On Sunday morning, I arrived home to Mather from my UHS stay and decided that living by the River was putting my sanity at risk. I’ve been contemplating a move to the Quad for a while now and I determined that it was time to put my plan in action. I packed my bags, shuttled it to CK’s, and sent off a melodramatic mass email (to Quadlings and River pals) announcing my arrival to my new home.

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

“Sex and the Ivy” writer Lena X. Chen ‘09 has left Mather House after a Tri-House Formal wrought with former beaus caused her to rethink her riverside residence.

After recovering from her .25 blood alcohol level, Chen bid adieu to her dearly loved blockmates and packed a suitcase of essentials: stilettos, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath, and her PowerBook. She boarded a Quad-bound shuttle today at 5:10pm with hope for refuge and new source material, a good possibility considering the attractive gentleman who carried her luggage up four flights of stairs. Later in the evening, she made her first public appearance as a Quadling at Cabot House’s Festivus.

With a Cabot-Open subscription request pending and some distance between her and the Charles, Chen hopes that she can finally blog in peace and pick up a few new neighbors who might be suffering from cabin (Cabot?) fever. She plans on spending the rest of the semester and possibly part of the spring term at her new residence in Cabot N-42. On weekend evenings (Thursdays thru Saturdays) however, she will continue to entertain male guests in her Mather 312 single. Visitors (to either room) are welcome.

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Tonight’s mission is “House Formal Take 2,” also my chance to redeem myself from this weekend’s fiasco. I’m accompanying CK to the Quad Formal. Again, three Houses will be in attendance. This time, let’s keep my blood alcohol level reasonable. Over AIM, CK left me with guidelines for tonight.

CK’s Ground Rules:

1. If I get drunk, she will leave me.

2. Must use “inside voices” (something I’m not good at).

3. Bring coat or jacket. I often misjudge the weather.

Let’s hope my second House formal this term is less eventful than my first.

There’s something inherently fucked up with your life if you wake up Friday morning naked and still drunk. This is the tipsiest I’ve been while composing a blog entry.

I spent last night partying post-Fogg with CK and Rody. Four and a half glasses of wine at a grad school mixer. Another solo cupful at a Crimson Happy Hour. It is 8:30 a.m. and I have trouble standing. I am 5′2″, Asian, and the perfect target for sexual assault.

Last night’s chronologically coherent set of memories is limited to everything that occurred before I walked through Leverett Courtyard. I remember that because the swipe access actually works from the towers’ side now (someone finally fixed it) and I didn’t have to do that awkward reach-around.

Once in Mather House, I came home to an empty room, went to Aidan’s, got pissed off (can’t remember why but I’m pretty sure he did something terribly guyish), and stormed out — more or less not steadily on my stilettos. Back in my room, I discovered his cell phone in my purse (we have the same phones), informed him via Gmail chat, and he came down to retrieve it.

This is the part where it gets good. In my not-so-soundproof common room, I completely went off. I told him everything I thought was wrong with him but would never say to his face — at least not without some major tempering of language. I literally informed him that he was a fuck up, that there were serious revisions he needed to make to his life. I can’t remember exactly what I said but it epitomized drunken tirades. Even though drunk people say things they wouldn’t say sober, I like to think that I still self-censor to a semi-acceptable degree. Last night, I was too drunk to censor and too angry to shut up.

I also probably threw things I shouldn’t have thrown and lost one half of my awesome stilettos. I think Allie was home. My clothes somehow came off. I ended up in bed. I answered a phone call from a 301 area code I don’t recognize now. I should reveal that I only know all this happened thanks to the archived and drunken Gmail chat that more or less sums up the insanity. And though it appears that I had issues with punctuation and train of thought, I displayed a surprising ability to remain articulate.

In conclusion, I was a shit show last night, I am hungover right now, but the writer in me always prevails.

I recommend that readers check out DJ Kammy Kam’s latest post, concerning the Western beauty ideals imposed upon African American women. His blog borrows the name of an India.Arie song, “I Am Not My Hair,” for its title. I suppose it’s fitting that he’s now addressing beauty standards by using hair texture as a springboard.

Sometime mid-summer, I sent CK the India.Arie song above. I thought she’d appreciate it, since she’s in the minority of black women who do not relax their hair. I am actually a big fan of her afro. For all its knots and kinks, her locks are infinitely more interesting and lively than my pin-straight mane. Her hair has a “don’t mess with me” attitude, just like her. That same attitude is why she would never douse it in chemicals or straighten it against its will. But CK’s perspective isn’t exactly popular. She’s probably one of a handful of black women at Harvard who leave their hair in its natural state.

“Unfortunately, we live in the United States,” said one friend trying to explain the phenomenon to me. But I found myself unable to relate. At least when it comes to beauty standards, it’s a hell of a lot easier for me to conform to Western ideals than black women. Yellow, after all, is closer to white than any other color. To be honest, I can’t even think of many physical insecurities I have that white women don’t share. I wish my breasts were bigger and my waist slimmer, but I don’t have kinky hair and my skin color is the perfect shade of California tan.

Still, there’s a whole other set of pressures that come with being Asian and a “foreign” look is one of them. The physical characteristic that most significantly separates white and Asian women is the shape of their eyes. That’s one of the few things I can’t change no matter how many visits to the beauty salon. But thanks to cosmetic surgery, Asian women can now widen their eyes or surgically create an eyelid fold if they so wish — it’s an outpatient procedure. It’s also the most popular cosmetic operation in Japan (decidedly the most Westernized Asian country). From an American perspective, it sounds atrocious but in Asia, it’s as commonplace and accepted as … well, relaxing your hair in America. If CK’s afro is what separates her look from the mainstream, then my eyes are the Asian equivalent.

Last week, I woke up from a nap in a cold sweat. I had a terrible nightmare that CK relaxed her hair without consulting me. With a shoulder-length, artificially straight cut, she looked nothing like herself. In the dream, I was so upset that I started lecturing her and demanded an explanation for how she could sell out. In my conscious state, I’m amused by how angry I was, considering that I’m more superficial than she is by far. Between the two of us, I’m definitely the conformist. But maybe that’s why I found myself so outraged. As looks-conscious as I am, I admire her willingness to rebel. She fights a fight I’m not willing to take on myself. And if CK would give up that feisty poof of hair in the face of external pressure, then who will society tame next?

Blogging about CK opened up doors for discussions I never thought I’d have. The majority of them have left me frustrated. But that word only sums up so much of how I feel. Disappointed is really the best term that comes to mind, and it is exactly how I’d characterize my feelings about most of the reactions I’ve received. I don’t expect to be understood completely – when it comes to matters like this, it is hard to empathize no matter how well or in what context you know me. Other than JB and Indiana, I don’t think anyone can claim to fully understand. I guess I just expect to be trusted with defining my own sexuality. But even trust is hard to come by when you are redefining who you are not just to yourself but to people who have long made up their minds about your personality and preferences.

A couple weeks ago, I told CeCe that I finally understand her hesitance about getting involved with a friend. No matter how strongly you might feel, there is always the chance of ruining an already wonderful relationship. She asked how I came to relate, and I responded, “That’s how I kind of feel about CK.”

“Well, yeah, but she’s a girl,” said CeCe. “I mean, I know that you said that it’s like the same thing … but it’s not.”

I’m not sure what my precise response to her statement was, but I do remember feeling hurt. Hurt because my thoughts weren’t being taken seriously, hurt because one of my oldest friends should’ve known better than to say what she said, but mostly, hurt because I couldn’t think of a way to help her understand.

Later that night, she asked, “Do you think that maybe you just really, really like her? Like as a very good friend?”

An innocent and justifiable inquiry, but I couldn’t help being taken aback. I get the feeling that if I declared a crush on a guy friend, no one would second-guess if I just “really, really liked” him. To me, it was ludicrous that she would even have to ask. I don’t feel this way for Kay or Maggie or Adia or any of my blocking group. It’s not difficult to differentiate my feelings for the vast majority of my girlfriends and my very particular feelings for CK. There is a clear, identifiable difference, one I thought I outlined pretty coherently in my 2,000-word four-parter about our relationship. Those closest to me should give me enough credit to recognize that difference.

When I got to talking with N, a friend from high school, about the reactions to my recent entries, she sent me a quote from Sex and the City:

“I don’t think she’s a lesbian. I think she just ran out of men.” –Charlotte, in reference to Samantha’s relationship with a woman

Immediately, I thought, “What a fitting diffuser to this whole mess.” I was ready to post the quote to my Facebook with the qualifier, “In light of recent blog entries, consider this explanation,” when I paused and wondered why I even bothered. I refuse to retract or water down statements already made. I always mean everything I write (accounting for sarcasm, of course) regardless of how my words end up being interpreted.

To some extent, writing about CK means that I give others clearance to inquire about the nature of our relationship. Friendship alone means that people have the right to pry. If I don’t back down from discussing my latest hookup, then CK is no exception to potential topics of conversation. But unlike inquiries about male romantic prospects, questions regarding CK constantly leave me disheartened. If it were a boy up for discussion, people might ask where he was from, what he looked like, or how we met. But when it comes to CK, conversations never leave the initial realm of confirmation. The only questions asked are the ones that ensure my feelings are authentic, and even when answered, I think my friends remain unconvinced.

I have learned CK’s curves from consecutive nights of side-by-side embraces, from furtive caresses over shoulders and under chins and down happy trails. I like to think that she has a body only I know how to hold and handle, that there are words and gestures belonging to us alone.

CK has a boyfriend now, but I don’t know if he picks at her hair like I do or if she drawls “baby” to him while teasing his cheek with her fingertips. I am certain that her paramour suspects me of being bitter. He would not be incorrect. As much as I adore him, I can’t help but think that he has somehow ruined our relationship.

My animosity toward her relationship is hypocritical. I date far more men than she ever has or will. But in my defense, none of them have ever presented an actual threat. I have been more fully exposed before CK than I have ever been before a boyfriend. And there is no man I have ever loved as deeply as I have loved her. There is a part of her not mine now but I do not begrudge her her contentment. In the same breath that I admit my jealousy, I confess I share in her happiness.

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We were supposed to backpack through Europe this summer, just the two of us. We didn’t go, to our mutual disappointment. Now I don’t know if we missed the only opportunity we’ll ever get to take a trip like that together. Sometimes I wonder if a prolonged journey to another continent would have changed things. Away from boys and friends and boyfriends, I wonder if our thoughts would’ve turned more willingly toward each other; if during one warm, heavy night, we would’ve curled up on the floor of a hostel like we have countless times on her bed; if this time, we would have dared to press our noses together closer than we ever have before.