The Virgin Complex

When did you lose your virginity? I don’t mean how old you were when you had sex; I mean the exact moment when you realized you had outgrown your safety net and learned that the world isn’t divided simply into good and evil. The preconceptions we have about others are natural; we are raised to generate opinions to comfort ourselves amidst confusion, and generally use those opinions to assign personas to people we will probably never really know. We’ve all used the phrase, “that was before I knew her,” and we know that our opinions are infallible until, of course, they’re proven completely wrong. We place entirely too much importance on our primitive categorization of other people in our general knowledge of the world, convincing ourselves that everyone is good or bad, smart or stupid, happy or sad. We spend so much time dividing everyone into either/or rather than both/and categories that eventually we forget that human beings are brilliantly complex and contradictory organisms; we would much rather just call them a virgin or a whore.
This brings me to my question: when did you lose your virginity? When did you go from being a naive child with scabbed knees and popsicle-stained mouth to an adult complete with a university sweatshirt and a copy of Kafka’s The Metamorphosis tucked under your arm? Was it really the moment you slipped on a condom and got tangled up in the XL-Twin sheets? Sex is a basic part of humanity; we need it, we want it, we enjoy it, and we are scared shitless by it. Above all this, we define ourselves by it; whoever hasn’t had sex is a prude, whoever has probably has syphilis. It wouldn’t be a regular Saturday morning without a parade of smeared makeup and broken heels shamefully tip-toeing through the streets like decorated soldiers trudging back from the battleground with fresh scars. It wouldn’t be a typical morning-after without high-fiving frat boys congratulating each other on another successful display of raw testosterone with the fervor of a primate beating on his chest to shout to the rest of the animal kingdom that he totally got laid last night.
And what about “losing” your virginity? I’m quite sure most of us know exactly where it went. By saying we “lose” that part of ourselves, we confirm that we don’t have any control over our bodies, and probably have even less control over our lives. I highly doubt that there are girls crawling around searching frantically under couches for their hymens; you lose car keys and earrings, not your virginity. Instead of saying “lose,” we should just call it like it is: our first time. We don’t lose anything by moving on with our sexual development. Instead we should be aware that a feeling of loss signifies more important issues of emotional maturity or unhealthy perceptions of sexuality. By knowing that you have chosen to have sex, you understand that you and your partner are on equal footing, gaining from the experience together. Saying you “lost it” sounds more like game of monopoly with the stakes set much higher than purple dollar bills.
What about this culture of sex makes us adults? Does knowing what “Reverse-Cowgirl” is make you more likely to score well on your MCAT? The truth is that you probably gave up your virginity, your naiveté, long before or long after the first time you had sex. It is a general process of figuring out that you aren’t the only person in the world, that your decisions actually have consequences, and that you are not what your third grade self expected you to be by now. Having sex is part of that process, but it isn’t the complete culmination; by placing the entirety of your growing-up process on one event, you’ve successfully proven that you probably know nothing about yourself and have a long way to go before you actually grow up. Its quite possible (and sometimes likely) that most of us have had several sexual partners before we ever get past our virginity. In short, being ready to have sex doesn’t make you a mature person; being a mature person makes you ready to have sex, and you can choose when, where, and if you have it.
Virginity is an out-dated concept; does having been in love with someone somehow make us impure? Am I visibly scarred because I have been heartbroken? Are you a whore for falling asleep in someone’s arms? I accept that I can’t change much about other people; the best I can do is breathe in what I admire, love, despise, want, and fear, and calmly exhale, knowing that I haven’t been a virgin for ages. I find all the comfort I need in knowing that I still deserve to wear white.

Feminism Isn't Dead

When I moved to Los Angeles for college, I was intoxicated with my own fantasies of college life. I imagined classroom debates, philosophical discussions on a lush green lawn, an idealistic boyfriend that would volunteer for the Democratic party during the election and respect my opnions on gay rights and my love for the History Channel as well as Mel Brooks. The reality, however, turned out to be vapid questions about required reading for 100-level classes, heated arguments over what constitutes Facebook "stalking," and a string of beer-guzzling frat boys who couldn't find the clitoris with a map.
However, what breaks my heart most about college is that on a campus with a 60% female student body, "feminism" is a word that falls on ears blocked out by ipods and cell phones; we who feel most passionately about women's rights face our biggest adversaries in those we would consider to be our sisters. It kills me to know that misogyny is so strong in my generation that it spills over from men and into the untrusting women who would rather be seen as "normal" or "complacent" to their male counterparts.
Recently, an article in the Washington Post made this issue all too clear. Charlotte Allen wrote a piece entitled "Women Aren't Very Bright," which was later renamed, "Barack Obama and the Female Vote" after a tremendous response from angry and offended readers. Allen drew from outdated research and clouded, ignorant opinions as well as personal shortcomings to conclude that women, as a whole, are nothing more than a swooning mob of hormone-driven, shoe-obsessed romance-novel consumers. The furious response from readers was no small comfort, as it reminded me that our guerilla warriors are still undercover and fighting one editorial response at a time.
This whole episode prompted me to scream "Feminism isn't dead! It's just not cool anymore!" which, of course, fell on deaf ears. So my new mission has become to gather those of us still intelligent enough to refuse sunless tanner, those of us confident enough to wear spiked heels and a business suit, those of us with a sense of identity that allows us to have careers and families, and remind those who aren't that "feminism" and "equality" aren't dirty words, they're fighting words.

I want the women of my generation to remember that they wouldn't be able to go to college if it hadn't been for the feminist movement, they wouldn't be able to pursue careers if it hadn't been for those women who wouldn't take no for an answer, and they wouldn't be able to have a say in politics if it hadn't been for those "bitchy upstarts" Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. I want the women of my generation to stop being dolls, playthings, and mannequins that curry favor with men; I want them to know that they can be women. They are beautiful, real, and phenomenal women...but they need to choose to be so.

I realize that the word commonly associated with feminism is "bitch," but you know what? Bitches get stuff done. In the mighty words of Tina Fey, bitch is the new black.

Love.
Jess