Reina A.E. Gattuso
There is the harsh pleasure of rain, and that of almost raining.
The heat is the third party in every love affair this summer, the dark horse candidate in all politics.
By now even the literature professors are hoping the humanities will just kick the bucket already so we can finish talking about them.
If I want to be a serious lady power player, I’m going to need to purchase a blazer. It’s going to be black or navy blue, it’s going to cinch at the waist and flair at the hips, and, damn it, it’s going to get me taken seriously.
Ironically, the urge to find a “lesbian” voice in the debate can lead to the marginalization of those who don’t fit normative images, leaving them outside whatever ends up being the community standard of legitimacy.
It’s been a big year for organizing by students of color, and particularly black students, on college campuses. And as it so often does, Harvard has become part of the discussion.
“Tradition” is a slippery talking point.
Princeton Mom is back, and we didn’t miss her.
There is a house in an imaginary Newark, in a row of red brick buildings between the highway and the sun.
I am too old for this. Last week I arrived at a house party only to spend the first 20 minutes putting the finishing touches on my gender studies junior tutorial syllabus. Tonight is squishy, slushy, miserable, the kind of night that will leave the streets shiny, lethal disco floors by morning. It’s 11:30 p.m. on Saturday, I’m trudging alone down Mass Ave on the way to Eliot Street, and I have never more deeply regretted the existence of New England.
Harvard Square is a place where even the threatened passing of a Dunkin’ Donuts can prompt student outrage; passion for favorite food haunts runs deep. While both students and restaurants in the Square turn over as fast as patties at Tasty Burger, some local favorites persist.
There’s a broader trend in my adolescent confusion: the notion that sexuality is and can always be a form of self-expression; that it is and can always be something chosen; and that there are some more-or-less legitimate forms of it separated from the axis of consent.
Then the dust got so bad in the winter you had to do the floors every day, twice a day, grime thick on the table, my laptop, our books. I hardly left the boys’ place. Woke with my mouth glued open and my nostrils dry, construction workers banging across the way. Deep in the night (and we all crashed at their apartment in a last study binge, kept jagged hours in the sore-throat tipsy-sunny early December, scrambling to get papers done) the watchmen knocked their staffs against the bone ground calling jaagte raho! jaagte raho!—stay awake!—striding in tandem like the ladies that power-walked together every day down the streets of my New Jersey housing development.