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In This Issue

• Blind Guy Shows Us the Way
• Columbia's Cruel Iron Maiden
• Letter From the Editor
• Daddy Was a Shrink; Momma Was a Street Corner.
• Columbia Socialist Pronounces ‘Bourgeois’ The Right Way
• Holiday Thoughts for the Dysfunctional
• Dear Alma Mater
• Columbia Vs. Colombia
• WHAT TYPE OF DYSFUNCTIONAL IS YOUR FAMILY?
• Uncut Tales of Dysfunctional Literacy
• White Boys Need Money
• I Am So Not a Man
• Press 'M' for Mezzanine... if Ye be Brave Enough
• Your Daily (read: Monthly) Horoscope
• Wacky Fun Whitey: Evil Just Like your Mom
• Newsbriefs
• THEY Watch
• The Staff of 17.4

And so, I've discovered that I'm famous. One of my best friend's girlfriends who was visiting Barnard asked if people knew me. Strangely enough, a complete stranger stopped and said, "Wait... THE Kate Sullivan?" And hence my fame. But wait a moment. Imagine my utter dismay when this stranger continued: "I thought that she was supposed to be a MAN!"

Say what, now? I'm finally famous and it's for all the wrong reasons? Well, fame is fame, I suppose. But if I were to accept my famousness, I feel like the only way that I could truly live up to it is to accept the penis that would go along with it. I don't know if I like that idea, though. I rather like my breasts, and I wouldn't really want to trade them in for a threesome that only needed constant public readjustment for comfort.

I feel the need to defend my womanhood. I've already begun in some ways: I flash strangers on the subway who look at me as if I am a man, I ask my roommates to feel the curve of my wide child-bearing hips, I sleep with my male TA's. Yesterday, I walked into a barbershop and asked for a shave and the kindly man told me, "Ma'am? A shave? But you don't have any facial hair." I smiled at him and said, "I know! That's because I'm a woman!" And promptly walked out without paying for my "unshave."

But I've run into a problem. How, I ask, does one defend her womanhood in print? It was this medium that apparently caused this trouble. Some of my schoolmates read my "How to Be a Barnard Girl," article and thought it was probably a man writing under a pen name. Of course, a Barnard woman would never, ever make fun of her own school. By way of defense let me say that I thought the Columbia stereotypes of Barnard girls are funnier than the reality of the creature.

So my first thought was: "Breasts! Every woman has ‘em! They will be my salvation!" However, my swearing in print that I have breasts isn't truly proof. I considered putting in a drawing of my boobs, but that, again, is hardly proof. And to be honest, before I knew it was the Fed that had given me this reputation as a man, my first thought was, "damn... I knew I had small breasts, but that is harsh." In short, my breasts can't quite cut it.

Perhaps I could swear I don't have a penis? No, that won't work.

I could reveal the innermost thoughts and desires of women. How we all put on lipstick color "pretty in pink" every night and recite the lyrics to "Oops, I Did It Again," because we all know that Brittany is the epitome of womanhood. How we all dream of someday sexually pleasing a man, bearing his children and heirs.

But no! I have found the perfect evidence for my womanhood! And it CAN be printed, unlike my breasts or uncock. Ladies and gentlemen, I give to you: the story of my doctor's note.

I went into Barnard Health Services as a walk-in, which we all know involves at least 25 minutes of waiting in an empty clinic before someone can get to you. Finally, a doctor came out, introduced herself in the quiet and sensitive voice gynecologists use so I will trust her and feel comfortable with her, even with her cold hands in my coochie, and led me into her office. She asked, "What can I do for you?"

I stared into her gynecology-gray eyes and said, "Can you tell me what sex I am?" In response, I got a confused but concerned look. "No, really," I said, "I thought I was a woman, but I was recently told that I am, in fact, a man, and I just need clarification. And a note on with Barnard Health Services letterhead and your authorized signature." After moments of concerned silence and eventually psychologically probing questions, she conceded to my request.

"Do you have a penis?" I could honestly answer that no, I did not.

"And you do attend Barnard College?" I could again answer positively that I did.

And that fine doctor wrote me a note of authentication of my womanhood. Thank you, Doctor Felicity! Thank you for giving my womanliness back!