I have a hunch that the stamps in my passport have contributed most of my insights, and prompted most of my questions.
It was Girl Scout camp where my curiosity about women first piqued. It wasn’t simply the place I learned to tie a rope, build a fire, kayak and sail; it was where I learned to appreciate women as leaders. I envied these women because they were able to be themselves and—as it seemed from my teenage vantage point—had been able to forge a path of acceptance in themselves and those around them. The women I met were creative, talented, and kind. They often wore their heart on their sleeves. These weren't the girls I was forced to be around in my high school for nine months of the year, these were women. Real women. They weren’t mean or haughty, but adventurous and clever. These were the type of women I hoped to become.
Eventually, during my junior year of high school, I moved past personality traits and truly began to notice the female form of my fellow staffers, the way a woman’s body moved with hips and curves. At the time, I was a boob girl. An enthusiast, if you wil, so I admired (clandestinely) the chests of those around me to compare and contrast to what I had to offer. I developed a crush on my friend Lindsay, but she was dating a fellow counselor. On one of our breaks, I brought Lindsay home with me before heading back to camp. My father was courteous, but later referred to her as "that dyke." It was then I realized that crushing on a woman and holding hands in the woods was as far as it could ever go.
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