I don't even know how it started. All of a sudden I was in a pile on my living room floor, sobbing. Then, I got up and left. We all went out to dinner and I pretended it hadn't happened. I tried to be discreet when I wiped away the tears over my quesadilla and beer.

I still remember his name. I had pushed him back into the blissful recesses of my memory, but now he's back. I was 14 and a half, a tenth grader. He was almost 21, a college student. I thought I must be very smart and mature for an older guy to like me. I thought I had it under control. I didn't.

Growing up in the South, I'm no stranger to seeing people be racist. What never ceases to surprise me, though, is how, as a white person, other white people think it's appropriate and okay to tell me about their racist leanings. It's like we're all members of a secret club, and because I'm white, they assume I'll be…

I pride myself on being a card-carrying, Women's Studies degree-having, privilege-checking feminist. I try to live my life in a way that is as consistent with my ideals as I can. I fail regularly, but the desire to do better is ever-present.