When I arrive at the protest meeting on Thursday, there’s already a group of people chatting at the front of the room. Most of them are activist types, with dreadlocks or painfully unfashionable hempy clothes, but they all seem totally relaxed and friendly with each other. I sidle in and take a seat near the back, pulling out some reading so I don’t look awkward and alone.
“Hello, everyone.” Carrie arrives in ratty denim and some serious boots and calls for attention. So she’s the boss here; I should have guessed. I mean, she acts like the defender of all feminism in our classes—all she’s missing is the cape and mask. “Thanks for making it today; we’ve got a lot to talk about.”
People settle down, and I can see that aside from a couple of angel-faced boys in skinny jeans, the room is full of girls. Strident, political-looking girls who probably boycott lipstick and heels on principle. I send silent thanks that I picked the dullest, most functional outfit possible: a plain navy corduroy skirt (that actually covers my knees) and a crisp shirt and sweater.
“First of all, I’m Carrie, and this is Uma.” She points to the petite girl in an Amnesty pullover. “As you all know, the Oxford board has decided, in all their wisdom, to shut down the most vital resource we have: the women’s health center.” Carrie nods at her companion.
“This isn’t just about the center itself,” Uma continues, her voice lilting with a faint Indian accent. “But the fact that women’s services are the first thing to get cut: before sports funding, before entertainment budgets. Oxford is breaking its commitment to the welfare of its female students, and we can’t just stand idly by and let them.”
There’s a rumble of agreement, and even I see it’s pretty lame to cut our services before, like, the cable subscription.
“We want to put together a group to make women’s voices heard, any way we can.” Carrie folds her arms. “That means emails and letters, postering, handing out leaflets, and even demonstrating.”
A girl farther down my row waves her hand in the air, rattling with an armful of beads and bangles.
“Yes?”
“What about fund-raising?” she asks. “Wouldn’t it be a better use of time to actually raise the funds to keep the center open?”
Carrie exchanges a look with Uma. “It would, if we had time to raise half a million pounds.”
“Oh.” Her faces falls.
Carrie shrugs. “I’m not going to lie, people. This is a last resort. They slipped it in the last budget meeting and gave Judy and Sue only one month’s notice. We don’t have the time or resources to make up the shortfall ourselves, but you know what? We’re not going down without a fight.”
Another rumble.
“The board thinks they can just sweep this under the rug, like our welfare doesn’t matter. Well, not on my watch.” Carrie’s voice rings with determination. “We’re going to make our voices heard. We’re going to make a difference!”
“Yes!” It’s an easy crowd, but I’m impressed with the way she’s riling them up.
“So, let’s all split into groups and come up with some ideas. Ten minutes of brainstorming, people, then let’s share!”
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, some thing 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?”
“You know, I figured I’d check out your campaign.” I wave a bunch of flyers as evidence.
“That’s great!” Her face kind of relaxes. “I didn’t think this was your sort of thing.”
I bet she didn’t.
“Well, it’s kind of an important cause, so…” I’m not lying—the angry feminists may have sucked all the life out of the thing, but I do actually see their point.
“Good for you.” Carrie seems to be looking at me with a new expression. “And it’s really admirable for you to give up your time, when you won’t even be around in a couple of months.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Well, I guess it’s like you said: it’s the principle of the thing.”
Carrie’s face shifts into a full-on smile. “Brilliant! Come on, we’re losing the others.” She pulls me down the hallway and out onto the street after the group, talking all the time about campaigns and patriarchy. My plan to ditch is totally screwed.
The lecture halls are based in a huge old building with marble floors and statues carved into the walls. There’s only one main entrance, a towering lobby with big wooden doors, so Carrie decides that’s our best bet for maximum exposure and ushers us to the ornate railings that stretch across the back wall.
“Here.” The washed-out girl pops up beside us and pulls an armful of chains from her bag.
“You came prepared?” I ask, hoping she doesn’t just carry them around for everyday use.
“Maybe.” The girl winks. “Here, drape these around you. Don’t worry,” she adds, catching my expression as she laces some handcuffs through the grille and fixes me into them. “They don’t lock; they’re just for effect.”
By now a curious crowd has gathered around us, and I can see staff talking on the phone. Carrie grabs her megaphone and begins to yell.
“Save the women’s health center! Women of Oxford, say no!”
The other girls join in, chanting along until the room is a chorus of loud shouts and stamped feet. I have to admit, it’s kind of exciting to be in the middle of all the drama, although I make sure to shrink back, out of sight behind a pillar. The last thing I need is to get ID’d as part of this.
After about ten minutes of demonstrating, a stern woman approaches from the front desk. She pauses a moment, watching us, then cuts through to reach Carrie. They murmur off to the side, the woman showing her several pages of printed type.
“OK, people, time to clear out.” Carrie returns. The protestors moan. “We’re breaking city bylaws doing this. They’ve called the police, and we’ve made our point now. Come on.” People sigh, but they begin to pack up.
I tug against my handcuffs. They don’t move.
“I can’t,” I whisper, my stomach sinking at warp speed.
“What?” Carrie turns back to me.
“I said, I can’t!” I’m rattling the chains like crazy now, trying to figure out when they locked. They weren’t supposed to lock! “I can’t leave!”
I panic. The rest of the girls are looking over at me, and campus security is heading toward us. But the freaking handcuffs stay clamped around my wrists.
“She’s right!” Carrie suddenly declares with a cry, pumping her fist in the air. “We can’t leave! Not until the board agrees to hear our case!”
“Yeah!” The other girls begin to whoop and holler.
“Not until the female students of Oxford get the welfare services they deserve!”
Oh boy. Carrie’s in full flow beside me, but I just want the ground to open up.
“Not until we’re respected as equals, until the outdated patriarchy in charge of our futures understands that we will not be ignored!”
Security pushes their way through the crowd and takes hold of us.
“Let go of the railing,” a burly guard demands.
“I can’t.” I shrug apologetically. “Seriously.” I rattle the handcuffs for effect as Carrie is hoisted over another guard’s shoulder and carted away.
“Natasha is right,” she screams to the crowd. “We cannot leave!”
They all turn and look at me.
“Natasha! Natasha!” DeeDee begins to chant. The other girls join in. I sink to the floor.
“Natasha! Natasha!”
Invisible. Right.
From: totes_tasha
To: EMLewis
Subject: About that blending-in thing…
Attached:studentdemo.jpg
A lecture by renowned astrophysicist Brian Lupen was postponed yesterday after a group seized control of the lecture halls for a sit-in, protesting the forthcoming closure of the women’s health centre….
hey, em.
see that brunette blob half hidden behind the pillar? that’s me: the one chained to the building. long story, but i guess i’ll have to work harder at this invisible thing!
what’s up in cali?
-t-
From: EMLewis
To: totes_tasha
Subject: Well done!
You got involved in the demonstration? Good for you! I can imagine how wound up Carrie and her crew must be, but it’s definitely a worthy cause. Things with me seem to be good—I’m definitely making progress on becoming a true California girl. You probably wouldn’t recognize me, if you’d seen me to begin with, I suppose! Blond hair, new clothes…Now I suppose I have to start being more laid-back about things. It’s not easy when my study partner is a temperamental artiste, but what can I do?
Keep me up to date.
X Em