Ceremony Ballonlea is a 21 year old nonbinary student and Fashion major at UNC Chapel Hill with a fiery passion for her LGBTQIA+ community. She thinks she's prepared for her senior year, but she's not prepared for her new roommate: Marina XYZ, the 22 year old six foot radfem and LGB Alliance member who's outspoken on campus about "sexism and the abolition of gender." Marina is everything Ceremony is supposed to hate, and vice versa, so why is Ceremony suddenly feeling bad for her enemy upon discovering her past? Why do their arguments get her so heated? Why is proving Marina wrong so addicting? What if they have more in common than she could've ever known?
Find out in
Constant Craving
Chapter 1
CEREMONY
My name is Ceremony Ballonlea. Yes, that is my legal name. My father chose Ceremony because he was a shaman. Most nonbinary people have to change their names, due to dysphoria or memory or trauma, but I got lucky: mine fits with the vision of the person I've always wanted to be, someone regal and intentional, and my mother supports my being trans. For the most part. She was a little confused at first, but she's done the work of educating herself, and when I came out to her, she said the last thing she wanted to do was lose me. I think about that a lot.
I'm walking up to the college dorm where I'll be living for next nine months, here in swampy Chapel Hill, North Carolina. UNC has been my home for the last three years, where I've been building a fashion portfolio and even taking some engineering classes to really give my clothes a competitive edge. I didn't do so hot last semester - the first time in my life I've ever dropped below a 3.0 GPA - no, I won't tell you how low it went - but I'm geared up for success this time. I think.
Behind me carrying the heaviest of boxes is my mother and my tia, speaking rapid fire Spanish as we enter the crowded hall and find an elevator. We cram into one with our boxes, the metal groaning under our weight; Tía Nina is still arguing about the parking situation, my mother is still worried my weight, and I'm still not prepared for who my roommate is about be this semester.
The housing department said on the phone that Philly, one of my allies from the Black Student Union, would no longer be dorming on campus and they had to replace her. I was just surprised I didn't hear from Philly myself, but it turns out she's pregnant, so she's moving back home to Atlanta - someone had to tell me, I guess she was embarrassed because she doesn't know who the sperm donor is, so her partner dumped her, what a mess.The housing department refused my begging to just have a solo room, school was starting in a week, there was no time to find another roommate I already knew, couldn't they just save me from stranger danger? No, so I have no idea what I'm about to walk into when I get to my room, 13A, feeling like some freshman.
I have no idea how much my life is about to change when I open that door.
Holy shit.
It's her.
The TERF from the festival. The pointing finger.
"Trans rights are human rights! Y'all means all are here to fight!"
The chant rose from the LGBTQIA+ Society booth; the semiannual Human Rights Festival was in full swing, food trucks lining the street outside the campus center, live music blaring from a stage at the far end, every activist group on campus with a table. Even them.
The old defectors from the LGBTQIA+ Society actually got approval from the Sociology department to set up a booth for the notoriously transphobic LGB Alliance.
"Trans rights are human rights! Y'all means all are here to fight!"
Victor Victoria, the Society president, had authorized a counter protest to be held for as long as the LGB Alliance could stand it, drowning out any conversation they might make, and they sure as hell didn’t have the numbers that we did, so we thought it would work. I watched with Kieran as the ten designated counters, led by vice president Xander, marched in a circle around the other booth.
There were four lesbians and one gay man, all of whom we’d had run-ins like this with before; two women were shouting back at our protest in futility, another recording was us with her phone, the gay man was talking to passersby despite the protest, and then there was Marina.
"Trans rights are human rights! Y'all means all are here to fight!"
While everyone else looked panicked, the brazenly tall Black woman looked calm. Marina sipped from a water bottle and watched the unfolding scene with the detached interest of a scientist observing an experiment.
Suddenly, I could see Xander start to lose their cool; one of the woman yelling back was getting in their face, and when she snatched their sign - Protect Trans KIds - out of their hands, the other protestors broke formation, and two of them immediately jumped to the TERF, pushing her to the ground.
“What the fuck, we said not to touch them!
Victor Victoria exclaimed this behind me, and then the scene exploded in chaos: the formation was scattered, most of them trying to pull their friends off of the TERF on the ground, others taking the opportunity to disrupt their visual setup, scattering fliers into the air as the noise commotion of everyone else at the festival grew, their attention and footsteps drawing near -
Until a container shattered on the LGB Alliance table. Roaches exploded out in a black, skittering wave, screams erupted, the heavy foot traffic skittered back.
I and my irrational fear of insects got stuck between fight and flight, just stood there stuck as there are the crowd around me fled, until I locked eyes with her.
Marina was the only one of them who hadn’t fled. She too stood perfectly still, but unlike me, she looked completely unfazed. A roach crawled up her arm and she flicked it off with ease.
We locked eyes for a cold, horrible moment.
I got suddenly, violently nauseous, and then I could run.
Two days later, the Dean's office was too small for all of us. I sat in a hard plastic chair, my hands folded in my lap, Xander tense beside me, their jaw set. The LGBTQIA+ Society faculty advisor, Dr. Yang, was listening to the Sociology department head, Dr. Patterson, explain the situation in the calm, measured tones of someone who didn’t actually care.
I’m there as a member of the four person Society government board, along with Victor Victoria, Xander, and Kerian, and I’m trying hard as I can not to look at Marina, there representing her nameless club of transphobic defectors, apparently now happily in bed with the LGB Alliance.
"The LGB Alliance was given permission to set up their booth," Dr. Patterson was saying, "as a special interest group for the rights of a historically oppressed minority. They followed all the proper procedures and we were unaware that their association dissociates itself from the transgender community, as we figured was a special interest group the way, you know, trans only groups are allowed to assemble on their own. We can't penalize them for exercising their right to free speech."
"They were promoting hate speech," Xander argued, "they were telling people that trans people are predators."
“We were telling people that you tell homosexuals they have to be bisexual to be woke,” Marina said, “but hit dogs holler.”
Victor Victoria had to stop Xander from arguing further, and Marina started getting told that unless she saw someone specific release the roaches, “nothing further can be done,”
Which is when she poined at me, and said,
"It was her."
“Fuck no.” Jeremi was livid on the other line. I was too busy crying like a hyena because I thought I was going to be suspended. “I’m not about to let some TERF tell another fucking lie and ruin your life like this.”
“I don’t even know who did it, I didn’t see anything, it’s not like I can even blame someone else, I’m just - “
Fucked. I really thought I was, for an hour, but it took an hour for Xander and Victor Victoria to have their private presidential talk, after which Xander confessed to the roaches crime.
“But…did they actually do it?”
“They’re saying they did.” Victor Victoria sighed. “Right motivation, wrong tactic, wrong place, wrong time...”
Xander was suspended instead of me, but I’ll never forget how disgusted Marina looked for that brief moment, the way she so confidently called me her.
Today, when Marina sees my mother and my tia enter the room, she brightens immediately, acts like I don’t exist.
“Hi, I’m Marina,” she shakes their hands, “I’ll be living with Ceremony.”
Mama, none the wiser, is just as bright. “Oh, hi! I’m Josefina, this is my sister Tina. You’re so tall, wow!”
“How tall are you, mija?” asks tia.
“6 foot even.”
“You play basketball, volleyball?”
“Oh, no, no sports for me, I’m about as coordinated as a fish on a bicycle.”
“Maybe a model, then,” swoons mama.
“Modeling is a predatory industry that promotes anorexia.” Her brilliant grin offsets how grim that just was. “Let me help you with those boxes.”
“No, no, we’re fine - “
“Please, I insist.”
Watching the TERF handle my boxes of clothes and closet racks is not pleasant, but she’s strong enough to hoist the boxes easily from where we stand at the door to the other side of the room. She’s answering tia’s questions about her major when my mother nudges me in my side, eyebrows raised.
“She’s pretty, right?”
Oh, mama, still trying to set me up. She doesn’t approve of Jeremi.
“No, Ma.” I can’t explain to her what a TERF is in enough time. “No.”
When Mama and tia leave to the car to get more boxes, I try to follow them out and help, not wanting to be left alone with her yet, but they insist that I stay and get organized, “rest and nest.”
The side of the room where I’m to nest is nice enough; senior dorms are airy and roomy unlike the cells of early years, apartment style with private bathrooms and mini kitchen area. I’m checking out the closet space when I hear the other bed creak across the room; in the mirror on the door, I can see Marina curling up with an open book: the most recent in J.K. Rowling’s crime series. Really?
"Ceremony."
She draws it out like it's not English, then makes eye contact through the mirror.
"What, did you choose that? To rebel against Mommy and Daddy and their tuition?"
I won’t let her get to me, so I don’t turn around, instead opening my nearby box of hangers.
"It's my legal name. My father chose it. He was a shaman. He's dead."
She pauses. Then, "Never met a Latina with a name like Ballonlea."
"I don't know where it's from. But don't you think it's a little hypocritical that radical feminists like you get to change your names, but we don't? Miss XYZ?"
I turn around for her reaction. She laughs; brash and genuine, transforming her whole face, then gone in an instant.
"My dad is an evangelical cult leader whose death I'll probably celebrate, Mom's dead. I didn't want the association."
She says it like she's commenting on the weather.
"You know I didn't do that thing last semester."
She knows exactly what I'm talking about, but she laughs again, closing her book like she's finally paying attention.
"That thing? You mean releasing roaches on the LGB Alliance booth? Animal abuse to own the terves?"
"None of the roaches died, and it wasn't me."
"Whatever. At least someone went down for it."
"Yeah, that someone had a really promising future as a queer educator and was a key organizer in our Society and I bet you're glad that their future is ruined over one mistake."
"That someone was a man in a wig. He. His."
At that moment, mama and tia return, speaking Spanish and none the wiser to the tension in the room, filling it temporarily with their warmth.
Marina is back on the prowl, ignoring you. “Are you sure I can’t help you with anything else?”
“No, no,” says mama, “you’re so sweet.”
As if.
Tia is nosy and immediately gets enveloped in a conversation by asking too many questions, as usual, about the works of Frida Kahlo, who Marina just happened to do a thesis on last year. I must look some type of way as they talk as I’m distributing hangers to the closet, because mama comes and nudges me in my side again.
“You okay?”
“I’m good.” I lower my voice to a whisper. “I just know her already.”
“Oh.” She does the same. “In a good way?”
“No.”
“What’s her problem?”
“She’s transphobic.”
“Oh. Well, doesn’t the school know that? Should they be allowing that, y’know, for your safety?”
“I already tried doing something about it, but they said if I move and I lose my spot, I’d have to get on the waiting list.”
“Where would you live while on the waiting list?”
“Exactly.”
Home is in all the way in Bakersfield, California; mama and tia don’t even really have the money to be moving me in in person across the country every year, but they’ve scrounged to make it work every time.
“I’m sorry,” mama murmurs. “If she doesn’t believe in who you are, that’s her loss. Just keep your distance, mind your business, only speak if it’s for business. Focus on studying and your friends and all the things you have going for you.”
I kiss her cheek. “Thanks, mama.”
Gratefully, the TERF has nothing to say to me for the rest of the day, silently switching between her J.K. Rowling and a massive art history book. I unpacked about half of what I needed to, feeling lazy after spending an hour setting up my accessories tray, knowing it was more important to take a break for dinner and get a good night’s rest for my 8 a.m. lecture.
I’m in bed post shower texting Jeremi, lights off on my side, when the TERF finally moves for the first time in hours – and I don’t want to be paying attention to what she does, but it’s hard, because I’m so used to living with people I’m comfortable with - last year I shared a suite with six other members of the Society, and the year before I was with my best friend at the time -
> Lol anyway Imma come get you this weekend, Jeremi’s saying. He’s in Charlotte a few hours south. Get you out of that sorry ass living situation for a few days
< im soooooo thankful they said yes
< even tho I cant sleep in your room with you
> You can just sneak in after they asleep 😉
< no!! i dont wanna get caught and then not be allowed back
> Mm yeah I guess you would get caught you and that mouth when I’m in it lol
< lol 😳 hey ive gotten better about that
> Yeah yeah uh huh
> Ive missed you so much
> I can’t wait
It’s been three months since we’ve seen each other and about two since I’ve gotten laid – yes, we’re poly – and it’s that time in my nightly routine where it helps to drift off to sleep if I’ve sexted with Jeremi, you know, to completion. But here I am like a sucker, stuck in a room with a stranger whose schedule I don’t know yet instead of a friend I could just be real with. I guess I could do what I want in the fancy bathroom, but he’s kinda right about the mouth.
The TERF is getting out of bed, in my periphery, and - oh, okay.
I thought TERFs were weird about nudity. Not with each other, in their exclusionary MichFest covens or whatever, but in front of a trans person; doesn’t she think we’re all predators? She doesn’t wear a bra - that’s not shocking - but I guess I’m shocked that she’s comfortable enough with my presence to just strip? I’m not doing the same in front of her, I got changed in the bathroom earlier, not giving her any ammunition on my body to make fun of.
I’m also not really looking, because it does not matter that objectively this woman is long and sleek enough that she could certainly be a model, tia; as a Fashion major, I know a sample size when I see it, I know what the cisnormative beauty industry wants as someone behind the camera. She’s not so thin that she looks ill, she has ample breasts, she -
Does not matter.
The last time I got laid was back in Bakersfield, where the pickings on the apps like Taimi were slim, because everyone in LA knows you don’t stop in Bakersfield. They were a great time, an Afro Caribbean junior at UCLA, but only in town for that weekend. Other than that, it wasn’t that I didn’t try; I got a few more matches that lead to dead conversations, I went out in West Hollywood, danced and made out with a person who declined my number because “I have a boyfriend.”
It was more that I’m starting to think about something my tia said. They’re great about me being trans, but telling them that Jeremi and I are poly was a mistake. Mama asked him furiously “why I wasn’t enough for him” the next time she saw him, and now frequently refers to him as “the cheater” just because I’d never been in a poly relationship before him.
Tia was more nuanced, as it goes; when I got home from my date in Bakersfield this summer, she asked me if I was getting tested every time I “stepped out on my man.”
“It’s not stepping out, tia. It’s allowed.”
“I know, I’m not so Catholic, I know swingers.”
“Yes, I get tested, so does Jeremi.”
“He shows you? You see the papers?”
“Not anymore, but I trust him.”
“Never trust a man.”
“He’s not like other men.”
Tia opens her mouth to say something, then pauses.
“He seems like he’s got something to prove,” she finally says. “I know, I don’t know him like you do, but from what I do know, the time I spent - he seems like he’s got an axe to grind with the world.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is the sleeping around thing - is it a contest?”
“A contest? No, we’re not, like, keeping score.”
“Sex is wonderful, mija, but it’s not everything. It’s not - it’s a way to connect deeply and irrevocably with another person, it’s a way to connect with yourself, but your generation - “ she tsks. “Obsessed. It’s okay, what you’re doing, as long as you’re safe, I just don’t want you to lose sight of yourself. Your self esteem. It does something to you, every time you’re with someone.”
It does something to you, every time you’re with someone.
Does it?
Growing up without a major religion in my little family, only sometimes feeling the specters of Catholicism echoed from my mama and her relatives’ upbringing, I wasn’t one of those 90s kids who grew up romanticizing wanting to get married. I was young when I realized I was queer; when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I said “Lady Gaga’s fashion designer,” imagining myself alone in a mansion full of clothes, with Cher Horowitz’s futuristic closet.
In the LGBTQIA+ Society, we’ve always been sex positive first. When I joined when I was 18, I met the multitude from people in sextet polycules to people who wanted nothing to do with anyone, and I learned that sex is often gatekept by cisnormative society to control people, that sex is a social language just like any other.
It does something to you, every time you’re with someone.
Your generation. Obsessed.
What my family says matters a lot to me, even if I don’t know if I agree. I try to take to heart their advice, even when they just think they’re right.
He seems like he’s got something to prove -
His existence, maybe? That his past doesn’t determine his future?
- an axe to grind with the world -
The world that elected Donald Trump, who’d rather all us queers and browns disappear than live another day in “his” country? Why wouldn’t he have an axe?
Why not live every day as freely as possible while we have it? That’s what being polyamorous means to me, not limiting ourselves to structures from the past that the people who hate us worship.
i cant wait to see you toooooooo
I switch off my phone and catch another glimpse of the TERF’s back as I turn to face the wall.
