Don't be bashful,

It's Asheville.

That's one of the mottoes you hear tossed all about this dirty, smelly, lovely, beautiful hippie town. And it rings true for me. A huge part of my sexuality is tied up in this city, in this campus specifically. As I walked from Founders Hall back to my room in the Village tonight beneath the pale and golden light from the old street lamps, I felt a very surreal self-awareness. I can run away from this place every weekend for the rest of time, but Asheville holds pieces of me that nowhere, no one else does.

In September of 2004 on a Friday evening, I left this campus with J. for that party at the mountain house. I lost my virginity to a rapist in Spruce Pine, not too far down the road. I drove his car back here the next morning, and continued falling in love with M.F.

I fell in love for the first time in Asheville, and if I have to name the place, I fell in love at Jerusalem Garden downtown. I chose to have sex for the first time in Asheville, in South Ridge 313. I had my first heart wrenching break up in Asheville, in South Ridge 318.

In October of 2005, I was raped in a UP apartment. I couldn't walk past that apartment complex for months, for over a year really after it happened. And that took the incredible support of the best counselor UNCA has ever known.

I may have spent the last two years driving home every weekend for sex with M., so maybe I associate Charlotte with getting lucky. But Asheville? I associate Asheville with discovery of all sorts. Who I am as a woman, a sexual being, a student, a future educator. Asheville is a wonderful place, and I could never insult its place in my heart by being bashful about it.