I’ve kept it through all the moves and downsizing and decluttering.

I think of all the growth I’ve gone through since I first grabbed the zine, and how the words resonated with me then versus now. I keep thinking about the amount of time it took for those stories to have their full impact. I’m so grateful to have these stories to hold on to throughout all the stages of my life. It gives me assurance that all those moments I felt awkward stepping outside my comfort zone were worth it. By working towards our authentic selves, by sharing our stories, we contribute to our larger communities. The stories that have been shared with me give me strength, and I hope that by putting myself out there I can return the favor.

Thank you to the staff of Lips, all the contributors, and all those who helped with this publication. Thank you to everyone who continues to share their story. Thank you to everyone who listens.  You have made a difference.

Thanks for reading :)