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

