Bear with me, because this is going to get autobiographical.
As a young, frail, impressionable child, I was exposed to a near lethal dose of lefty academia, multiculturalism and completely unsupervised– even unquestioned introspection and contemplation. Needless to say, I am a warped, depraved human being.
As a three-year-old on my way to day care, I interrogated my mother on how she would vote on Issue 1. When asked, I had to explain to her that this was a public transportation levy. As she tells it, after stating my opinion on the subject, I seamlessly resumed whining, on the verge of crying, about how much I wanted chocolate milk and sweet tarts. Several years later, when a republican gubernatorial candidate visited my elementary school, I announced to a crew of cameras that my parents did not vote for this man. If you’re wondering, yes, they aired it. Fast forward to age 10 when I started bending my blossoming gender into the shape of thrift store suits (I did not know this was a weird thing to do at the time), age 12 when I ate my last piece of meat, age 13 when I came out, age 15 when I got in a series of battles over censorship of art (I painted classically) and wrote some abysmal political poetry, age 17 where I started an internship at the local college QUILTBAG (it was just GLBTQ back in those days) center, and I’m skipping some things, but I think the thing that really changed everything was 9-11-01, that happened near the close of my tender 18th year of life.
Dissent of a Woman 