I don’t lay awake in bed at night thinking about my femininity. I don’t wake up taking score of how I will be perceived by the world. I don’t sit in class drumming my pencil to the sound of my thoughts reminding me that if I were born 50 years earlier, I wouldn’t be sitting here. The table beneath my notebook may bear generations of men’s names carved into the wood, and although it perpetuates them, my seat at the table is an opposition to the very notion that Yale is only for men.