Thursday, February 14, 2013

February 14, 2013


Warning: the content of this Valentine’s Post contains graphic images, language and experiences.

Now that I have your attention, let’s begin.  I want to talk about America’s problem with rape.

Happy Valentine’s Day.

It’s a post I’ve been stewing over for quite a while now and the more newscasts I hear, the more stories told, the more images shared, the more I know how important this post is. 

I’ll try not to make this personal.

But it is personal.  One out of every two people in the world is a woman.  Duh.  And one out of every three women is raped.  Yikes.  Are you at work right now?  Look around you.  How many women do you see?  So, statistically, how many of them have been victims of sexual abuse?  Still at home this morning?  Then, how many women are in your family (moms, sisters, cousins, grandmas, daughters, aunts)?  Now, statistically, how many of those women have been raped?  Has rape become personal for you yet?

I don’t care how Christian a home, how safe a neighborhood, how rich a family… one in three… one in three.  You can’t say it’s not personal.

Like many sexual “things,” rape is not a typical topic for the dinner table.  Miscarriages, STDs, masturbation, four play, even pregnancy are rarely discussed among families, friends or in our education system.  Other than a quick, “Did you hear who’s going to have a baby?” Sex is a topic that Mother’s big blue etiquette book has strictly labeled taboo.  And sexual topics remained that way until sometime past year.

But then the Republican party decided to throw in their two cents. 

Now, this is not a political post.  I know many Republicans who are sensitive to these issues and fight for women’s & gay rights (I don’t actually, but I’m confident they’re out there).  However, some of their party members were highlighted in the news not only for saying abominable things about women, but for saying scientifically false things about women, as any fifth grader who didn’t sleep through their science lesson could tell you.

(For the record, as of February 14, 2013, impregnation occurs when a sperm attaches itself to the egg.  No proof yet of any chemicals, muscle spasms, or magical mini-armies within a woman’s body that can prevent that from happening… despite Republican assertions.  If there were, I think we all would kiss the pill and IUDs and all that other expensive stuff goodbye!)

In addition to Republicans raising the issue (thanks guys, no seriously – thanks for raising the issue), you may have heard of something called a smart phone and You Tube and all these other great marvels that modern technology gives us.  All of a sudden, date rape and gang rape and all sexually deviant acts that are usually confined to corn fields and corner bars and your cousin’s parents’ bedroom have made their way to cyber space, and the world is waking up not to soldiers raping women in Darfur, but to football players raping drunk teenagers at parties, boys gang raping pre-pubescent girls, college kids committing suicide because of their rapists are graduating with honors. 

Did you miss the video of the jocks fingering a passed out girl and eventually sticking their members inside her?  Fortunately, this guy didn’t.  And his criticism of America is SPOT ON.  In fact, I don’t even know why I’m writing this post.  America should just watch this video and be done with sexual deviance.


Did you miss the story of the 18 men who raped an 11 year old girl?  That’s probably because the news reported it barely using the word rape, and asked the vitally important question (note the sarcasm), “Where was her mother?” (if you can’t flat out blame the child – the little girl – blame the next best female, her mom).

And if you’re going to say rape happens because of what woman are wearing nowadays, I have two questions for you… 1. How lame are the men in America that they can forfeit their morality, honorability and accountability because of fashion?  And 2. Here is brave lady who shows you what she was wearing when she was raped…



Pretty sexy, huh?

OMG, you guys this is nothing new!  In something like 1995, I watched Kids, over at a friend’s house, and I learned that for a teenager: drinking was dangerous, sex is scary, and AIDS is easily spread.  But thankfully, that wasn’t a culture I typically ascribed to. 

Fast forward fifteen years, and I hear some asshole on the radio talking about how rape is God’s will, and all of a sudden, I lose control in my car.  My head swings violently back and forth and my feet begin shaking. 

“Fucking Republicans,” I think.  Only a fucking Republican would cause me to have an episode in my car on my way home from work.  And all I thought I had to fight was rush hour.

Like I said, this is a graphic post.

But it’s personal too.  And now you get to hear my dirty little secret: I was sexually abused as a child. 

Truthfully, most women in your life, even those who weren’t raped, can tell you stories of harassment, inappropriate touching, discrimination because of gender, and the list goes on and on.  You name it; we’ve all experienced it.  We live in a grotesquely sexist society.  

I too had my bucket list – not of stuff to do – but of stuff done to me.  The classmate who groped my butt in public, and the pastor who told me to forgive him.  The friend who “played house” by humping me in my bedroom, and the mom who thought it was just kids being kids.  The boyfriend who made me touch him.  The boss who aimed spit balls at my boobs. The colleague who told me who told me what to wear to work.  The list goes on and on.

But I didn’t know how far back it went.

And that’s enough of my personal life for this blog, but suffice it to say, there’s more.  I am the one in three.  That’s why I’m so angry.  And that’s why I had a visceral reaction to a republican on the radio, and almost wrecked my car.

Do you know what happens when you’re being sexually abused? 

If you’re awake and alert, you only see light.  Maybe that’s God shining down on us in our misery.  Promising us that She is there, that She will take away the face and the feelings and help our bodies defend against the offense.  Or you see scenery.  Not the perpetrator, but the trees, the house next door, the sky, the ceiling, the color of furniture.  You cling to what is real, stationary, and everything else fades away. 

Why am I telling you this and not my therapist?  Because sexual deviancy starts at home.  We have to teach our fathers, our brothers, and our sons to treat women as beautiful sacred creatures, as equal to men.  We have to teach our people that sex is sacred, not a right or an opportunity or a toy.  We have to promote legislation that protects our grandmothers (yep, they get raped too!), our mothers, our sisters and our daughters (and our sons – I haven’t even touched on that aspect) and their sexual reproductive organs and their dignity. 

When I was in college they called me stringent, when I was in grad school, they called me a femi-nazi.  But I’ll never forget listening to one Christian man give his testimony at a graduation event, and hearing my name come up.  “And I’d like to thank Ann, for not letting me make jokes about women, and for teaching me that women are important too.”  I was proud then.  It makes me sad now. 

Have I become too laxidasical in my old age (smiley face – I’ll be 35 in May)?  Have I finally given up on speaking up on behalf of women? 

Truth be told, I didn’t know that people were legitimately sexist against women until college!  (Thank you mom & dad).  I thought women jokes were like blond jokes (Why did the blonde get fired from the m&m factory?  She threw out all the Ws!”), and were just silly ways to get a laugh.  I didn’t realize they were founded in a worldview – that women can’t do what men can.   That women are less.  Unequal.  Products.  Projects.  Property.

It’s messed up.  Really, it is.  And I don’t have the answer.  All I can do is write, and grieve, and try to love every child and adult I come in contact with as the whole and beautiful person God made them to be.

And I can write blogs.  And share youtube videos.  And pictures.  And beg you, to please, get help if you can’t control your sexuality.  And please, love the women in your life, protect them, stand up for them, give them grace… because undoubtedly someone else won’t.

Saturday, January 12, 2013

An Apologetic For Believing Men Are An Inferior Gender


There’s a partially stuffed reindeer on the floor of my living room that is getting more action than I am.

For half an hour on Thursday I had to listen to my boyfriend’s Shih Tzu huff & pant as he humped away at the fuzzy toy that proved just her size.  I admit, initially I tried to stop him, but my yelling upset my own dog so much that she turned the bestial nuptials into a threesome by proceeding to hump the Shih Tzu. 

Sign.

My “person” (my grandma told me I am too old now to describe a man as my boyfriend) and I have had sex once this week, and it was quite an effort to get to that point, let me tell you.  Lots of Dowton Abbey episodes, and surprise flowers, and cooked dinners and prosecco and the-woman-he-texted-on-New-Year’s-Eve-is-just-an-old-friend-and-I-need-to-relax-and-trust-his-love conversations to get me in the mood.  Yes, this time around it’s my fault.  I’m the one who doesn’t want to have sex. But at least I have a good reason.

I was sexually abused as a child.

That’s the first time I’ve ever written those words. 

About six months ago the stars began aligning, calling me to examine some nuggets of truth, nuggets of darkness that needed the light.  I began a special type of therapy at the suggestion of my counselor, and soon I was off… down the metaphorical dark corridors into surprisingly well lit, if unsupervised, areas: backyards, basements, bedrooms, and sidewalks.  Playmates and predators alike disrupted my imaginary games, walks home from school and summer fun.   Some of these stories I remember, and rationalized and wrote off a long time ago. 

But some I had forgotten.

It’s no wonder I hated wearing dresses, staying home alone, and eating mac n cheese.

I know, that last one doesn’t make any sense; just trust me.

However, a few months after the start of the new therapy, my counselor called a halt.  It was too intense and too traumatic.  Like many stressful situations, there is a good reason they were repressed, and now, half exposed, we needed to stop the peep show.

Maybe I’m too flippant with my metaphors, but looking into your past, into the experiences of a three year old who doesn’t have words can be like trying to see through a piece of paper with one little pin prick in it and expecting it to open as a window to the other side.  Even now, six months later, the story is not easily written. 

I sat down to write about Christmas and New Year’s and parties and funny anecdotes, but as I passed that poor partially stuff reindeer on the floor, this story began to unfold.  It’s my defense.  No longer hidden in my strained muscles from whence all our initial defenses come, it is now my verbal defense, my articulation of why I don’t hold men in high esteem, why I might have a slight commitment problem, why there’s a stocking hanging on my parents’ fireplace with the letters BFOTY (for my Boyfriend of the Year), or why I can’t seem to have sex any more even though I used to really like it.

This story is my apologetic for why I believe men are an inferior gender… Chapter One: I was sexually abused as a kid.  The End.

Oh, God, I hope not.

Monday, July 16, 2012

Ode to Tequila


Ode to Tequila

Dear tequila,
Treat me gently
For we are friends
These twelve years and counting
Since I moved to Texas and met you

A swig from the bottle,
A gift from that country singer
Someone knew
At the graduation party I threw

We were so grown up
Masters degrees in hand

Mastering nothing.
I’m sure I was hung over
The next day.

Treat me gently now though,
Tequila,
I am older and more mature
I do not treat my ills with vodka
Or cheap wine in a box
I choose you, tequila,
To wash away my woes
Bolster my confidence
Calm my nerves
I am older and wiser
And can hold my liquor

(It’s not true)
and that’s in part why I drink you
because you do not make me lurch like vodka. 
Writhe like white wine.
What happened to my youth?
My constitution?
Tequila is the only man who treats me right.

Wait, what?

It is the only liquor that keeps me company,
I mean.
Keeps me sane.
Helps me sleep.
Calms the restless leg,
Soothes the sciatica
God I’m old, but so are you. 
1898, Espolon Reposado
100% De Agave
Product of Mexico,
Over ice,
I love you.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

March 22, 2012

I want to write but my journal is in the baby’s room and she’s asleep.

I want to write about how I lost my journal (the one that caused me to begin the one I have now) and how it’s either in a landfill somewhere deteriorating more quickly than it should or some Hispanic girl is reading it to her boyfriend, a page a night, before they laugh and have sex, fornicating their way through some middle class middle age white girl’s experiences.

I want to write about back acne. About how it’s appearing on my otherwise milky smooth body. About how my mother blames my father and how I get it from him, but if so, why did I not get it from him until I was 33? Does this have something to do with getting off birth control a year and a half ago? Why in the world did I do that anyway, it has made me a much moodier person who my gynecologist describes as who I really am. But she’s kind of a bitter bitch who hates men, even her own son I think, she speaks of him so disparagingly, and perhaps women too because we continue to want men.

I want to write about how for the past two days I’ve been indulging in art (tv and books) that delve into the two topics I hate the most: mental health disorders and sex.

Yes, I hate sex.

I mean, I love it, but I hate it too. Always have. I cried when my first boyfriend made me give him a hand job so that he could orgasm. As a kid, I refused to eat macaroni and cheese because it reminded me of penises. It’s for reasons like that that my therapist thought I had been abused in adolesence. That and I hate it when older men touch me.

The irony of course is that an older man does touch me, many times a week now. My boyfriend is 53 and thus has 20 years on my modest thirty-something and quite a bit of experience too. He’s so many things that I want, so I hate him. He’s stable and emotionally honest and wants to talk about things and understand me and I hate it. I really do. It’s like some stupid chick flick on TV that I turn off because it reeks of clichés and unrealistic nuances. It makes me sick.

I indulge the conversations because I can’t just go through life dating someone for one to three months and then ending it. It can’t all be bliss and pheromones.

Fuck.

Talk about your mental disorders.

My boyfriend says I’m emotionally inaccessible. That, while I am a great actress, I keep everything bottled up inside. That the walls in my psyche are huge and won’t come down for anyone, anything.

I hate that too.

I’ve spent my whole life as an open book. You wanna talk about depression? Sure. I’ve got it. You wanna talk about boys? Sure, I’ve had them. Religion? Okay, I’m a minister. Politics? No problem, I’m a liberal. It’s ridiculous. There isn’t a soul in the world who has known me longer than a week and not known half of my life story.

I’m an open book and people find that mezmorizing. Especially men. And it’s wonderful and horrible all at once to hold that much power over men only to know that it must be relinquished before anything real can begin. Before a relationship can happen. Because relationships only really exist between real, humbled and broken people. And there’s no sense in idol worship. And no sense in loving unconditionally. While the former happens every day on magazine racks and in the evening news, the latter only happens in stories. Only in loves at first sights. Only to Cathy & Ken and maybe Jane & Bill out of all the couples I’ve ever met in my life.

Fuck.

It’s such a hard balance wanting to be with someone (anyone) who will adore and worship me, but wanting to be with someone who is also capable of putting me in my place.

Write a book everyone says, but why? How? People want to read books with resolution. Books in which love triumphs. Books where you-know-who dies and Ron & Hermione finally get together. In the end of my story, I don’t get the boy, so why not settle for one who’s nice and makes enough money to support my theater habit? Stop being dramatic, you say, but seriously, best sellers don’t end with, and so the young girl learned how to date very well and very wisely.

I’m very tired now. My acupuncturist pointed out several years ago that “tired” is my code word for “depressed.” Most emotionally handicapped people have such words. So there’s mine. And now I’m tired. Tired. Depressed.

And I know I should go back to therapy, but it’s so hard. It’s so much work. And I’m so tired (literally, I think) of working. Life is too long and knowledge and illumination so vast and quite frankly, I’m not a patient person. I love immediate gratification.

Patience is not a virtue I possess.

I can sing, write, dance and act. I can act with the best of them. So perhaps I will put on a sassy outfit and go play my part tonight, the happy actor who quit her real job and is dating a man whose old and rich and emotionally mature. Look at her being such a grown up. Isn’t she marvelous. Just marvelous.

And not a tired bone in her body. She just goes, goes, goes.

And never gets tired.

Nope, I never get tired.