In the days that follow, the first of many in this never ending semester, I make sure to wear every sorority tee-shirt I own, including the "If you didn't get drafted, you got shafted" bid day tee that I am usually too polite and humane to put on, even underneath a jacket. I have no sympathy in this war. I feel it is one I must fight for well- mannered, attractive people everywhere.

Simultaneously, I secretly search for the definition of the word fascist. I cannot ask anyone, for that would require admitting that I don't understand the term to begin with. I hear the G I Joe motto in the back of my mind, "Soon you will know, and knowing is half the battle." It is my mantra, my "walk tall and carry a big stick" if you will.

I am a soldier of the country club. Armed with my Vera Bradley tote and Northface fleece, I am my own everlasting army. I plot my plan of attack: "Operation Enduring Arrogance." My first move will be to trudge across the street, dodging cars lane by lane as only experienced jay-walkers can, and maneuver through the hoards of enemy soldiers trying to halt my mission with trivial "hello, how are you"s. Upon reaching my destination, DFV, the Definitive Vessel of Knowledge, known to civilians as "the library," I will narrow my target and reach my ultimate objective, the OED, the Oxford English Dictionary. No regular, college pocket-book dictionary will do for this mission. It requires extensive expertise not only of definition, but also of Latin origin, historical context, and past usage. The OED is my only chance for survival.

Unfortunately, it is past midnight when I concoct this strategy. I am already in my pajamas and too lazy to venture across campus. I settle for some basic Internet searching instead. It takes little effort and no weapons of mass destruction to navigate my way to a political organization home page containing, among other things, a thorough explanation of fascism.

When my roommates ask what could possibly be keeping me up past my usual bedtime, I tell them I have an important essay to write: eight pages at least and requiring detailed research. I decide it is more noble to be considered a slacker than someone who doesn't know what the word fascist means. I imagine I am immersed in an unrelenting creative fury. I must utilize my mania to its fullest potential or risk loosing forever the genius unraveling on the screen before me. I often indulge in this fascination, especially around my fashion-merchandising major roommates who carefully stack their Cosmopolitans and Vogues next my New Yorkers and Norton Anthologies. They marvel at my drive and, though they have never read a word of my writing, they tell everyone how talented I am and bring their business writing exercises to my room for editing. My brilliance is astonishing, even to me.

In the darkness while my fellow sleeping beauties, who also occupy room four of my harmony-desolate sorority house, dream of Michael Star skirts and Sevens jeans, I read about fascism.

Because it is late and I am only pretending to be involved in some sort of innovative fervor, my discovery generates a mere seventh grade "duh." Apparently, the pink button and stringy hair led my

quest down a more complicated path than necessary. I could have easily guessed what the phrase implied by using the context of the dim-witted sentence. Perhaps I shouldn't have been allowed to skip English 101.

According to the academic source, "Fascism and You" (complete with links to other sites such as "Communism For Dummies," and "What George W Would Look Like as a Woman"), fascism is "the separation and persecution or denial of equality to a specific segment of the population based upon superficial qualities or belief systems."

Obviously. And I am the persecutor and the tattooed, pierced girl is the persecuted, and the superficial qualities for persecution are the "standards of beauty."

When it's all said and done, I am disappointed that I have not uncovered some revolutionary thought or movement that I am utterly opposed to. In fact, in my fatigue I find myself almost agreeing with the button. The button, now embodying its own ability to reason and speak, is not so offensive. She is merely expressing her own belief and, although it is directed specifically at preppy, private school, Jetta drivers like me, I cannot blame her for choosing this particular phrase to mark her pink plastic façade.

This is not the first time I have been confronted with my identity in such a direct way and it will not be the last. Although I usually wait until several weeks of class have passed to sport my assortment of Greek lettered attire, my fellow scholastic hopefuls and professors immediately sentence me to life in insincere, flowery, happy-face prison anyway. I have to claw my way out of this pigeonhole slowly, proving my aptitude through brown nosed participation and hard work. In the end, I regain the respect my designer jeans cost me in the classroom. In this delicate balance of carefully rumpled Goodwill blouses and BeBe halter-tops, I walk a thin line.

I dream that night that I am back in high school in a polyester plaid skirt four inches above the knee and a white blouse tucked into the soffie shorts underneath. I am in my bedroom again, getting ready for school and my mom has her teacher face on, complete with pointed finger and furrowed brow. She is demanding an explanation for another pink conviction, this time in the form of a sticker on my vanity mirror.

My closest friends have decided my analytical essays and poems do not express the appropriate amount of sarcasm or criticism to define me as a true language devotee and aspiring English major. In response, to save the reputation of the "smart one" in the group, the cultured thespian, the National Honor Society member, they come to the conclusion that my inability to utter certain genetic terms found in fourth grade Family Life books is unacceptable. They must help me overcome this disability with my own self-help manual. Soon I will be able to say, shout even, sexual terminology with confidence out car windows and across lunch-room tables to their amusement.

As I wearily begin to put my face on, my mother begins the high-pitched, guilt-inoculating wail only a mother can express, "I can't believe you did this! Who are you? Not the girl I raised, obviously." What follows is the all too familiar "I've read about this" face that I avoid like white before Easter, if at all possible. Sitting down on my bed, she begins her lament. "Caroline Elizabeth, do you understand what this sticker means?"