Fashioning the Body: Versions of the Citizen, the Self, and the Subject

Hi, friends! My name is Vanessa, and my last name means, "benefactor" in Italian. Which directly translates to, "I would be a great benefactor to your progress in the course of your winter studies!"

Ho, ho, ho!

But, really folks, I am a SWF seeking long walks on the beach with summer-stirred pina coladas and dancing pineapple mannequins and second star to your right, straight on til morning. Which brings us to the point that I am a night person-- a moonlight majestic; a midnight rider. I prefer late-night jaunts when possible, much more than I favor champagne sunrises...

Sunrises? Oh, right. My project. Back on track. Which brings us to another essential element... Personality speaking-wise and such, I am A.D.D. as they come. I am not devoid of concentration, but in fact, in excess of it. Depending on when you catch me, it can be channeled in either (or all. or any.) way. To the whole room or to a singular point of my stealthily-piercing laser beam focus.

I do not treat academics with serious decorum. At least, not in a rigid and proper kind of way. I believe academics should be pursued with a sense of freedom and genuinity. None of this false pretenses crap! C'mon.

My winter project? Here. But, be warned: It's quite personal. A little graphic, even. And disturbing... (Mostly to me, who is airing my deepest shit to the whole class. But I'm aiming at catharsis, so it's all in the bag! We'll see...)

My independent project for winter quarter will be comprised of one or several creative essays concerning my misadventures in the world of man; whereupon, one day, out of nowhere, I find myself awakened from a nothingness to discover that, somehow, I have come to embody a human form—and a female one, to boot! From the initial rude awakening on forth, I do nothing but grapple with my unexpected acquisition in seemingly endless forms— struggling with how this strange mechanism feels, struggling with how others feel about it, and struggling with the vast and disorienting jumble of everything-in-between that occurs in, on, and around my poor, solicitous human body. The deflating fact of my physical existence reaches a new low as I grow older and begin to fill out. And suddenly... Acne! Leg hair! Stomach cramps! Breasts! Lucky me. Mine happen not to look quite like the others-- the ones I have seen in pictures. In nudie magazines and late-night cable. Mine, as it would seem, are... well, different. The horror! No matter how I look at them, they are ugly. Lop-sided. Asymmetrical. Bad. Not like the rest. In other words-- ugly. There are other things, too. Thighs too jiggly. Neck too thick. Too masculine. Too tall. No chin. No beauty-- Or really?

I am Whoopee Cushion...

My deflation is my inflation. And I am not what you think.

While it might seem, to some of you, totally degrading and utterly depressing to get sat on over and over and over again, I, in fact, am quitew pleased with it. My blushing rubber outsides tingle with... anticipation (Yes. I saw Rocky Horror... and loved it!) at the thought of being... (Oh please one more time!) smothered by a day's worth of unassuming, anonymous derierres. 

 Truth be told, it is my pride and joy... Each time I feel a pair of wet lips pushing the unwanted gaseous contents of their lungs into my empty rubber sac; expelling their mischeivious desires into my plasticine parts. It gets me. 

(To be continued...) 

Valley Girl Veronica- Oh my God! He is like, so gay!

Baseball Player Brad- Why do you think he's gay?

V- Why else would he be wearing a pink shirt?

B- Maybe his team color is pink?

V-What is his team?

B- Maybe team gay?

V- See. You think so too. Why is that?

B- Or maybe-- is he gay because he wears a pink shirt, or was he gay before the whole pnk shirt situation?

[Man walks casually over to V & B]

Manny the Man- I overheard your conversation, and I want you to know-- I loves the ladies.

V-Ah, so you're straight?

M- Well, I loves the dudes, too.

B- (suspiciously) So you're gay?

M- I'm just a people person.

[V & B give blank stares.]

M-What is it about my pink shirt that makes you think I'm gay?

V-Once, I saw a George Michael video and he was wearing a pink shirt, and I'm pretty sure he's gay.

[Anne Fausto-Strerling enters scene; approaches V, B & M. She's a real woman.]

A- Hi! I'm Anne Fausto-Sterling. You two are morons. Sit down and learn something.

A- You two are working from a nature/culture binary and trying to fit Manny the Man here into a clear classification. I understand the nature/culture dicotomy is taught and discussed extensively, but I think you both ought to question such an oversimplification.

M- Anne, you know I'm your son.

[Brecht enters]

All- Hey, look! Its Bertolt Brecht!

Br- Spectator and Actor ought not to approach one another but move away from himself. Otherwise the element of terror necessary to all recognition is lacking.

 [Brecht exits]

V- So, wait... You are gay?

A- [Shakes head.] They still don't get it!

During its brief, but valuable lifetime, our dear departed held many pieces together-- pieces, that without saying, were as varied as they were essential. This loving helper of ours traversed many pages of life, was held in many hands, and ultimately, would end its career aiding in scholastic endeavors of many, and business matters of a few, at the desparate hands of an anonymous stoner. Our ill-fated friend was found outside the A dorms at the Evergreeen State College; the faint remnants of marijuana resin found on its tip. May we not despair at the demise of our dear paper clip, for at least, after all the hard work she put in during her brief lifetime, she went out with a spark.