Why Feminism? (Part 1)

A Room of One’s Own

It started one day when I was twelve. He was nine.

I had my very own room for the first time that year. My sister was leaving for college soon and our parents wanted her to have some time in her life when she didn’t have to share a bedroom with a little sister or a college roommate. So I moved out of the room I’d slept in since I was born and my parents converted the den into a makeshift bedroom.

My closet consisted of one of those metal organizers that you buy to put inside closets and my dresser was simply a bunch of plastic drawers. But it was mine. My adjustable artist desk sat between my half of the used-to-be bunk bed and the door to the hall. The frame around the sliding door to the living room (which was never opened) was decorated with wrapping paper that I had saved from my most recent birthday. Pictures cut out from the (very) few copies of Bop! that I had found the courage to buy were taped to the door. Christian Slater, NKOTB, Christian Bale, Cory Haim.

Yes, I admit it, I had (almost) no taste in junior high. (and apparently a thing for guys with "C" names)