As I think I’ve mentioned before, Libertarian Boyfriend and I have a class together. (This class is taught by a half-braindead, war mongering Neo-con “historian” who probably thinks that both Full Metal Jacket and Platoon made the same pro-Vietnam War argument and who couldn’t give you a good, concise, historically and factually accurate history of his own asshole.) Since the bar is set so low for the class, we have fairly regular extra-credit assignments. Thus far, the extra-credit assignments are “go to this speech, write a one page paper and get 5 or 10 points added to either your first exam score or your final grade.” I blame the roughly 20 ROTC kids for this. We can’t expect them to actually have a challenging curriculum or learn anything about the historical relevance of going to strong, foreign countries and killing brown or yellow people. If we do that, we might as well be spitting on them pre-emptively for the villagers they certainly won’t slaughter. They’re just doing their jobs, dude!

Since we have concerns that this course might require an Academic Freedom complaint, we’ve decided that we will take our professor up on every single extra-credit assignment offered. The first was a speech entitled “Abraham Lincoln: Commander-in-Chief.” At the Union League.

For those of you who don’t know me, I have a weird relationship with class. It’s funny, because I was raised working class, yet had private bassoon lessons in high school. When I’m in an environment that is upper-middle class or higher, it brings out all of my white trash. A lot of it is because I can’t wrap my brain around a lot of wealth. A lot more of it is because I can’t deal with that many bourgeois fucks crammed into one room. Well, and also, although feminism is strongly rooted in academic circle jerking from rich white women who graduated from elite, private colleges, creepy sexist undertones and lots and lots of money seem to go hand in hand. So for a mouthy, working class broad who grew up in an under $150K home, it’s a bit intimidating, to say the least. Let’s face it, I walk into situations like this and want to drop the f bomb every fifteen seconds, rip a loud fart, light a cigarette, and start a boisterous conversation with my neighbor about how fuuuuucccckkkkeeeddddd up I was the previous weekend.

Before heading over to the venue, we noticed that there was a “business” dress code. I decide that a knee-length pencil skirt, sweater, stockings and suede pumps will be sufficient. Libertarian Boyfriend decided to roll with Emergency Khakis (as he has dubbed them, which is typically punctuated by my moronic giggling), button down shirt and a sweater. Now, I either glazed over when reading the event information and didn’t see that “Abraham Lincoln: As Our Lord and Savior” would be held at the Good Ol’ Boys Club or the emails from my TA didn’t include this information. I’m not quite certain; I only knew that it was on the 100 block of South Broad Street.

Regardless, after we got off the subway, I asked him where we were going. He replied with “ummm, the Union League.” I let out a loud “OH FUCK, I THINK THAT’S IT, RIGHT THERE!” Now, I knew from a former friend that (at one point in time) they did not admit women. My stomach immediately tightened. I asked for a time check. 3:50 pm. Good, just enough time to replace my sneakers with heels and smoke a cigarette while making cracks at the overwhelmingly WASPy crowd entering the building.

After I finished sucking down my smoke, we made our way inside. This is when the fun began.

We walk in, Libertarian Boyfriend gives the security desk his name and we learn that he needs to get a loaner sport jacket. The security guards let him know that he has to sign in. I open my mouth and promptly close it when I noticed the security guards looking past me and at the guy behind me. Apparently, only the menfolk have to sign in, leading Libertarian Boyfriend to remark that we were probably entered into the Union League’s records as “Libertarian Boyfriend + 1.”

I guess they still don’t get too many dumb broads in the joint, further evidenced by the security guards’ obvious discomfort when I asked them where the coat room was. I was getting unnerved by standing there unaccompanied for thirty seconds.

I walked back into the coatroom, where Libertarian Boyfriend and I almost have a full-fledged giggling fit. First, the room is – literally – 82 degrees. Second, the man staffing the room was this sweet, very elderly Black man. While we made our way up the stairs to “Abraham Lincoln: As Our Lord and Savior,” he remarked that he thought it was so nice that they were including a historical context for us. I cocked my eyebrow, to which he responded that, so far, it’s just like 1863 all over again! I try my damnedest to suppress my loud cackling while we walked through the multiple halls of presidential worship. At one point, Libertarian Boyfriend leaned into me and said “baby, I’m uncomfortable here. And I’ve been around some money. I’M JEWISH.” I let him know that I felt my white trashness bubbling on up the longer we stayed in this abominable building.

Finally, we made it back to the check-in table for the event. And on that note? I think I should answer some emails and pay attention to my current history class.

Continuation coming soon.