Wednesday, January 30, 2019// The Statement
6B
W
e were walking through the
Diag when Lauren first told
me that her mom walked in on
her losing her virginity. Life went on around
us in Ann Arbor: Diag noises. Whir of a bike
tire. The stir of leaves on a tree. The way she
spoke was almost blasé, with the laugh I’ve
grown to know well. Initially, I didn’t believe
her. She’d been my best friend for more than
a year, and yet this story had somehow never
come up during our late night conversations
in sticky Pizza House booths. After going
back and forth for a while, she’d managed
to convince me, despite the fact that I was
initially surprised by her emotionless dec-
laration of virginity (or lack thereof.) As I
reflected upon her confession, I concluded
the situation wasn’t the end of the world —
crippling embarrassment and the awkward
fumbles that come with a “first time” mag-
nified a thousand times when your mom
opens the door. I realized that years later,
she is no longer scarred from the memory,
she looks back on that day with a lightheart-
ed attitude and a dose of humor.
It’s just sex. Right?
I asked her what happened next — how her
mom reacted or what she said. The answer
was nothing; her mom was completely
silent, until the next morning when her dad
woke her up and simply said, “We’re going
to church.” This
was ironic con-
sidering Lauren
had never really
gone to church
throughout her
childhood — her
dad always went
alone and she
wasn’t ever reli-
gious. The car
was quiet while
they drove to
the
church,
the silence was
uncomfort-
able and large,
awkward
and
inevitable. She
sat in the pew,
next
to
her
father and fig-
ured maybe she
was
supposed
to meditate on
her sins for a
while.
Maybe,
since her first
go at pre-mar-
ital sex was so
awkward, God
would give her a
get out of jail free card — just this once.
“What would you have said?!” she
remarked through laughter.
I thought about losing mine. It wasn’t
such a catastrophic event like the one she
just described — but, rather, pretty unre-
markable, in the way losing your virginity
can be. It’s a milestone built up to be such a
life changing moment, but often times you
leave that moment quite the same.
Diag noises. Whir of a bike tire. The stir of
leaves on a tree.
T
he year is 2015 and I am 17 years
old. I’m standing in front of a full
length mirror in my bedroom, gaz-
ing at my reflection. My eyes are green, and
I narrow them as I look at myself, scrutiniz-
ing every last detail. I never wear makeup,
so I don’t know why I’d spent time shakily
brushing mascara against my eyelashes. I
don’t feel like badass Rizzo in “Grease”
when she sneaks out of her window to go
pick up football player Kenickie and drive
to the infamous lover’s land on the edge of
town. Instead, I feel a contradictory mix of
reserve and anxiety –– calm in my choice,
but anxious in the buildup. I’d never been so
self-aware before — in a state of wondering
about myself in the most inward way, scru-
tinizing everything, reflecting on every-
thing. I feel the beat of my heart against my
rib cage, and feel tranquility in its rhythm.
I sit down on the edge of my meticulously
made bed, smoothing out the denim of my
loose-fitting jeans. The outfit I’d planned
feeling somehow not right. It’s one of those
moments when you know you’re about to
do something that you think is risky and
mature and provocative, but looking back
on it now, it was just a first-time life event ––
losing your virginity. Something that most
people experience in the course of a life-
time. They say there’s a first time for every-
thing, but when you’re 17, there’s something
frightening about only getting the chance to
have one first time. I run my fingers through
my hair and tug on the hem of my softest
sweater. Is this the kind of outfit you wear to
lose your virginity? This all felt like a whis-
pered secret between me and my boyfriend
and my sweater. After overthinking my out-
fit for far too long, I forfeited any attempts to
change my appearance or change my mind.
I was sure of myself. I was sure of my choice.
I went downstairs.
“I’m going to Daniel’s house,” I said to my
mother.
“Make good choices,” she responded. I
got my car keys and drove to his house. My
hands were shaking.
Make good choices.
I thought about her words as I drove. Was
this a “good choice”? I’d certainly thought
my decision through plenty; I trusted the
other person, had dated him for a long while
before this night, and we both felt ready. But
did all of that mean it was a good choice?
I couldn’t tell if sex made me nervous, or
if the stigma surrounding sex made me ner-
vous.
S
ex and religion are tightly bound
when you are raised Roman Catho-
lic. I was taught at church and in
Bible study about what I was supposed to
do and what I wasn’t supposed to do. In fifth
grade we had to take an abstinence Bible
study course through our religious educa-
tion. The teachers showed us pictures of
deformed genitalia in attempts to scar us for
life, then told the boys not to masturbate as
everyone giggled under their breath. At the
end of the course, we had to take a pledge
of virginity, writing our promise down and
signing our sloppy, 11-year-old signatures
on a piece of paper. We then had to drop
our pledge into what my religious education
teacher called “the chastity box.” I wrote,
“I promise I will be a virgin until college
(maybe)” on the paper, signed it and sweat
profusely as I put it in the box. I didn’t want
to promise God something I wasn’t sure I
could stick to. I didn’t want to go to Hell.
With sex as a staple of American cul-
ture, and an even bigger hallmark of col-
lege hookups, societally, sex isn’t widely
regarded as an action of sin. If everyone
had to go to church every time they had
sex, some people would never leave. When
I was growing up, the stigmas attached to
sex shaded the act not as an adult choice, but
rather a life-shattering sin that could guar-
antee my eternity in Hell. I wondered about
how many people waited till marriage. I
respect them for this choice, yet back then,
couldn’t help but worry that in order to be
a good Catholic, or a Christian at all, I had
to abstain, too. In religious education, they
treated the subject as though I’d go to Hell
the minute I broke my chastity box promise.
But six years later, there I was — promise
broken, in my Jeep Wrangler, driving home
and not toward Satan’s gates. I came home
that night and thought about the 11-year-old
pledge I’d just shattered.
Something about it all made me feel
guilty, or immoral. Like I’d done a truly bad
thing. I went upstairs and took a shower, and
stood there under the hot water for an hour.
I was not trying to wash off what I’d done,
but rather attempting to wash away my guilt
for what had just happened. To wash away
feeling like I’d sinned, or feeling like I was
going to Hell, or that God hated me, or that
I couldn’t be Catholic anymore. I thought
about how people cherry-pick the Bible.
There are people who believe that God hates
gay people, but they aren’t virgins. There
are people who go to church every Sunday,
but who also cheat on their spouses. There
are people who get divorced, but pray to
God every night. Religion to me suddenly
seemed overwhelming and impossible to
navigate. I couldn’t imagine that God or
Jesus would now hate me because of some-
thing that felt so trivial, especially when I’d
always tried my best to find a connection to
my faith. I also thought about Mary Magda-
lene, whom the Catholic church links with
penance (reconciliation of sins) because she
was arbitrarily identified as a prostitute,
despite the fact that she was one of Jesus’
largest supporters and witness to his cruci-
fixion, burial and resurrection.
I couldn’t sleep that night. I tossed and
turned for a few hours, thinking about the
implications of my decision swirling in my
mind — wondering if it’d ever find a way
out. Wondering if I was sorry, deciding that
I wasn’t. After a while, I didn’t know what
to do anymore, fighting exhaustion and the
inability to close my eyes. My legs like lead,
my head heavy, my body different — but my
mind the same. I thought about all the plau-
sible solutions for an impossible predica-
ment for so long I could barely think straight
any longer, so I put my hands together, and
I prayed.
BY ELI RALLO, DAILY ARTS WRITER
When thinking about virginity
NIGHT SHIFT
ILLUSTRATION BY CHRISTINE JEGARL