Hairy, Angry Feminist: Why I Put Down My Razor

As of October last year, I stopped shaving my armpits. Of course, I’d heard of other feminists doing it, and thought it was pretty damn awesome. Yet, I never mustered up the strength to throw out my disposable razors and go “au naturale.” Oddly enough, I hadn’t shaved my legs consistently for about a year…

My Skin

When I was younger, I did not compare myself  to others. It wasn’t until I was in middle school that my mom began saying things like “All the other girls in your school are really skinny, aren’t they?” I said I wasn’t sure, but after that, I started to notice. I began to criticize myself as…

‘Pink to Make the Boys Wink’ and the Transition from Little Girl to Young Woman

Recently I’ve been interested in exploring my transition from young girl to young woman in my work. It has always been something that has intrigued me, particularly the role that my sexuality played in this transitioning process. I feel that becoming sexually active was one of the main events that signified my new ‘young woman’ status…

Exiting Teenage Purgatory

My teenage experience was coated in pink, period blood, and purity; I applied strawberry Lip Smackers between dramatic sighs and lived for the thrill of sneaking out to meet my crush. I’ve evolved immensely from ages thirteen to nineteen, but have maintained my adoration for Courtney Love, rose lipstick, and scribbling my inner dialogue in…

My Life Was a Minstrel Show

My life was a minstrel show, filled with delight With costumes and jokes and me working all night.   I dipped, spun, and someone who looked just like me Was dancing and singing for all children to see.   With the shake of my hips, the curve of my back came a laugh with great…

Growing Pains

During periods wherein I find myself alone with perhaps a book or merely lying on my bed watching Food Network’s “Chopped,” I become incredibly introspective about my past choices, experiences, my family, and life. At times I can think so much that I find tears running down my face as emotions sit on my chest…

Late Blooming

Being a late bloomer is seen as a negative thing. Branded with the big old stamp of “Inexperienced,” I walk the imaginary catwalk into most bars with the fear that I will, yet again, have to tell a man I have not had sex. I usually get one of two reactions; they perk up with…