Adrienne

I came out to my mom (and, consequently, probably the rest of my immediate family).

My friend R had been poking me to do it, telling me to "take the drama down about twenty notches," but that hadn't stopped me from curling up in my computer chair and wanting to throw up at the mere thought of doing it. After all, I am the girl who spent hours creating elaborate alibies to hide her trips to Giovanni's Room (especially when it meant meeting Alison Bechdel!), carefully choosing outfits that were "appropriately feminine," even if she really would have been more comfortable going about in drag that day and calling herself Andrew, etc.

I am just stunned.

Tuesday evening, we sat around the third-floor living room, curled up on couches and pillows and laps, and watching the election results come in. It was like the Superbowl without the beer and the pretzels and tubby men in spandex pants; as the Democrats gained seats in Congress, we jumped and cheered.

And then we fell silent. The Marshall/Newman Amendment (also known as Ballot Question No. 1, or the same-sex marriage amendment--as if it were only about that), was passing by a significant margin--the count with 94 percent of precincts reporting was 57% 'yes' and 43% 'no'.

Life has been pretty hectic, but also really good for the past two weeks.

Last week, our LGBTQQAA group celebrated Coming Out week, and on National Coming Out Day (October 11th), we had a discussion about the history of same-sex relationships on our campus. We also celebrated the 20th anniversary of the "coming out" of the GSA. They did it through publishing an anonymous letter in the college newspaper, explaining that there was a queer community on campus and that they were going to petition to get student government funding for their club.

In the next issue, a reaction letter was published. Those women wrote in that they "didn't want to be known as 'the lesbian school'" and that "homosexuals should go to a college that already has that reputation--like Smith or Vassar (which had been co-ed for 17 years at that point)" and even "haven't you heard of AIDS?!?!"

I've been thinking a lot about my last post. I'm glad I was so open, selfish, petulant, stubborn, even bitchy--I needed to do that. The past few days have been really good, now that I've got my head back on my shoulders. There are so many things I want to talk about.

I finally got my hair evened out by my friend who lives in the art house. It's quite cute--it can be masculine at a moment's notice, and it can go feminine when the mood strikes it. Kind of like me. I can part my hair on the side with gel and make it like Frank Sinatra's, so I'm thinking of dressing in full drag some time next week (aka Coming Out Week), but I need to get hair gel, a new suit, and a better binder. I've been using 4" wide self-adhesive ACE bandages over a too-small sports bra--do they come in wider widths? I'm starting with a D-cup, and it's hard. Anyone have any suggestions? We used duct tape in a pinch for our Drag King show last year, but I really don't want to resort to that.

I'm sorry that I haven't been as active as I'd like here. Right now's just been a pretty rough time, and every time I try to explain how I feel, it comes out very emo. We're talking "Stab My Heart Because I Love You" emo. Probably because I really don't have anything to be complaining about, but I do it anyway.

College has been an odd transition. Somedays, I am utterly beyond happiness about being here. I think to myself that my job for the next four years is to read and write and learn. And I love that. I love love love my classes, even if I wish I had taken an extra one. For example, I miss mathematics with the firey hot intensity of a thousand suns. (Please come back to me darling, even if it's just for a brief but passionate fling in Calculus!)

And sometimes I wish that classes were the entirety of the college experience. But they're not.

Just thought you guys would like to know that yesterday morning, the Board of Trustees of Randolph-Macon Woman's College announced their decision to admit men.

If you would like to see video of the announcement (and the protestors), you can get it via R-MWC's Strategic Plan Webcast Archive. (Video requires Quicktime.)

Unfortunately, I had class and could not attend the protests, but my heart is with the women who are the past, present, and future of Randolph-Macon.

Regis College also went co-ed recently. We are truly a dying breed.

Last night (into this morning) was my first college party.

I know what you're thinking--a bunch of drunken, sweaty people dancing around a frat house while the 'brothers' of the fraternity scope out hotties to drug before the end of the night.

Wipe those thoughts from your minds, girls, because this was something entirely different. And once you hear this story, you won't settle for anything less.

Sometimes I feel guilty for looking at girls sexually.

Not for the usual reasons that come with being from a very religious family, but because I have to wonder if fantasizing about the cute cashier at the bookstore or the girl in my English class or even a woman in the mall (while I simultaneously wish I had her shoes) is just the same as a guy downloading porn from the internet without even bothering to learn the actress' name.

Is it different because I'm a woman, a lesbian, or because I consider myself a "feminist"? Or because the women I'm attracted to tend to be heavier and "more ethnic" than Hugh Hefner's girlfriends?

No cute anecdotal introduction feels right for this. News like this comes quick and hard, like metal twisting against brick and the irregular cracking of treated glass. As much as we heard stories, we never thought it'd hit so close to home.

Through the grapevine, I heard that the Board of Trustees of Randolph-Macon Woman's College will be deciding on a final plan for the future of the college on September 8-9 of this year, a fact that was confirmed when I visited the college's Strategic Plan website. This plan includes "a new educational platform that will strongly encourage experiential learning within a global honors perspective in a co-educational environment" (emphasis mine). The fate of much-beloved RandyMac rests with a decision seemingly made only to increase their yield (the percentage of admitted students who enroll) and number of applications while simultaneously decreasing the percentage of admitted students. In short, it all comes down to money and those damn rankings.

Whew. Sorry about my lateness this week--2 power outages (one that hit the PECO infrastructure and the estimates were 4-5 days to return power to the whole PA/DE/NJ area), death in the family, and needing to hold down the fort while my mom went across the state to the funeral.

Speaking of my mother, when I called her this afternoon, tearing my hair out in frustration at my brothers' behavior, the first thing I said when she picked up was, "when you get home, we're going out to lunch. I appreciate you."

It could have been worse--a lot worse. We could have been the ones without power for three days (and counting), but we got lucky. My brothers could have decided to run through the house spraying poster paint and baby powder everywhere, but instead they just sat in front of the big screen and played the new video game I rented at blockbuster yesterday. But they still mouthed off, didn't put things away, and just generally made me feel utterly worthless.

Thanks to several tips from fellow blogger Ellen, I headed into New York City on Saturday for the Fat Girl Flea Market. After that, I hit Bluestockings bookstore, and then Babeland (this one's 18+, and lying is bad for your health).

My journey took 13 hours, and I'd rather not think about how much money I spent (though most of it was on transportation and water). I'm just gonna talk about it chronologically, with feminist analysis as needed.

I love the way the tan of my arms and shoulders fades into creamy skin underneath my shirt. I love the weight of my breasts in my hands. I love to watch my reflection move, my ample curves shifting in the mirror as I dance in my underwear. I love to feel my muscles tighten and relax when I swim.

Yes, I am bragging. Did you want to call me on it?

I am 5 foot 8 and 230 lbs. My measurements are 38D-36-46. I wear a size 16/18. Plus-size.

I forget that I am supposed to be ashamed of that until I go shopping. Silly me.

(I'm pretty sure that grammar's right and the Lady Marmalade song got it wrong. "se coucher" is a relflexive verb... *shrugs*)

Anyway.......

There was an interesting discussion about prostitution in Germany and the World Cup over at Jessica's blog, and it got me thinking. Many of us seemed upset because many women have been and continue to be forced into prostitution. Selling sex is still a crime in the United States, but not in some parts of Europe (I think Irmelin mentioned Norway, I think Sweden too, and I know Germany).

(Now say the title out loud, three times fast.)

Hey:

I started writing this, got to the middle of page three, and realized that the sentiment that best characterized what I had written was doubt. My parents could storm into my room tomorrow, brandishing the book of lesbian erotica I bought, demanding to get some answers. I could spend the rest of my summer locked away at Camp Forced Heterosexuality, or be forced into enrolling in community college so my parents could drive me to and from school and keep an eye on me 24-7.

But at the same time, I could spend this summer being gloriously lazy, sneaking off to the GLBT-feminist bookstore to read for hours. I could get to school, make fantastic friends, maybe even have a romantic/sexual relationship--the prospect of that is still thrilling. It was never safe enough at home to flirt with girls. I hope you're laughing at this, back when your probably-lesbianism was still purely theoretical, instead of critiquing me and dwelling over what an awkward freak I probably am.

Simple enough. I knew from my first bath that I was genetically, biologically female, and I had more than enough adults to remind me that I was still a child. However, I quickly learned that there was more to "girl" than that. There were restrictions, and expectations, and boundaries.

They didn't hit me at first.

Protected by the relative androgyny of childhood (once I escaped the frilly pink dresses that dominated my preschool years), I wandered blissfully from baseball practice, to my best friend Andy's house, to my Future Engineers camp--I was good at math then, good enough that they shunted me ahead a year in elementary school.