Whore Next Door: Running Up That Hill

by Siouxsie Q May 11, 2016

Last week, I took my first trip to Sacramento to lobby at the state capitol. It was a grueling day of tense meetings and hushed strategic conversations about how to save the world — just like I dreamed it would be. The flags, the classic architecture, the sweaty stink of power wafting through the historic hallways — it all evoked a sense of romance. And why not? I love my country more than I’ve loved most men.

When I was in first grade, my teacher asked each of us what we wanted to be when we grew up. “The president,” I replied (with very little hesitation). I was also interested in acting and marine biology, but as awesome as sea otters are, being the leader of the free world sounded like the better fit.

I barely remember a time in my life when I was not aware of Hillary Clinton or certain that she would one day be the first female president, paving the way for my future run. For precocious girls in 1990s America, Hillary was a mythic figure, the chosen one who could shatter the glass ceiling once and for all — more akin to Hercules or Santa Claus than a flesh-and-blood human. She came into my life set to a soundtrack of lonely Lisa Simpson saxophone solos, serving as a beacon of hope for smart girls with strong opinions.

However, among my progressive peers, it’s not at all hip to be “with her.” Everybody I know is “feeling the Bern,” including — bless their hearts — my aging hippie parents, who have voted for Ralph Nader more times than I am…