The author prepares for Deb Ball 2010 (photo by Hanna Washburn ’14)
Two weekends ago, a few hours before Deb Ball, some boys yelled “faggot” at me. They were standing right across the lawn from my New Apt. I could see them from my doorway.
Earlier that day, a few leaves had blown through my front door. No one had vacuumed in the pre-Deb Ball chaos and so they remained, clinging to the carpet of my ground floor apartment. The leaves brushed up against my roommate’s exposed ankles when he emerged from the bathroom, wearing men’s knit socks and a breezy floral dress. My girlfriend and I quipped and cooed at him in his dress because sometimes, gender play is allowed to be silly. Deb Ball is fun.
As my roommate bemoaned his outfit’s lack of pockets, I rolled my eyes and pulled on my jacket. My girlfriend and I walked outside and joined hands. We headed off to a pregame in another New Apt. Ahead of us were six boys talking outside of B Block. They were wearing sweatshirts, baseball hats, jeans, and sneakers. None of them were dressed in drag. They looked like bros, which is a word I hate to use (see this post for my reasoning), but I’m not quite sure how else to describe them. They stood in a tight group, hands either gripping beers or jammed into pockets, and as we approached them they looked in our direction.
“Yo, Meg,” they shouted. I ignored them.
“Yo, Meg!” they insisted. They were loud. They seemed drunk. I didn’t make eye contact with them as we got closer.
“Deb Ball’s the night that everyone’s inner faggot comes out,” one called out.
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