The room clatters with the sound of chairs getting dragged around. I turn hesitantly to the girls beside me.
“Hey.” I lift my hand in a wave. We pull ourselves into a circle and quickly run through the introductions. Mary is one of the dreadlocked girls, in ripped tights and a chunky sweater. Louise glares out from behind thick black-rimmed glasses, and DeeDee has a super-bossy look to her thin face, like she’s always in charge.
“So, ideas.”
I was right — nobody has a chance to speak before DeeDee opens her notebook and begins to underline a heading, already acting like our leader.
“We could have a march,” Mary suggests, “or a rally, with speakers.”
DeeDee notes it down.
“I still think Jo was right — we need to look at fund-raising,” Louise complains. “Even if it’s just to cover demonstration costs. Remember when we did the campaign against Nestlé? I spent a fortune on photocopies.”
“Plus, it could work with the board,” I speak up. “Like, show them we respect their budgeting and everything. When we wanted to throw a spring break concert at school back home, they totally said no until we matched their costs.”
The three girls look at me.
“But we’ve got no way of raising that amount of money,” DeeDee eventually informs me. “Bake sales and car washes don’t really work over here.”
“You could do a college calendar,” I suggest, with a flash of inspiration. “They sell out right away. Just pick the hottest Oxford girls and have them pose in, say, college scarves and bikinis all over the city. Low cost, high return!” I sit back, happy. The UC Honeys calendar was always one of the biggest fund-raisers back home: I came this close to making March until Cammi Sanders got enlarged from C to double-D and beat me at the last minute.
“Bikinis?” Louise repeats, rolling the word around like it’s a dirty word. “You want us to save the women’s health center by whoring out our bodies?”
I pause. “Whoring? What? This’ll be fun.”
“You think the sacrifice of your integrity and sexual identity is a price worth paying?”
I can’t believe them. “No, I just —”
“Really, Natasha.” Mary shakes her head. “If that was a joke, it’s not funny.”
“But —”
“Objectification of women is part of the reason we need the center to begin with.” DeeDee completes the circle of disapproval. “To create a safe, nonjudgmental space away from patriarchy.”
The trio sits back, staring at me with disgust like I’m one of those big, bad patriarchs.
“Sorry.” I find myself blushing, even though I have no idea what the hell they’re getting so wound up about. “I, umm, I didn’t think.”
Note to self: in this crowd, bikinis equal, like, napalm.
“So do we have any other real suggestions?” DeeDee asks, ignoring me completely. Louise and Mary start talking about information packs and write-in campaigns, while I sit quietly and wait it out until Carrie claps her hands and calls us all back together.
“OK, what have we got?”
“Well, I think we should go with the personal angle,” a girl with dangling gold earrings starts to speak. I realize with a shock that she’s the first black person I’ve seen in any of my college meetings or classes. Way to go on the diversity front, Oxford. “We need to prevent them from thinking of the center as an abstract body and start relating it to women’s lives.”
“You mean like personal testimonies?” Uma asks.
“Right. Our literature needs to have the stories of the girls who’ve used the center, so people can see everyone benefits from it.”
“I like that.” Carrie nods. “How many people here would be willing to share their experiences?”
Almost everybody raises their hand.
“I use the safety bus to get home.”
“Me too. And I use the center for, you know, contraception.”
“My friend used the rape hotline when she got attacked last year.”
“And it’s easier to get the morning-after pill there — my college doctor couldn’t get me in for an appointment until the next day, and by then . . . it’s too late.”
Soon we’re flooded with everyone’s stories.
“OK, I think we’ve got enough!” Carrie tries to get control back, but they keep talking until DeeDee pierces through the noise with a sharp whistle. She turns to Carrie with a smug grin.
“Anything else?” They spend ten minutes running through other plans and then bickering over the color of paper to use for their flyers. I begin to lose interest as the orange-versus-green debate stretches out, until another voice pipes up from the back.
“But isn’t this all redundant, rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic? We need to make a statement, something bold.”
“Like what?” Carrie doesn’t seem thrilled at the threat to her authority.
“Like a sit-in.”
I turn. The girl is heavy in an all-black outfit that totally washes out her complexion. “We can occupy the lecture halls,” she announces. “Then they’ll have to take notice.”
Carrie is unimpressed. “It’s too risky. These things have a way of leaking out.”
“Not if we do it right now,” the girl insists. “That famous astronomer is visiting today, so there will be lots of people around. Media, even. It’s the perfect opportunity.”
“Come on,” DeeDee butts in. “You heard her, we need to get noticed.”
“OK, OK, everyone, settle down.” Carrie sighs. “Let’s take a vote. Everyone in favor of possibly alienating direct action . . . ?”
There’s a loud chorus of “ayes.” Maybe everyone else was as bored of the debate as I was: they all seem eager to get out and just do something.
Carrie purses her lips. “Then I suppose it’s settled.”
“Let’s go!” the goth girl cries.
People grab their things and make for the exit, but I linger behind. Getting all hyped up to chant slogans and march around in circles isn’t really my style; this seems like a good moment to just slip away. I came, I participated, I checked the box; now it’s time for real work.
I follow them as far as the library lobby and then cut a left, but before I make it to the doors, Carrie plants herself in front of me.
“Natasha, I thought that was you.” She looks at me, confused. “What are you doing here?”