Once Upon A First-Year
Back in the mists of antiquity, I was a very angry feminist first-year university student. I had broken up with a high school boyfriend, and the ensuing shitty fallout was something I know perfectly well how to deal with now (ignore it), but didn’t then. I was very guilty, and then after I thought some more–several months more–I was very angry both that someone I trusted had been so manipulative, and that I had trusted someone so manipulative.
I, of course, expressed the anger and compensated for the guilt by buying my first pair of Big Black Boots, wearing a lot of eyeliner, and taking a women’s studies class. I rather fancied I had been abused, because that boyfriend had been a manipulative twit, and because he had occasionally thrust me out of the way or stepped on my arm or nudged the break in my nose which I actually had caused myself by running into an article of furniture. At any rate, the nose didn’t heal quite smoothly, even if the manipulative boyfriend hadn’t been completely responsible, and I was reminded of him every time I looked in the mirror, and this caused me much anger.
These days I recognize that my face is just my own fucking face, in the same way that my name is my just my own fucking name, whether I share it with one or both of my parents.
A brief rebound fling didn’t fling very far, and didn’t actually cause me to rebound much, and between a therapist I think was assigned to because she was also half Chinese and a clingy high-school classmate with Issues, I was one self-analytic processing machine.
My dorm neighbours decided I needed something to take my mind off things, and schlepped me along to the next frat party. I wore my boots, and my eyeliner, and some assorted things in between, which I suspect included black jeans and a black T-shirt. The door brothers let me in despite the lesbian-style glitz, but I think it was because they were slightly afraid my dormmates wouldn’t come in without me.
The party was extremely boring. I didn’t feel like flashing, lapdancing, dancing, drinking beer, playing drinking games, picking up frat boys or pronouncing EEUUpsiLON, so I was bored stiff.
Because we were taking Introduction to Women’s Studies, Dormmates and I were acutely aware of the threat of sexual assault to women on campus after dark. “We’ll call you a shuttle,” said dormie #1. I stared at the rows upon rows of frat dishes, which appeared to have come from the campus dining hall. Shuttle service #1 was all booked up for the night. “We’ll try the other one,” said dormie #2. Shuttle service #2 was mainly for intoxicated persons, but would pick other students up if time permitted.
“Two hours,” dormie #1 said, hanging the phone back on the wall. “And you’re really drunk.” I can’t even stay drunk for two hours unless I have a continuous etOH input, and even then I have a fairly low-threshold negative feedback loop which causes me to FALL ASLEEP after three drinks.
I glanced up the stairs to a bedroom where digitised porn was reflecting in oscillating-brightness dots off of a mirror ball. Some frat boys and the girls on their arms hooted. “This is stupid,” I said. “I’m not waiting two hours. I think I’ll walk home.”
“No!” both dormies protested. “It’s dangerous! You could get assaulted!”
“No, seriously, I’m not waiting two hours. I haven’t even been drinking. Gimme the keys.” The reluctance with which dormie #2 handed me the set of keys made me glad I had worn my boots. “K, see you tomorrow.”
I stomped home, in boots, the entire six well-lit, wide-sidewalked blocks to my dorm. And I was not assaulted. I don’t think I even saw another person. I am still not sure what is empowering about making women so afraid to step foot outside after dark that they would instead wait two hours in a house full of a frat party.