What if I dropped out of school?

What if I took off a year, or two, or three, or five?

What if I spent some time growing up? What if I learned how to cook and how to look for jobs? What if I learned how to make friends in the real world, how to reach out to communities and people, how to interact as an adult, how to not be alone?  What if I dedicated myself to real-world activism?  What if I learned how to make change happen outside of college campuses, and what if I developed skill in the areas of direct action, mobilization, and making change happen?

What if I took some time to find myself?  What if I read all the books I never had a chance to read?  What if I transitioned to a place I'm comfortable in? What if I changed my gendered last name to my stepdad's gender-neutral Nagai, and started going by Cale? Doesn't mean I want to live male full-time, but maybe dress androgynous more often than I do feminine?  What if I figured out what my political beliefs really are?  What if I decided if I'm a radical anarchist or a libertarian conservative, or, more importantly, what if I discovered how to do radical anarchist activism even though I have fiscally conservative beliefs?  What if I advocated for the well-being of marginalized groups I don't belong to, and what if I made some change?

What if I moved in with my step dad in Chicago?  What if I grew closer to him and opened my life up to him?  What if I made up for all of those years growing up without a father in my household?  What if I discovered my place in Chicago, fell in love with the city?  What if I worked there, advocated there, dreamed there? What if I went to the Art Institute every weekend?  What if I traveled?  What if I found a job abroad, maybe in England?  What if I came back to DC after a while and worked here, lived my life here?  I really don't want to leave this city...

What if I came back to school later, after I learned who I am and figured out why college is going wrong?  I remember my first month in school, feeling thrilled with my classes, thrilled with my homework, growing intellectually every day.  I remember telling someone how happy I was, how I can't imagine a place I'd be happier than a college campus.  Then why is it still going wrong?  Why don't I like it here, even though I was sure I would?  Why is there something missing in my life, and I can't tell what it is?  I can't find what I'm looking for if I don't know what it is, if I don't know who I am.  I can't find what I'm looking for here.

What if I still got my PhD someday?  What if I came back to finish my undergrad at the perfect school, in the perfect place?

What if?

Life Takes Decisions

My mother teases me for not making up my mind.  She tells me how she graduated highschool at 16, and went on straight to med school. She tells me how, by the time she was my age, she was already deciding on her speciality as a doctor.  I can't even imagine that.  At sixteen, I literally had no limitations on my interests. Physics or literature? Performance music or primary education? It all seemed like a viable option.  Upon entering college, I'd realized that my interests focus in the humanities, and began zooming in. Even now - nineteen years old, second semester in college, and a sophomore if you take a look at my credits - I can't even decide what to major in, I can't even decide if I even like this university.

But life, it takes decisions, and it's time I start making decisions, too. Last Thursday, I declared a Linguistics minor. The day after tomorrow, I'm declaring a Philosophy major, and then going on to find out about the Cognitive Science certificate program.  I'd considered a philosophy major since before I started college, I knew I'd do it as either a major or a minor, but deciding on a major seemed impossible: so many credits in one discipline! So many credits not in a variety of other disciplines! So much I would have to sacrifice for a philosophy major. I had to be sure, and it's the Cogntivie Science certificate program - restricted to Philosophy majors, among others - that served as my final push: Philosophy major it is; it's worth it.  I love this feeling - I am on track, I know what I am doing.  It feels so right, it feels great to make decisions pertaining to my life.

I'm on a roll with making decisions now, and I suddenly found myself rolling into new territory. I'm filling out transfer applications.  I am considering leaving CU. Maybe it's the recent rainy weather, or the fact that, due to my birth control, I've been bleeding heavily for more than a week straight, but I've been feeling depressed, lonely, and out of place. I really don't like CU or Boulder. I need to get out of here.

I settled for CU when I was selecting colleges. It's not like I didn't try. I'd been looking since tenth grade, but I didn't know what to look for. I didn't know what I'd major in, I didn't know whether I wanted in or out of state, I didn't know whether I wanted a city or a town. I knew I wanted a place that's bigger than my highschool of 4000, which did cut many colleges out of the picture, but not enough. I toured universities around Colorado and the Bay Area - a place that's very special to me, very close to my heart - but none of them seemed just quiet right. My counselor wasn't much help, either. His only suggestion was the University of Oregon. I am well acquainted with and absolutely adore Oregon and the Pacific North West, but I'm so glad I didn't go there. Even Boulder, just twenty minutes away from Denver, is too small for my taste, and, in a little rainy town in Oregon, I would have gone insane. In the end, I applied to three public Colorado Universities: CU Denver, CSU, and CU Boulder.  Boulder was my top choice, lying near the upper bounds of a "good match".  I got into all three. Even before I started college, I already began thinking about where I want to transfer.

I can't do this small town thing. I find myself dreaming of cities, of highrises and lights, of strange blocks and public buses.  Every time I go down to Denver, my heart starts to beat a little faster. I crave a city life, I'm begging to get to know it's every street, it's every turn. I crave to live, to really live, and I feel like I can't live here in Boulder.

I don't like CU. I hate how there is no diversity. I hate how everyone is white, and either from Colorado, California, Chicago, or New York.  I hate how everyone is rich and spoiled. I hate how no one cares, how they all think they are these cool hippies just because they smoke weed and wear overpriced "bohemian" clothes. I've found myself saying the same things I used to say when I was in highschool.  My sister told me I need to branch out more (of course, by that she means I need fewer queer friends, but that's beside the point), and I told her that I have no where to branch out, that I don't like the vast majority of people at CU, that I don't get along with most of the people here, and thus I have much fewer options. I've been saying that people don't care, and that they're too alike. In fact, this is just like Creek. I see Creek kids everywhere. I can't seem to get away from them. I don't know what to do. I feel trapped. A few weeks ago, I went to march for higher education down in Denver. It took off from Auraria campus - CU Denver, Metro State, and Community College of Denver. Midday on Wednesday, I looked around the campus, and I though, I love it here. I want to be here, the people here look real. Sure, they're still all white, but at least they resemble actual individuals, not like those in Boulder.  When I was waiting for acceptance letters, I was secretly hoping CU would reject me. Then, I would go to CU Denver, and I liked it there more.

I am currently applying to New York University, Washington University in St. Louis, and Denver University. The first two will be really hard to get into, and, if I do get in, I'll have to find some time to visit them before making a decision. I am fairly certain I'll get into DU, but I'm not sure if I'll accept of I do. I doubt my problems with CU will be successfully remedied in DU, except, perhaps, the part where I really want to live in a city. If I don't succeed this semester, I've got a few schools in mind that I'll apply to next year. University of Washington (ok, I know that, here I am, whining about the rain, and then considering life in Seattle, but I really love Washington state, it's one of those places I can already call home), Tufts, and Stanford (now I'm just getting ridiculous; however, I never took a risk when I first applied for colleges, and I want to take one now, I want rejection letters, please).

It's a bit very scary, but I know this is right. If I'm having these thoughts after one year, I'll never make it through my entirely undergraduate career alive. Most of all, if I go any of these places, I'll miss Colorado - the mountains, the skies, the whether, the cities and towns, the culture and people. But I'm a nomad at heart. I've lived four years in a row in Colorado now - longer than anywhere else since I was seven. I need to move on in this world.

Loneliness

(There are a lot of parantheticals in this post.)

Often, I feel lonely. I crave a friend for the night, and I crave a lover for the week.

Overall, throughout my life, I haven't been especially successful in the field of love.  My longest relationship was also my first, spanning six months March 2006 - September 2006, and I ended it because I moved. I was fifteen years old. My next one was about two to three months in the fall of 2007. (I've had a hard time calculating how long this one actually lasted. For a long time, I considered it three months long, simply because that's how long it felt. Recently, I tried to count the exact number of weeks we were together, it seems closer to two months or perhaps even a month and a half, half the length I anticipated. I even discussed this with my ex, and he also guessed it was about three to four months and was surprised when he realized it was actually a lot shorter. Strange how these things work.) I ended that one as well, because my feelings had changed. My last relationship was also my shortest, and lasted a month in the spring of 2008. I don't remember who ended this one, but it was a rough, immature relationship that meant very little to me.

As you can see, there's a trend: downward spiral, eventually leading to a long, lonely span of two consecutive single years.

However, in those years, my love life hasn't been entirely dormant. I've loved and been loved, though it was always different people. (I use a very vague definition of love, for I've yet to figure out what love really is).  I've learned a lot, and I've experienced intimacy, butterflies, and heartbreak. I've gone on dates. I've had casual sex with many men. (I've had very good experiences with casual sex. It always came at the right time in my life, and it was always enjoyable, entertaining, and comforting.  Casual sex seldom created a backlash for me, for I've never felt emotionally threatened by it, and I continue to have good relationships with the men I've slept with; it did, though, cause a problems between me and my gal friends. Silly girls. However, perhaps because I am asexual, I never got much out of it sexually or romantically.)

Somewhat recently, as I was getting to know a new friend, she asked me about my past relationships. "I ask because I think a person's exes tell the most about the person," she told me. That really got me thinking. I disagree, and I really don't feel like my exes say very much about me at all. In fact, I feel that my past has been dictated much more by chance than by choice. (Personally, I decided that the single factor I believe tells the most about a person is their childhood.)  In fact, I often feel ashamed talking about my romantic past, because my best relationship happened when I was just a child (fifteen years old!).  I'm so much older now, and still I look back to that first boyfriend when I think about what I want out of my love life.

Love is arbitrary, random, and illogical. I posted a facebook status on January 13 at 1:16PM (yes, I did just scroll way back on my wall to find it) that went like this:

"Some have lovers and still feel alone. To some, it doesn't matter, somehow. Some are perfect yet lonely, we all wonder why. Some go from one to the next and hate their life and others envy them. Some are heartbroken because they know love, and some are crying because they've never known heartbreak. Some are lucky and happy for years to come while some people fall for the wrong guy at the wrong time over and over again.

I loved this status, and felt that it really captured how I see romance. There really is no reason that things work for some and not for others, and that's just something we have to live with.
 
I've always lived by the philosophy of "Someone will come along eventually." It's worked well for me in the past: it's really kept me optimistic and prevented me from experiencing the I'll-be-single-forever phobia, which I personally find really frustrating. However, recently I've rethought this perspective. I've been following an asexual blog called a sexy beast.  Often, this blog discusses ideas such as singlehood and loneliness. One quote that really got me thinking was this:

In our culture, there is always hope that a single person will marry, regardless of the situation. "Don't worry, you'll find someone." But will we? Asking that question can feel like staring into a cultural abyss. If I was "holding out hope" for doing anything else that has the same odds of two asexuals marrying, I'd be called crazy. But when it comes to romance, it seems, no odds are too small. (here)

Naturally, some people have a much smaller dating pool than others. Theoretically speaking, I probably have a larger potential dating pool than most: I am panromantic, and thus not restricted by gender; I am comfortable with both monogamous and polyamorous relationships; I am a sexually active gray-a sexual, open to a relationship with any level of sex and physical intimacy from very little to very much (although, I'd never had a relationship with both sex and emotional intimacy at the same time, and I'm unsure how I would feel in such a relationship or whether I would be comfortable). In fact, it would appear that there are almost no restrictions on who I am willing to date.  Still, I don't think the calculated dating pool alone can determine the chance someone has at getting hitched. After all, if love is as random as I just suggest it is, then anyone could find themselves single long-term.  I don't consider myself someone who has been single long-term, and I think my love life is more active and healthy than many people's.  Still, as a potential relationship comes to an end, I am cautious to look forward and say "someday, another one will come along".  I mean, what if it doesn't? And, although this may seem very depressing, I find this perspective no less cheerful than the one I held before.

I've also been thinking a lot about how media perceptions of relationships impact my loneliness. I have no doubt that our culture really pushes us to get in a relationship. Love is constructed as important, essential, even, often, as the meaning of life.  If this were not the case, I doubt most of us would feel as lonely being single, although we would still experience some romantic frustration. (What if our culture didn't have a concept of romantic relationships?) Interestingly, I often measure my romantic success not from my personal feelings, but from the way I would imagine it would appear from the outside. For example, one reason I've found casual sex satisfying is because it's made me feel less unwanted and undateable, and made me more certain that I am not entirely alone. I analyze these situations entirely from the outside, as if I were someone else looking in. I have no doubt that a big factor concerning how I experience loneliness is society's pressure not to be alone.

Whenever I feel lonely, platonic loneliness and romantic loneliness tend to happen side by side. Platonic loneliness is the more powerful by the two, and it has the most control over how lonely I feel in general.  Except in cases of heartbreak, if I feel platonically content, I do not experience romantic loneliness, and, if I do, it's brief and insignificant. Likewise, whenever I feel platonically isolated, I always get romantically lonely and desperate. Not only is friendship a lot more important to me than romance, but friendship also influences my love life, for, when I have more friends, I meet more people, get to know more people, and am thus more likely to get close to more people. Platonic loneliness kills me so much and makes me very jealous of other people. I wonder whether my friendships are as plentiful, as close, as intense. In fact, ever since I became interested in friendship, this has become a constant stressor for me. I compare myself to others constantly and I am always trying to measure my platonic success. Every little thing someone tells me, every time I spend a night with someone or get invited to a party, every time someone texts me or comments on my status, I throw a little party with myself. Every time I spend a night alone or realize that someone is texting more often that I am, I feel empty and lost. This social insecurity, I believe, is mostly a result of my childhood and my autistic tendencies.

As I've grown, loneliness has become constant. Although, at times, it's very stressful and painful, most of the time, it's just a fact of life that doesn't bother me. After all, loneliness itself really means nothing until we lend it meaning. Besides, once I stop counting and weighing things out and just listen to my heart, I can tell, I'm really not doing so bad.

How did I get here?

My family ridicules me for having so many queer friends. They criticize the fact that most of my friends are queer. They insist I need to branch out, that I'm limiting myself. Once, my mother even told me that the reasons so many of my friends are queer is because I struggle with making friends, and that gay people do too, so I get along with them. I told my mom she knows nothing about gay people. These things really get to me.  Often, I feel ashamed; often, I feel like this isn't good enough. I notice that my friends, even my queer friends, have straight friends, as well, and I feel awful that the vast majority of my friends are not heterosexual. To tell you the truth, the only reason I am not branching out beyond my current queer group of friends is because I don't know how: I struggle with meeting people, and I found (and am still working on finding) my place in Boulder through clubs like GSA and QI and through the people I met at those clubs.

Only I shouldn't feel ashamed. Recently, I visited an old friend at Northwestern University. She told me all about her friends, and how much fun she has. Most of her friends are band people, and she met them through the college band. And she was so happy - she went on and on about how cool they are, about their band inside jokes, about how happy she is. So I began to wonder - what's the difference between that and my friendships? Most of my friends are queer, and I met most of them through queer organizations. And I could go on and on about how awesome these people are, about our inside jokes, about how happy I am. I'm attracted to the gay community, I love the gay community, and that's why I befriended queer activists!

Often, I wonder how different my life would be if I hadn't come out last summer. Before summer, although I admitted that I had some attraction to women, I primarily identified as straight. Occasionally, I would tell people I am questioning or bi-curious, but by the end of the day, I was straight (and turned down many girls in highschool because I was straight).  To tell you the truth, until I met the right woman to pull me out of the closet, my sexuality was not a major concern in my life. Even now, I still believe I lean primarily towards men, and I even consider myself hetero-flexible at times.  Thus, if I hadn't met that woman, if I hadn't come out, I would have identified, acted, and felt straight - and I would have been fine with it.  Still, I think I would have ended up in the same place I am now. Before coming out, before seriously questioning my sexuality, I was already active in the GSA at my highschool, and I proudly wore an "I am an Ally" pin on my backpack. I had already looked up the GSA and the GLBTRC, and I was already planning to get involved in the gay community at CU. If I was straight, I would have joined the same clubs, met the same people. Even my love life would be essentially the same - except for a few casual make-outs, all my significant physical and romantic partners since starting college have been men. I probably would have still cut my hair. If I were still straight, I would look, act, and interact in much the same way as I do now.

So how did I get here? I got here because this is where my passions lie. Because this is something I believe in. I got here because I love friendly, kind people, because I love unique individuals, because I love change and activist. I got here not because of my sexuality, but because of my personality.

What's in a name?

I've never liked my name. I've never felt comfortable with it, never responded to it like I should.

If I was born a guy, I would be named "Sergei", the name of my grandpa, my uncle, my father, and now my cousin. I don't like that name, but, to tell you the truth, there are no Russian men's names that I like.

Instead, my mom debated naming me either "Ksenia" or "Alexandra". At the end, she settled on Ksenia, and my sister - born two and a half years later - got Alexandra.

Now, to understand my name, you gotta understand how Russian names work. There's the formal name "Ksenia" or "Alexandra", in this case; and the casual version, the nick-name for each name, used to refer to children and friends: Ksenia is "Ksyusha" and Alexandra is "Sasha".

So, for much of my childhood, I grew up, pretty pleased being "Ksyusha". Then, at the age of seven, I moved to the US, and went by "Ksyusha" here, too (I think I might have spelled it "Ksusha"). However, no one could pronounce my name, and, after a while, my mom and I decided that I would - from now on - go by "Ksenia". Now, no one could pronounce that either, but I didn't change it again.

I never felt like my name was a part of me. When someone would refer to me as "Ksenia", I would feel like a sudden distance formed between us, mostly caused by the fact that it was mispronounced. Whenever I said my own name, it made me cringe, because it's Russian pronounciation sounded so wrong within the context of the English language, and I could never intentionally mispronounce it, as my sister often does with our last name when people ask her what it is. What more, at home, the only time I was referred to as "Ksenia" was when my mother was angry at me, and I did enjoy being called "Ksyusha" at home.

What's worse, I envied my sister's name "Sasha". It was unique, yet simple, and easy to pronounce. And that name was almost - ALMOST - mine, while my name could have been hers. Would things have been different?

Summer 07 I became a CIT at Girl Scout camp, and I chose my camp name to be "Cream". The name comes from the character Cream the Rabbit from the video game Sonic the Hedgehog. A few of my friends from the internet had already been referring to me as Cream, so I quickly got used to it. Finally, I had a name I felt was my own, and began talking about myself in third person. "Cream" is still the name I am closest to.

Last summer, before starting college, I decided I needed a new name to go by in college. I quickly chose some variation of the name "K", because I had long ago decided it would fit me, simply because it's the fist letter of my first name, and a simple nickname. However, I didn't want to spell it "Kay", because I wanted to be unique, and went through a long list of possible names, trying to create a new one. At last, I settled on "Kae", a simple variation of the original using only letters from my given name. I'm starting to grow into it, and I'm enjoying being called "Kae" and reacting to it. However, I still feel distant from my name. At times, I would have great conversations with friends, and I would feel a sudden gap form when I they'd call me "Kae", especially over text or online talk, when I'd see it typed. I think it still takes getting used to, but I simply don't like the spelling, and I don't think there's a spelling of "K" that I like.

I feel like my whole life I'd lived so far away from my name, and I can't even imagine having one name that's me. Sometimes, I feel like I simply cannot have a name, that my identity transcends names. That's not necessarily a good thing, but just who I am and who I became throughout my life.

What's in a name, I wonder? Does your name affect the person that you are?
I saw on the news once about a woman who'd help parents choose their child's name based on the personality they wanted their kid to have.

If I was born male ...

I remember when Lauren and I used to say that we were meant to be born gay men. We were best friends at the time, and we had a lot in common. She was bi (and sometimes lesbian) and I was straight (but sometimes questioning). We were both outcasts, though happy within our odd group of friends, and both longed for a way to escape society. We hated the way the world expected us to act and despised those who always seemed to fit in. And both of us wished we'd been born male. Thinking about that recently, I realized that if I had been born male, I would most definitely not be gay. Not that I would be your usual man, either. What would I be like if I had been born male?

If I was born male, I would be your typical boy, though I'd probably be somewhat quiet. I'd be a lot more social than I was as a girl, and I'd have many friends. I would love playing sports, being rowdy, building forts, and playing with trains and legos. I would become obsessed with baseball and monster trucks, and everyone would tell my mom what a cute boy I am (after all, people told my mom that I was a cute boy when I was a girl with short hair). Overall, I would have a very good childhood and wouldn't really stand out at all.

If I was male in middle school, things would start to change. I was a late bloomer as a girl, so I'd be a late bloomer as a boy. I wouldn't know how to talk to girls, nor would I have much interest in talking to them at all. I would be a lot more comfortable with my guy friends. Things would get really hard for me once my mom would stop buying me clothes. I would do my best to be a fashionable male, but I would feel uncomfortable in men's clothing and I would wonder what a man is supposed to look like. When no one's home, I would try on my sister's skirts, and feel really embarrassed about it afterward. I would become very self-conscious and might even start to hate myself.

If I was a male in high school, things would get better. Having blossomed, I would come to love my body, and I'd work out and run often, making sure I stay in the best of shape. I would become very proud of my pecs, my abs, and my dick. I would start to fall for girls, and girls would fall for me, too. If I was a man, I would be damn sexy. I would start sleeping with my girlfriends and I would become very comfortable with my sexuality. Nonetheless, I would still be very fashion conscious. I'd develop my personal man-style, possibly one that would involve many button-down shirts, though I'd experiment with other looks, as well. I'd get into raving, and I'd love the bright, neon, feminine colors that are so popular in the culture. I'd enjoy wearing Tripps, Phats, and bell bottoms, but only within the context of a rave. Also, just for fun one day, I would wear a kilt. I would love it, and I would wish I could wear skirts and dresses and still me manly. As a result, I would become jealous of women and critical of feminists, thinking that it's unfair that females complain about being unequal when they can do so many things I can't: wear pants OR a skirt, be intimate with their friends of either gender, and wait on the guy to make a move.

If I was a male in college, I'd have lots of fun. I would be very promiscuous, sometimes sleeping with multiple women in one night, though usually sticking with a few especially sexy fuck-buddies. Sometimes, I would wonder if I'm missing out on something by not being in a relationship or falling in love, but then I'd lose myself in the body of a beautiful woman I just met, and I'd forget all my worries. I would be a very sentimental man-whore. Perhaps, secretly, I would start cross-dressing. I would befriend other cross-dresses who'd accept me for who I am. I would even tell a few of my guy friends about it, but only the very good friends, who'd laugh at me and think it was really weird, but they'd keep in quiet because our man-bond would be so strong. Sure, they'd accuse me of being gay, but by that point in time, I'd be so comfortable with girls, I wouldn't even consider it. Girls are hot.

Eventually, if I was born male, I'd grow up. I would get married to a beautiful, intelligent woman, and we'd have beautiful babies. We would be the average family, and we'd all be very happy. I would make an amazing father and the kids would love me. Maybe we'd get divorced, but it wouldn't be a tragic divorce, and we'd both re-marry, equally splitting time with our children, staying in touch, and still remaining happy. I would be amazing and happy, fitting in perfectly in the workforce. I would look amazing in a suit, and I would always wear the most fashionable ties. I would be a happy, healthy, and attractive man my entire life.

If was born male, I would often wonder what life would be like if I was born female. I really want to know what male-me would predict about female-me.