Cupid is my Homeboy

I cannot honestly say that I hate Valentine’s Day.

As much as I love to complain about the commercialization of our society and the exploitation of the American people at the hands of greeting card companies and candy corporations, when it comes down to it, I really don’t care. As much as I would like to say that shattering gender stereotypes is at the top of my list of priorities, I don’t really think Valentine’s Day perpetuates any sexist agenda. And as much as I would love to say that Valentine’s Day spoils the rest of the month, we’re talking about February: impossibly dark, inexplicably short, and really freaking cold. Let’s face it: God, not cupid, ruined February for me. So really, cheers to V-Day. I have absolutely nothing against you.

Apparently, this makes me some sort of a reverse-Scrooge in American society. From what I can tell, if you don’t hate Valentine’s Day, it’s assumed that you’re either shamelessly romantic or a helpless victim of the Big Bad Hallmark Man. But seeing as I don’t fall under either of those categories, I think there’s another explanation: I went to an all-girls high school.

My years in co-ed school were filled with some of the characteristic V-Day scarring. In first grade, the 100th day of school fell on Valentine’s Day and I remember having to put 100 heart stickers on the outside of a brown paper bag under duress. That was horrendous.

My middle school lubricated the inevitable unease of Valentine’s Day by allowing students to purchase carnations through the student council and have them delivered to unsuspecting kids in homeroom on February 14. Apparently this was supposed to open our eyes to the wide world of gift giving and displays of romantic affection. Unfortunately for the students of Deer Path Junior High, not all of us were the cool kids who drank beer and made out, and the nerdy pre-pubescent twelve-year-old who gives another nerdy pre-pubescent twelve-year-old a pink carnation on Valentine’s Day has the entire rest of the year to sit and feel awkward in Language Arts class.

Taking these experiences into account, celebrating Valentine’s Day in an environment essentially free of sexual expectations was liberating. Going to a Catholic school with a class of 48 girls was a culture shock after graduating one of 460 from a co-ed public middle school, and the creeping approach of Valentine’s Day threw the absence of boys into high relief—not to say that I had a lot of game in middle school, or even that my “romantic” encounters went at all beyond shy flirtation with my stand-partner in orchestra. But regardless of the actual outcome of any Valentine’s Day shenanigans, the real tension in the holiday comes from the possibility of some sort of spark. So it was with great deflation that I anticipated my first Valentine’s Day as a freshman at Woodlands Academy of the Sacred Heart…with 47 other women.

Being single on Valentine’s Day is the stereotypical nightmare scenario. But in an environment where few romantic liaisons occur, the pressure’s off, and I was free to revel in the indulgences of this pointless holiday regardless of whether or not I was “attached.” Once I set that precedent, it was hard to go back into being a V-Day hater. Since then, I have spent Valentine’s Day with boyfriends and without boyfriends, and I think that spending it “alone” is just as fun as spending it with someone I’m dating. Especially in college—where my blockmates and I struggle to take any time out from classes, jobs, and extracurriculars—having a night dedicated to chocolate-eating, boy band crooning, and dining hall glasses full of red wine sounds just as good, if not better, than a hot date at Upstairs on the Square.

Recognizing that Valentine’s Day lends itself better to absurdity than romance has made me into a Valentine’s convert. Every Valentine’s Day can potentially turn sour, even if you’re with someone you care about. As a senior in high school, my boyfriend and I went out to a Mexican restaurant and were seated at the table next to his psychiatrist. Last year, my boyfriend at the time insisted we “do something special” for Valentine’s Day, and it wasn’t until we were well up Garden Street that I realized “something special” was “a trek to Cabot House dining hall in subzero temperatures.” But trust me: the good stories that emerge from bad Valentine’s Days are a priceless commodity.

I am very ambivalent about my high school years because I am not sure if I believe in the more publicly touted merits of single sex education. I don’t think that women need to be separated from men in order to learn, and I don’t believe that separating students by gender is the most effective way to prepare them for co-ed colleges. However, if there is something I appreciate about my time at an all-girls school, it is the philosophy that manifests itself in my unusual Valentine’s neutrality. Depending on someone else to determine your enjoyment of something is fruitless. Let’s be serious: Valentine’s Day has kind of screwed itself over. Paper cards, stale candy, and the cheapest flower that money can buy: it’s inherently kind of insulting to receive these things in earnest from someone you’re romantically involved with. But getting a Tonka truck Valentine from your best friend or a yellow carnation with “Please fix me up with your brother at Loyola” is hilarious and—dare I say it?—heartwarming.

—Emma M. Lind ’09 is a History and Literature concentrator in Winthrop House. She moved the first Editorial Board comp meeting so that it would not fall on Valentine’s Day.