A Fine Time to Leave Me, Lucille

sawdust

The floor was thick with sawdust, on purpose. The signs hanging on the busy walls (those filled with animal heads, kitsch, and signatures in black marker) described how the Red Dog bar in Juneau had been built in 1912, to entertain the gold rushers here. I pictured the classic Wild West setup, with girls named Kitty in scandalous clothing, men in hats playing loud poker at the tables, and swinging saloon doors. They’d done a beautiful job making this space feel just like that. Crowded walls, greasy food, cheap beer, and a man who looked like an old-timey prospector playing the guitar on the small stage up front.

He sang a melancholy Johnny Cash song while I ordered a rum and Coke, casually observing the other patrons. The employees were dressed in period costumes. I pictured them here every day, making drinks, fries, and oyster shots for the thousands of cruise passengers who docked in the city in for mere hours. The tourists hit this gem of a town like a plague of locusts, buzzing in and out, consuming everything, until they flew back to their buffets, drinks, and pools aboard the ship. Two or three ships every day, clogging the streets, then leaving the place quiet in the evenings, for just the locals and the more long-term tourists, the ones more like me.

Four white couples sat all around me, and at least three of them were shit-faced drunk. At 8 pm on a Sunday night. The other couple, they never looked up from their phones, and I never saw them sip their beers. I casually listened to the stutters of conversation I could hear around me, but I tuned them out and instead focused on the singer. His leathered skin, his twisting white mustache, the oak barrel country twang in his voice, it was all just delicious. I sipped my drink as he sang.

“This next song is a favorite of mine,” the singer announced. “It’s by my old friend, Kenny Rogers. He told me about this woman, the one named Lucille, personally. He wrote a song about her! Sing along with the chorus if you know it.” He clearly didn’t actually know Kenny Rogers, but it somehow added to the authenticity of the experience.

And in his beautiful register, he began “Lucille.” This song automatically conjured up a bitter and happy nostalgia within me. How many times had I heard this classic country song in my teenage years, when my stepfather was in one of his good moods, filling the house with joy, love, and consistency. But those periods always followed an incident of extreme violence. Someone struck with an open hand, or grounded for weeks for with no cause, or called names until they cried, and then on came the happy music. Into the room came “Lucille.” Had I even heard this song in the two decades of my life since my stepfather had been gone? It felt strange to hear it now.

He sang, using Rogers’ words, of the bar in Toledo where a lonely and overwhelmed Lucille walked in and sat on a nearby stool, pounding back a few drinks. You don’t learn until later in the song that Lucille is trapped in a bad marriage with four hungry children and an overworked farmer for a husband. But in the second line of the song, you learn how she takes off her wedding ring, and she shortly announces that she’s looking for a good time.

But the singer changed things, trying to get a laugh. He sang, “On a barstool, she took off her clothes.” He stopped playing, then said, “Oh, did I say clothes? I of course meant ring!” He cackled, then kept laughing as the drunk crowd just talked over his music. The words tell of the singer moving down next to Lucille, seeing an opportunity with a willing woman, but immediately the singer saw the woman’s husband enter, a mountain of a man with calloused hands. The first chorus echoed that man’s words to his wife, and I sang along loudly.

“‘You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille, with four hungry children and a crop in the field. I’ve had some bad times, lived through some sad times, but this time the hurtin’ won’t heal. You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.'”

After the chorus, the singer stopped, explaining that that wasn’t the way it really happened. In the real story, as Rogers had told it to him, he said, Lucille’s husband had come in and let Lucille just how he felt. He’d walked in yelling, telling Lucille exactly what she was.

“The real chorus goes like this. It’s almost the same, but just sing it like this,” he said. “‘You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.‘ Then you just call out what her husband called her in that bar. ‘You bitch! You whore! You slut!’ Those are the actual words used in the real story! See, just try it with me. ‘You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.’ You bitch! You whore! You slut!’ Hey, you did great! Doesn’t that feel good! Let’s try the chorus all together now! ‘You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.’ You bitch! You whore! You slut! ‘With four hungry children, and a crop in the field!'” 

I was astounded. The audience all around me screamed the words out enthusiastically, eager to slut-shame Lucille as much as possible, or perhaps just thrilled to get to shout those words in public. The girl in front of me, the whitest white girl of all, shouted the words extra loud and with enthusiasm, her middle fingers raised up for effect. “You bitch! You whore! You slut!” she repeated, before taking a swig of her beer, drunk laughing, then leaning over to her husband and whispering a secret. “That’s hilarious, that slut!”

The song went on, into the third voice. The singer ordered whiskey and took Lucille back to his hotel room, but was unable to go through with it, because he couldn’t stop thinking about what the husband said. Cue the second chorus, and the audience happily called Lucille a whore and a bitch one more time.

The singer took his hand off the guitar and leaned into the microphone. “Now, on the radio, that was the end of the song. Kenny Rogers couldn’t get away with publishing the fourth verse, the censors wouldn’t allow it. But he told it to me. Ladies and gentlemen, right here, in the Red Dog, you can hear the real ending of the classic song, Lucille, are you ready?” The crowd cheered. I felt a little nervous. This man was not treating Lucille well, and I just knew it was about to get worse.

In the secret fourth verse, he sang about how Lucille had left the hotel room, and so the singer had returned to the bar, where he had met two sisters. He took both sisters back to his hotel room, took of their clothes, and was about to fool around with both of them, when Lucille came back into the hotel room, still wanting to be with him, apparently. And to get her to go away, now that he had better prospects, the singer had repeated the husband’s words in a third chorus.

“‘You picked a fine time to leave me, Lucille.’ You bitch! You whore! You slut!'”

I walked out of Red Dog, my mind spinning with the whole experience. I felt disgusted. I felt strangely protective of Lucille, though she was fictional. She had once represented happy times in my home. I didn’t like how the crowd had slut-shamed her, blaming her for seeking an escape from her tortured marriage. I didn’t like the man in the song and how he’d shamed Lucille while he himself was trying to sleep with two sisters. I knew it was all supposed to be a joke, that people there had been laughing, but I kept hearing the crowd chanting bitch, slut, and whore, and I kept seeing that woman with her raised middle fingers. They shamed Lucille for sexualized behavior while screaming with enthusiasm for Kenny Rogers and his supposed debauchery. It was gross. Lucille didn’t deserve that, I decided. And then I remembered the venue, the atmosphere of the people there.

The floor was thick with sawdust, on purpose.

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Mrs. God

mrsgod

Despite the warnings not to, I once picked up an anti-Mormon pamphlet. I was a missionary at the time, and we had stepped into a Christian bookstore, casually browsing. My companion casually glanced over my shoulder as I read.

In poorly drawn comic strips, the pamphlet tore apart the Mormon version of God. Instead of believing in a divine being, it said, Mormons believed in an immortal alien, one who had once been a man before ascending to godhood and inheriting his own planet. God called his planet Kolob, it said, and he had pure white skin, white hair, and a white beard. He created Earth and possibly other planets so that he would have a place for his billions of spirit kids to get bodies and to be tested, so he could sort the good ones out from the bad ones.

More than anything, the pamphlet emphasized that God had millions of wives, a great eternal harem of women. They had all been mortal women like him, and he had claimed them, bounding them to him forever. They were his property, and the billions of spirit children descended from all of them. Though this may not be a direct quote (hey, it’s been 20 years), the pamphlet stated something like “Mormons don’t believe in a God. They believe in a white alien immortal who engages in endless Celestial sex with his millions of goddess wives.”

My companion and I had laughed about it at the time, and then quickly put the pamphlet back. We had always been instructed not to read things like that, because it could cause us to doubt our very testimonies and belief systems. He and I never talked about it again. But the pamphlet stuck with me. It made me give serious thought to the ideas I had around God for the first time. The pamphlet had worded it all in very abrasive ways, but it hadn’t said anything that was necessarily wrong.

I was taught all about God growing up. Above all else, I was taught that he was a loving father, one with infinite and unconditional love, who knew my heart and thoughts, who knew every choice I would ever make before I could make it. He expected repentance when I made wrong choices, prayer, ten per cent of my income, and strict obedience to all of his commandments, and in return he promised me eternal salvation and glory. And, yes, I was promised that the most very righteous would inherit his kingdom, in other words I could become my own god with my own planet someday.

But we were also taught about the origins of God. “As man is, God once was. As God is, man may become,” they taught. God’s name was Elohim, and he was once a mortal who had been obedient to his god, and thus he had become his own God. Which meant there was god before god, and a god before him. It was like one giant capitalistic society, with vast trusts and inheritances built in. Follow the rules, and get the rewards. Don’t, and God will judge you (justly of course) as being worthy of one of the lesser levels of heaven, where you’ll just hang out for eternity. Unless you commit the extreme sin of denying God himself, then it’s Outer Darkness for you. (Those letters are capitalized, cause Mormons believe that is an actual place. Outer Darkness. Where the evil souls float for eternity, no bodies allowed).

And God did live on Kolob, his planet base somewhere in space. And he did look like a white-skinned man with a beard in all the Mormon pictures. And Mormons did believe in polygamy, and they did believe that God practiced it. And they did say that he was our literal father, and he did have billions of spirit children, which probably meant he had millions of wives. And that meant I had a Heavenly Mother in addition to a Heavenly Father. We just didn’t talk about her. I didn’t know her name. But apparently she was once a human too then, and she had gotten to Kolob by sealing herself to God in life, one among millions, and then he had taken her to Heaven with him. That’s how human girls now were supposed to do it. Men got to inherit God powers and kingdoms, and women got to attach themselves to men and go along for the ride. And presumably my Heavenly Mother was just one of those women, and my only Mother, so those other millions would be my Great God-Aunts?

I asked about Heavenly Mother once, when I was a teenager, in my Seminary class. (Seminary was an actual class that I attended during high school hours, in between History and Algebra, at the church across the street). She was mentioned in the Mormon hymn “Oh My Father”, a hymn that had been written by Eliza R. Snow, herself one of the plural wives of Joseph Smith, the founder of Mormonism. One stanza was clear.

“In the heav’ns are parents single?
No, the thought makes reason stare!
Truth is reason; truth eternal
Tells me I’ve a mother there.”

I had raised my hand and asked why we didn’t talk about Heavenly Mother much. The seminary teacher, a good man in his late thirties, who had been married for six years and now had five children under the age of five, had responded kindly, thoughtfully. “We don’t take the name of God in vain as a sign of respect. In the same way, God doesn’t allow us to speak about Heavenly Mother. She is far too sacred.”

I write all of this at the age of 39. When I try to reason through these logic puzzles of my former belief system, I crinkle up my nose like I’ve just smelled something unpleasant. There is no reason behind any of fit, it doesn’t hold up. Little things make me cringe (like if God is Mary’s father, yet he also fathered Jesus through her, but he is also Jesus…), and images of millions of women lining up in white with their faces veiled so that they can devote themselves to one man, well, that just flies in the face of every one of my values.

I have no idea if there is a God out there or not. I’m kind of leaning toward not. But if there is one, I’m just going to presume it is a she, not a he. Women give birth, nurture and sustain. Men chop and tear, rend and conquer. If I ever pray again, it will definitely be to Mrs. God.

Or is it Ms.?

 

 

 

Rape is a Verb

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abduct. abuse. molest. violate. pillage. spoil. plunder. devastate. loot. ransack. rob. 

In graduate school, I was hired by a feminist professor to create a group on campus called CEASE. It was meant to be a club where men could get together and discuss the impact of their violence against women in society. The teacher had received a sizable grant to create this club. In my interview with her, she heard about my experiences as a Mormon missionary and my volunteer opportunities as a student in undergraduate school, she asked about my professional experiences and educational passions, and she looked over my impressive GPA and letters of reference. She then offered me ten dollars an hour, for up to ten hours per week, to create this group.

maraud. raid. snatch. raze. ruin. wreck. consume. damage. demolish. disrupt. impair. 

I had always been interested in men’s issues. As a survivor of sexual abuse myself, I had read text books devoted to men’s healing, and I’d become aware of the concepts and struggles behind masculinity. I’d watched powerful documentaries on the same topics. The culture of men was one of bullying, of hyper-masculinity, of always being the toughest and the strongest. Men was encouraged culturally to demonstrate their power, first over women and then over other men, particularly ones who were weak or more feminine. Words were used to constantly shame others, to show power and position, to come out on top. Women were called bitch and slut, weaker men were called fag and sissy. The expectation to be strong started at birth and was reinforced in the school districts and homes, and then well into adulthood.

shatter. annihilate. crush. desecrate. desolate. despoil. exterminate. sack. smash. 

Men filled the prison systems to overflowing. Men committed atrocities in war. Men murdered. Men hit. Men raped. Men molested. Men committed violence. Men ruled the world and smashed all else beneath their feet, and they fought to maintain that power at any cost. Old movies and television shows were filled with jokes about men being forced to hit their wives to keep them in place. Entire cultures were built on men finding sexual pleasure while denying women theirs. Slavery, atomic bombs, concentration camps, hate crimes. Entire cultures of violence and horrible atrocities committed by men toward women and other men. The implications of this in organized religion, in sports culture, in Hollywood, in video games, in laws, in distribution of wealth, in cartoons, in big business, and in quiet family homes was immeasurable across time, and immeasurable in today’s society. My mind spun as I read and learned about men, and their culture, and what they were capable of. And I was now being asked to start a group and engage men on these topics.

overthrow. wrest. absorb. deplete. devour. dominate. squander. command. control. 

I had no idea how to compute all of this information as a 24 year old student. My experiences with men had been strictly within my own spheres. I was a white Mormon kid, and nearly all of my interactions had been with other white Mormon guys, or as a consumer of white American media. Every one of my experiences showed me that men were the leaders, the teachers, the rulers, the guides. Men were presidents and bosses, hunters and rulers. Women were meant to be in the home, to be mothers, to work if they had to and then only in fields suited for women, perhaps as teachers, nurses, or social workers. Occasionally, women were accepted as leaders, but only when men weren’t available; queens when there were no kings, mothers as heads of household when there were no fathers. I began to realize that nearly every part of my upbringing reinforced the ideas that women should stay silent, be pretty, and step aside so that men could do the work and run the world on their terms. I’d fully participated in this culture without even realizing it. And my new awareness came at tremendous discomfort and pain.

monopolize. influence. reign. scour. eviscerate. disembowel. subvert. empty. exhaust. 

I began reflecting upon my personal experiences of men in my life. At 12, I had been given the Priesthood, a religious authority I would carry with me for as long as I remained a worthy Mormon. I was given a lineage of my Priesthood, stretching back to the origins of the Mormon church, from man to man, passed down to me. Ordinances in the church could only be passed from men on, and authority to do these ordinances only from man to man. In addition, I had the last name of my father, who took his name from his father. I carried with me masculine rights and expectations. I would grow up to throw balls, to serve a Mormon mission, to marry a woman who would take my name, to father children, to choose a career and support a family. I had to do all of these things in order to be a successful man. On top of that, even if I liked men, I would pretend to like women. For that is what men did. And while I did this, girls were meant to do the opposite, to be smart, pretty, and ready for a man to come along and give them purpose in their lives.

drain. dump. consume. destroy. suppress. waste. extinguish. bulldoze. wreck. erase. 

And yet the men in my own life were, universally, the people who had hurt me. There were good men in my life, to be sure, men of power and strength, grace and kindness. But it was a man who had molested me. It was a brother who bullied me at home, and male peers who bullied me at school. It was a father who had abandoned me. It was a stepfather who had ruled over me with fists and shaming words. It was male church leader who had told me I must keep quiet about my homosexuality and seek to cure it, and another who had later told me it couldn’t be cured, that I would just have to learn to live with it. It was men who surrounded me on the street, mugged me, and knocked me unconscious with fists. It was men who called me sissy, fairy, and fag. No single woman had been unkind or had hurt me. It was men, all men.

topple. wipe Out. pulverize. dismantle. obliterate. trash. crush. bankrupt. injure. mar. 

The research showed statistics. It talked about the rates of sexual assaults on college campuses, in families, and in church. One study reported that the greatest fears expressed in groups of women were fears of being raped or attacked by men. The same study stated that the greatest fears expressed in groups of men were fears of being laughed at, or seen as less than, by other men. Women were afraid of men, and men were also afraid of men! It was here that I first became aware of how scared a woman is walking to her car at night in a dark parking lot, or of being alone in an elevator with another man, or of being watched in a bar be predatory eyes, or of being alone with a male authority figure. I became aware how women were blamed for their own rapes, beatings, or assaults, dismissed with scorn and told they should have known better than to speak up, provoke, flirt, or be alone. It was here I first learned that there is an entire society, an entire culture, built on Rape.

hurt. overwhelm. wrack. unmake. upset. undo. total. level. break. dethrone. dismiss. 

With this new awareness came great shame. I sensed a deep awareness of my own complicity in this, through participation in this culture of rape. It seeped into every section of society. I had never been violent, had never committed a rape, yet I had remained ignorant and unaware of the wider issues. I had participated fully without realizing it. And I realized I had been completely denied an education. I had never been taught more than this, never made aware of the truth. Because men controlled education. Law. Health care. History itself. The entire world was built on rape.

abolish. expel. decline. disband. dissolve. dispatch. disperse. divorce. repudiate. push. 

I returned to the teacher after my first few weeks of research, feeling overwhelmed and despairing. I can’t possibly do this, I said, I don’t know how. And she told me that my helplessness was good, that that was the perfect place to begin a group like this from. I needed to feel helpless and overwhelmed. I needed to be willing to listen. I needed to realize that men didn’t know what was happening around them, that their rage was unjustified and inexcusable, yet also needed to be expressed. Men needed to be held accountable, and also needed help, treatment, understanding, counseling, and love. How else would we make make change in the world, she asked.

supersede. assault. defile. thrust. wrench. twist. wring. extort. invade. debauch. punish.

And so I made up fliers, advertising a weekly support group, a lunchtime meeting where we could discuss topics in a safe space. For men only. I handed out brochures at the local fraternities, put up sign up lists in dormitory hallways. I went to sports games, visited other group organizations, and talked to peers. I planned out topics we could explore, preparing content. Men and religion. Men and pornography. Men and fatherhood. Men and sports. Men and movies. Men and sexual assault. Men and alcoholism. Men and bullying. Men and video games. There was more than I could cover in a year, but the group had to start somewhere.

befoul. profane. pollute. ravish. captivate. enthrall. restrict. ambush. beat. hit. hurt. 

And on the first week of the group, no one attended. I visited classrooms and advertised. On week two, no one attended. I created an online forum and posted in social media groups. On week three, no one attended. I stood outside the library and handed out fliers. On week four, no one attended. I continued reporting to the professor about CEASE, and she smiled and told me to keep notes on my planning and efforts. Se reminded me that some effort was better than none, and that even if no one attended, I was trying and I was doing a good job. I felt helpless and frustrated, I said. Think of how women feel, she said.

infiltrate. stab. strike. advance. aggress. bash. bat. beset. blister. brain. bust. clip. 

I held sixteen meetings of CEASE in all, and no one ever attended. I continued attending classes and writing papers, taking tests. I had an internship where I helped children who had been hurt by men, or who had been neglected by women who had been hurt by men. The world around me felt evil. In time, I graduated, and I became a therapist. I worked with veterans (hurt by men) and victims (hurt by men). I worked with sexual offenders and victims, rapists and victims, domestic abusers and victims. In nearly every session, there was some example of men hurting women, either in the direct story of the client or in their family. I regularly felt overwhelmed, hurt, and exhausted. The way violence by men, the way rape infiltrated every level of humanity hurt my heart.

clock. club. combat. kick. thrash. whip. slog. mug. punch. rush. wallop. whop. knock. 

In an early conversation with the professor, she asked me if I had an understanding of what women went through. Without telling her I was gay, I told her that I knew how it felt to be bullied for being different and to have someone treat me unfairly. I told her I had been molested and that no one had really taken it seriously, and how I didn’t feel like I could talk about it much. And she told me that I understood better than most men, then explained that in her experience, most women experience what I’d experienced in far greater quantities, and that they often felt helpless and powerless, and that it was far more frequent for women of color.

snuff. crucify. martyr. harrow. persecute. torture. torment. excoriate. rack. wrong.

Yet I also began to realize that while most men are never held accountable for their actions, are never prosecuted, and are never punished. But for those that are held accountable for sexual harassment, for battery, for domestic violence, for aggravated assault, for sexual assault, for murder… for those who have consequences, they are punished with fines, suspensions, or jail sentences. They aren’t offered treatment. They aren’t given an education to make change. Instead, they are penalized. And then they turn around and blame women.

inflict. offend. confine. spank. chastise. incarcerate. flog. exile. cuff. chasten. blacklist. 

It’s 2017 now, and I have worked as a therapist for nearly a decade and a half. My experiences in my office haven’t changed. I can hardly count the number of survivors of rape, assault, and molestation who have crossed my path, struggling to survive after being hurt by another, nearly always a man, and on occasion by a woman who has been hurt by a man. The modern media is full of headlines about atrocities that have been there all along. Every day there are stories of police brutality, murders, human trafficking, war atrocities, mass shootings, and sexual assault, and they are, every one of them, stories about men’s violence against women.

accost. fondle. injure. maltreat. hinder. meddle. misuse. caress. grope. squeeze. stroke. 

Every day lately there are stories about women’s experiences with men in power scattered across the media. Drugs dropped into drinks to make rape easier. Coercion and abuse of power. Quick gropes during photographs. Lewd words and labels. Threatening invitations in hotel rooms during work trips. Drunken encounters. Rape has become a topic for nighttime comedians to crack jokes about, and people are constantly feeling helpless, inundated by these stories.

paw. pet. grab. clutch. manipulate. maneuver. exploit. direct. massage. upstage. eclipse. 

And yet it is the stories in my own family that horrify me more. In a recent conversation with my mother, she told me about being a teenager, when a man entered her place of employment and thrust an envelope of pornography at her, moving as if to grab her, something she narrowly escaped. Decades later, she still remembers how this made her feel. And she, the survivor of abandonment and domestic violence at the hands of her husbands.

outweigh. govern. rule. dictate. boss. handle. outshine. overbear. override. sway. 

I think of one of my sisters, who had a boss harass her daily in her workplace. He would comment on her breasts, wonder about her sexual prowess, use lewd and offensive terms, and refer to his penis on a regular basis. She would come home daily, to her husband and children, shaking, scared, humiliated, and embarrassed, knowing that if she spoke up about this, it would be her word against his and that she might lose her job.

subjugate. tyrannize. enslave. tame. suppress. compel. squelch. quash. snuff. stamp. 

I think of another sister, who made friends with a neighbor and her husband, and how the husband would sometimes corner my sister, exposing his genitals and telling her how she could have him and his wife would never have to know, and how the same man got her phone number and would send her suggestive comments and photos of his penis. And when my sister finally grew bold enough to speak out, how her friend blamed her, choosing her husband’s side.

stifle. withhold. bottle. shush. silence. overpower. crack. bludgeon. whack. zap. shoot. 

I think of another sister who, as an adolescent, sat down in the bathtub privately only to have her stepfather enter the room, his eyes lingering as he stimulated himself through his clothing, before apologizing, saying his entrance was an accident. This same man constantly shamed her for her size, calling her fat and ugly during moments of anger, and offering her love and encouragement when he felt happy.

murder. assassinate. behead. butcher. decapitate. execute. massacre. slaughter. slay. 

I think of my recent family reunion, where I saw a creepy older relative, a man in his 70s, tell one of his nieces that she had ‘the best ass in the family’ as he grabbed her from behind, the same man who had commented on another niece’s breast size, the prettiness of another, the development of another. When I brought this up with another relative, I learned that many of the young women in the family have learned to never let themselves be alone with this man, how they felt objectified and uncomfortable, but how they didn’t want to speak up because they felt like that would hurt the man’s relatives.

strangle. choke. asphyxiate. drub. electrocute. eradicate. finish. garrote. hang. split. 

I think of my ex-wife, who told me stories of early development and being treated differently as an adolescent by boys who sought to exploit her for having breasts. I think of her stories as a student in high school and college, among students and teachers with wandering eyes and passing comments about her figure. I think of her stories as an employee in professional settings, where men would condescend to her because of her gender, using insulting tones, names, and phrases to speak with her.

knife. stab. liquidate. smother. screw. lay. shag. bang. bonk. hump. score. copulate. 

I think of the friends who confessed to me, in high school, that their fathers had hurt them, molested them. One told me of how her father used alcohol to get her sleepy, and how she woke to him touching her naked body when she was ten. One told me how her father had been coming into her room a few times per week to masturbate over her as she slept, and how this had gone on for years. One told me how her father would buy her gifts and tell her she was his special girl before and after he removed her clothing and had sex with her. All of these stories from one classroom in one high school in one small town in Idaho.

fornicate. mate. procreate. flatten. tarnish. disfigure. defame. embarrass. muddy. tar. 

I think of stories from colleagues and co-workers who have been sexually harassed by clients in academic settings, in doctor’s offices, in restaurants, in emergency rooms, in job interviews, in their own therapy offices. I think of their stories where they felt unsafe with strangers, co-workers, store managers, police officers, and friends. I think of how they’ve been cat-called or ogled at the gym, at stoplights, in public parks, over Facebook, in bars, and while walking down the street. And then I realize that if I’ve ever felt harassed or judged unfairly, it has been in isolated encounters, a handful of times over a span of decades, not constantly and pervasively across my life span.

plague. sadden. trouble. wrong. handicap. encumber. dishearten. overthrow. hound. 

And my thoughts return to my clients, hundreds of them over the years, who have been victimized in these and many other ways, men and women both, all hurt by men, and the culture of rape that surrounds them. Some have been raped by dates, some by brothers, some by husbands, some by boyfriends, some by fathers, some by strangers, some by bosses. Some of them have been raped serially, over and over for years, by the same man. And some have been assaulted by many men over the years. Some come from families where their sisters and mothers have been raped, and they fear that their daughters too will be raped.

pollute. smear. stain. sully. contaminate. discredit. debase. libel. pervert. warp. cheat. 

I think of women who through life as shells of themselves. Some remain in long term relationships with abusive men because they are afraid they won’t get to keep their children if they leave. Some don’t speak up about their rape for decades, if ever, because they feel like no one will believe them. Some dull their pain with alcohol, or purging, or unhealthy relationships, or drugs, or promiscuity, or religion. I think of women who have been taught that their looks, their ‘virtue’, or their ability to bear children are their sole sources of worth.

castigate. cheapen. reprove. immure. expel. batter. buffet. lacerate. scourge. smack. belt.

A few weeks ago, I sat with my sister in a coffee shop in Burlington, Vermont, and we talked about the rape culture headlines filling the news lately. We talked about how awful and incapacitating it is to read these headlines. I shared with her how many of my long-term clients in therapy were spending weeks just discussing how the news headlines were reminding them of their own traumas, and how at the same time they felt they were being validated for the first time. And I shared that everything can be boiled down to one single word, Rape, and how everything extends from there.

blight. blemish. abase. bastardize. decay. putrefy. suborn. reduce. fix. disfigure. lie. 

“Rape is a verb.” I said it aloud in conversation. It implied action, direct or indirect. Rape is something done. And yet that simple four letter word carries with it so many other words. A civilization of billions has been built upon that word, one spanning hundreds of years, and one that surrounds us now.

decompose. animalize. seduce. tempt. betray. deceive. persuade. entice. coax. swindle.

I took out a piece of paper, opened up my computer, and found an online thesaurus. I typed in the word Rape and I began copying down synonyms of the word, writing furiously. I wrote each word, then began clicking on the associated verbs, writing down those synonyms as well. My list expanded from one page to the next and then onto a third. My head began to ache. The words were ugly, violent, and vile. They were full of hate and pain.

steer. entrap. bait. hypnotize. mesmerize. question. belittle. denigrate. disparage. vilify. 

I wrote hundreds of words. After hours of writing, I finally stopped. I wasn’t finished. There were too many words in the language that related to destruction, murder, pain, violence, humiliation, domination, coercion, and sexual gratification. There were far too many shades of red and black. I ached, looking at my hastily scrawled words, all of them ugly in this context.

belie. blaspheme. blister. calumniate. curse. roast. revile. scorch. plaster. cripple. 

And then I thought of my sons. My ex-wife and I are working hard to raise sons who are feminists, who believe in equality, who treat women with respect, who vote thoughtfully. We have open discussions about race, sexual orientation, and feminism, and they are kind, thoughtful, articulate, and respectful children. Yet these boys, they are still subject to cartoons, interactions with children in school, video games. They aren’t immune. They get in arguments sometimes, and they play with other boys on the playground. And although I reinforce equality, non-violence, love, expression, and communication, they still sometimes punch, hit, and threaten. And every time it breaks my heart.

maim. rend. traumatize. shatter. sabotage. bruise. mutilate. wound. wrong. cheat.  cane.

But I will keep teaching them, and I will keep educating myself. I will keep educating myself. I will keep asking questions of my female friends and loved ones. I will listen. I will share, without judgment. I will believe them. I will have the hard conversations. I will hold those accountable who make others feel safe. I won’t hide. I will openly discuss and share, even when it makes people uncomfortable. I will be furious at the people in power and the ones who say they feel powerless yet still hurt others. I will strive, and push, and shout. For there are far too many synonyms for that ugly four letter word, all of them verbs, and verbs imply action. It will take action to fight back.

paddle. clobber. sock.  whip. strap. goad. horsewhip. cajole. barricade. lash. push. whale. flagellate. vanquish. kill. subdue. trounce. muffle. censor. erase. evade. omit. forget. puncture. maim. sabotage. bruise. mutilate. wound. wrong. cheat. harass. vex. stalk. haunt. hunt. chase. pursue. insult. provoke. humiliate. snub. smear. underestimate. taunt. mock. silence. gag. muzzle. mute. stifle. deaden. hush. interfere. conclude. end. break. block, pause. barricade. cease. discontinue. finish. cancel. terminate. restrict. pierce. penetrate. cleave. drill. enter. intrude. gash. plow. prick. slit. slice. slash. puncture. probe. spike. incise. bore. infiltrate. rupture. diminish. disturb. mortify. shock. bother. trouble. annoy. confound. malign. blacken. soil. stain. dirty. color. corrupt. putrefy. brainwash. prostitute. traffic. indoctrinate. bully. intimidate. torment. hector. kidnap. snatch. steal. pilfer. pirate. pitch. purloin. swipe. thieve. palm. pinch. life. kill. slay. poison. drown. exploit. take. justify. condone. rationalize. maintain. excuse. acquit. exempt. exonerate. indulge. forgive. pardon. tolerate. spare. relieve. whitewash. overlook. appease. discount. mollify. forget. ignore. omit. evade. 

RAPE.

Brattleboro: Coffee and the Meringue Queen

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The view from the coffee shop window was perfect: a gentle, sloping, wide river lazily flowing between a set of old railroad tracks and a moderate hilltop covered in the greens, browns, and oranges of fall. I found myself hoping, almost desperately, that a train would go by and shake the building so that I could count the boxcars as they went by, the way I did as a child.

“In high school, everything is going to change. Even junior high is much more intense than middle school. I mean, when I was younger, I could just have fun, but now I have to get really serious about my studies. I either want to go into international relationships or one of the sciences, depending on how a few things go this year. I’m only in eighth grade, but my mother tells me that this is the time to get ready for the rest of my life. She feels like girls are the future. My dad agrees.”

I tried tuning out the loud voice behind me, turning back to my computer to focus n editing my novel. I’d finished my memoirs months before, but hadn’t taken any time to proofread and edit it down, and that was one of the major reasons I was here in Brattleboro, Vermont, taking a week in new spaces so that I could focus without distractions.

“I mean, look at everything happening in the world. There are so many terrible things! But that’s why girls have to step in and save the day. We make up half of the population and we simply have to step up and clean up the mess if we are going to save the future. First from this administration, then from the top down or the bottom up everywhere else. I think we can do it! And for me, it starts with my education. That’s why I wanted to meet with you. I’d like more female mentors to teach me along the way.”

Now I was intrigued. I turned me head to casually look at the table behind me. A young woman who looked about 20 years old (but who was only 14 by her own words) sat facing an older woman. The student with the loud voice was beautiful, blonde hair that hung to her shoulders, green sweater, gold necklace, no make-up. She looked like someone who would start in a Disney show for teens. The older woman had her back to me, but she had on a black felt hat and a black scarf, and she was hunched over a cup of steaming coffee. I turned away, eavesdropping a bit more. I couldn’t hear the older woman’s soft voice as she spoke, but I continued hearing the booming alto of the teenager.

“I love that you were a teacher. I love that you taught poetry! And I love that you were part of building this community out here. Maybe we could meet every other week or so and just talk? I would love to read your poetry and share mine with you and hear about your stories here. May I read one of my poems now?”

The girl then read a short poem about sweeping crumbs under a rug, then using the rug to cover an ancient stain on her floor, and then transitioned that into society’s mistakes being swept under the rug historically, finishing the thought that perhaps it is best to leave messes out in the open and try to clean them up instead of just hiding them. I was stunned. Suddenly a Garth Brooks’ song came on the radio, and I was distracted by the bizarre contract of his words with hers. “Sometimes I thank God for unanswered prayers. Just because he doesn’t answer, doesn’t mean he don’t care.” That song now, during her impassioned speech about history, feminism, and owning mistakes? I couldn’t help but laugh as I turned my head, and the teen girl briefly made eye contact with me, clearly annoyed at my gaze. I turned back away, still smiling anyway.

The old woman spoke for a long while, and I got lost back in my book editing, but soon, the young woman was talking again, this time about her family.

“It’s me and my two brothers. I’m the oldest. My parents are really cool. We all contribute to meals. Like, my mom makes all the fish. Sockeye, bass, everything. I don’t like salmon much, but we do a lot of fish around the house. We use lots of vegetables, of course. Me, I’m the desert person. I love desserts. Always from scratch. I make French macaroons, and I use lots of berries. My favorite is meringue. I’m the meringue queen, I guess you could say. Did you know you could do meringue out of chick peas? It’s delicious.”

I looked across the table at my sister, who was sipping at her iced latte and reading a book. She attends an all girls’ college nearby, where her wife works in administration. A quarter of the all-female student population was international, and the school embraced transgender women as part of its student body. Hours before, we had checked into an Airbnb, where a female homeowner named Carol welcomed us, and we learned that she was a pastor at a local church. Next door to the coffee shop where I sat was a church with a giant rainbow banner proclaimed ‘God isn’t done speaking’. Just last night, I saw an online music video by Amanda Palmer that showcased incredible women saving the world through mothering, the final image of the video being Palmer herself pulling out a breast to feed a Donald Trump looking alike, soothing him to sleep as she took his phone and Twitter feed away. And behind me, a young feminist who loved poetry and meringue was seeking out a feminist mentor to learn the history of women.

As the two women behind me packed their bags to leave, I clicked on CNN to see the latest headlines. A tweet from Trump, who has been accused of sexual assault, shaming Al Franken for being accused of sexual assault. More allegations that all opposing news is “fake news”. More allegations against Roy Moore and Kevin Spacey. A massive oil spill. More Russian connections drawn toward Kushner and the Trump administration. Political revolution in Zimbabwe. A story about a homeless man posing with his wife’s corpse before dismembering her.

Literally every story about horrible men in power abusing that power and doing horrible things. I shuddered from exhaustion. Then I looked at my sister, then at the departing mentor and student, then back at the slowly flowing river, and I realized there is far more hope than the news headlines convey.

It would just make patience, trust, and a lot of strong voices working together.

Betty and Banana: raising very different kids

“I had a nightmare about princesses,” A, my six-year old son recently told me. He had a look of haunted exhaustion on his face, like if he heard one more word about princesses he might just give up on life completely.

A prefers monsters. Like the character Hagrid from Harry Potter, he finds the most ferocious creatures to the be the most worthy of his love. The more fangs, or claws, or poison sacs, or dragon wings, or spiky dinosaur ridges, or lava-spewing pustules the better. Lately, he’s had a particular affinity for the two-foot tall white-furred ferocious yeti that he received on his birthday. That day, he spent hours letting the yeti defeat each one of his super hero toys in turn, then the heroes returned for more rounds in greater numbers, yet the yeti stood triumphant in the end.

I recently came across a video of A when he was three. In it, he looks at the camera with his bright blue eyes while he lovingly pets the spiky back of a green T-Rex.

“His name is Terminus,” he says when I ask him. “He eats mommy snakes, baby snakes, and one spider.” When I ask him if Terminus has any friends, he tells me, “No. He ate all his friends.”

Terminus lined the toy shelf for years next to A’s other favorites, with names varying from Apples Juice to Ocean to Shrug. He always chose names out of the blue, but the names always stuck. But it wasn’t just dinosaurs, it was tigers, rhinos, trolls, ogres, snakes, dragons, and man-animal mutated hybrids of any kind. They soared and swooped through the house unendingly, A always perfecting their roars.

Yet A had nightmares of princesses. I read between the lines, hearing him say that he had nightmares of girl toys and girl things, anything less than roaring and horrid beasts that devoured anything before them. To him, princesses were sweet and pink and they sang songs and wanted to kiss boys, all terrible things that, to him, were much more frightening than a monster.

Yet A’s older brother, J, age 8, prefers princesses. Even as a baby, he reached for toys that would be considered more nurturing, like baby dolls, soft rabbits, and cute mice. More recently, he’s had a slight obsession with horses, and girls who ride them shooting arrows. He’s always been thrilled at the small and innocent being able to be the most powerful of all, saving the world against impossible odds and perhaps falling in love along the way.

Several months before, I had purchased him a collection of child versions of the Disney Princess toys, and, in order to make the set something the boys would play together, we endowed each princess with her own super power, so they could band together to form the Princess Patrol and fight evil. Belle was the leader and was super smart, Cinderella could make boys fall in love with her, Pocahontas was a natural hunter and tracker, Mulan knew kung-fu, Snow White could control animals, and Ariel was a super fast swimmer. There were 11 of them in all, and the boys took them on a myriad of adventures before the princesses, like every other toy for children these days, ended up on the bottom of the toy box because a new toy was receiving all of the attention.

My sons are being raised by a gay dad and a straight mom in two households, and we are a united front when it comes to parenting. Rather than enforcing any sort of gender or cultural norms, we have always let our sons just be themselves. We encourage kindness, fair play, honesty, teamwork, sharing, and listening, but we have never tried to change their interests. And for years now, their styles of play have melded together seamlessly, monsters fighting alongside princesses, instead of against each other. Just the other day, the giant yeti was helping to protect the little girl’s horse farm they had set up in the backyard, and all helped in the attacks against them. (I often play the villains).

Lately, I’ve been encouraging creative thinking and teamwork skills between my sons while embracing their individual play styles. I sat them before me, telling them they were going on an epic quest.

“You will be the Mystical Monkeys,” I told them. “Please select your names.”

J, excitedly wringing his hands, couldn’t pick one. “I, um, oh gosh, I don’t–um, I choose, um–”

“Speed it along, son.”

“Okay, I’m Betty!”

“And I’m Banana!” A followed.

And so the adventures of Betty and Banana, the Mystical Monkeys, began. They were each given one super power, passive powers I chose to encourage thinking. Betty was granted the power to change the color of anything, and Banana to turn invisible for a few seconds at a time. They retrieved a magic coconut from a treetop after fighting off an army of tarantulas (though A called them “try-ranch-ulas”) before swimming across a sea full of kissing mermaids. After a series of quests, Betty could then grow rabbit ears to jump high, and A developed a fire fist and a rock fist. They braved the Valley of the Stone Trolls, unscrambled the words to a magic spell, and entered a cave to answer riddles from a witch.

As they fell asleep, I contemplated their intersecting worlds. Dinosaurs and bunnies, super heroes and little girls, poisonous snakes and brave ponies. Betty and Banana. Their three baskets of toys overflowed, signs that they are well-loved and a bit spoiled, with both vampires and fairy queens, yet they both slept, breathing the same air heavily.

Every parent wants to give their child what they didn’t have. For me, that means raising my sons with a strong sense of identity, asking nothing more from them than to be exactly who they are and to know that they are loved.

Mr. Karen Carpenter

carpenterwedding3

Just days before her wedding, Karen Carpenter discovered her fiancee was a liar.

Karen had been dating high profile men for years, sometimes casually and sometimes seriously. Alan Osmond and Steve Martin and Tony Danza. She was 5’4”, petite and small with an enormous smile. She looked healthy and strong at around 115 lbs, but she was hard on herself, often starving herself while using laxatives to empty her system and uppers to boost her metabolism and energy, and her weight would sometimes drop to 90, 85, or even 80 pounds, giving her the look of a skeleton covered in skin.

Her voice, though, her voice was unchanging. She kept an impossible schedule, touring the world and making music with her smoky and sultry voice in its lower register, somehow conveying the emotional weight of every word, whether she sang of falling in love or of being desperately lonely or of being heartbroken.

Talking to myself and feeling old, sometimes I’d like to quit, nothin’ ever seems to fit, hanging around, nothing to do but frown, rainy days and Mondays always get me down

and

why do birds suddenly appear every time you are near? just like me, they long to be close to you

and

what to say to make you come again, come back to me again and play your sad guitar, don’t you remember you told me you loved me, baby?

Karen’s mother, Agnes, ruled the household with strong words and harsh expectations. She saw her son, Richard, as a musical prodigy who would have a successful career playing the piano, and she saw Karen as a talented young woman who could support Richard in his rise to fame and then perhaps Karen could become the wife and mother she was meant to be. Karen started her music career behind a set of drums, playing for her brother’s band, but when they heard her sing, she was moved out in front as the lead singer. She was the one everyone saw and heard and remembered.

Karen and Richard were dubbed the squeaky-clean rock stars, full of innocence and virginity, during their era, and their personal lives matched that at first; they even lived at home with their parents until they were in their mid-20s, for years after they had become famous. In time, Richard struggled through drug addiction while Karen fell in and out of love, hoping to find a unicorn of a man, who could love her, give her a family, be independent and devoted, and be able to handle her fame.

Karen met Tom Burris during a difficult time in her life. She had just tried launching her own musical career, her own solo album. She had smiled and beamed through the hard work of making her disco album, but after a year of hard work, her family and friends had discouraged her from releasing it, hearing the tracks and telling her it would be unsuccessful. And so she shelved the album, and it would only be released years after her death.

Tom had appeared perfect, and he came at just the right time. He was handsome with a flashy smile and a nice career and stories of vast wealth, and he was blonde and blue-eyed and seemingly devoted to Karen. He claimed he had never heard of her, though she was world famous. A decade older, Tom rushed a divorce with his current wife and proposed to Karen, promising to give her everything she ever wanted, and Karen, hesitant at first, said yes. Then, weeks before the wedding, Tom told her that he had had a vasectomy and that he couldn’t give her children. Karen was heartbroken and furious. He had lied to her. She called off the wedding, but her mother had already sent out the invitations and Karen was pressured into continuing.

And so, Karen Carpenter married Tom Burris married on August 31, 1980. She cut the honeymoon short, immediately unhappy, and then Tom began asking for money, having lied about his personal fortunes. He bought her a car, but they later repossessed it for missing payments. After months of unhappiness, Karen began working on the divorce proceedings, changing her will to keep Tom mostly out of it.

Karen’s health was failing, her body unable to operate without food and sustenance, abused by pills and laxatives. She started treatment and wanted fast results. The therapist was rough on her and Karen began facing harsh truths, especially in a therapy session where her mother could admit love for Richard but not for Karen, not out loud at least.

And so Karen was 32 when she woke up one morning, started a cup of coffee, and then collapsed naked on the floor in her room in her mother’s basement, her heart giving out on her. She died minutes later. It was 1983.

I was five when Karen died. I grew up listening to her amazing voice. It was heavenly, and it made me feel all the feelings. And now, I’m 38, older than she was at the time of her death, and I’m learning about her life. I’ve played her music for the week while I’ve read about her, and I’ve watched her old interviews as she denied having an eating disorder late in her career. I’ve watched her awkward singing behind a set of drums early in her career, and her extreme confidence as she flirted with the audience masterfully in the middle of her career. And this morning, I sit and type about her sad story, one talented and beautiful young woman who wanted love and happiness just like anyone else. And  I realize, it’s a rainy day and a Monday, and I’m feeling down.

But good Lord, that voice…

 

 

“Give him a chance!”

Givehimachance.jpg

Since the historic and painful election of Donald Trump, I keep hearing from leaders who disavowed him, everyone from Paul Ryan and Mitt Romney to Barack Obama himself, that we should give him a chance. The thing is, I don’t know if I can. I certainly don’t want to. It’s a survival skill to deny people who have shown they are willing to hurt me the opportunity to hurt me again.

I haven’t had great experiences with men in my life. My father was emotionally distant for years before he left the house, and he had little to do with me after that. And my stepfather was violent, with words and fists, just as he had been in two marriages prior to the one toward my mother. And I grew up in a church led by white men that told me being gay was a sin.

It was early on when I became aware of the patriarchal society that we live in, where we see entire systems that favor men, give them power, and then make excuses for their bad behavior and weakness. Religious institutions that give solely men the ability to act in God’s name, a country whose government only recognized white men as voting bodies and citizens for the first few hundred years of rule and have made it extremely difficult for anyone else who wants a place at the table, and employment systems that favor men in salary and position, after they grew up in schools that gave men better access to educational opportunities and resources. Men receive favoritism on almost every front of their lives, and white straight Christian men get the most handed to them.

Look at that basic system and history and tie that in to irrefutable statistics. Men almost universally are the perpetrators of domestic violence, rape and sexual assault and molestation (towards both men and women), and violent crimes, including murder and gun crimes. Men have driven our world to war. Men have enslaved races. Men cast laws that vilify and punish those that aren’t like them. And men toss aside anyone who tries to refute or reduce their power or ideals, generally in the name of a male god. (And when I say “almost universally”, I’m referencing statistics that are in excess of 95 per cent out of 100).

Not all men fall into these categories by any means. I’m a man who is a loving father of two sons. I know many men who are honorable, kind, and strong. But I have been hurt by many men, and not by any women. I learned long ago to keep clear boundaries around someone who has shown they are willing to hurt me. I will not, will never make excuses for someone who uses fists and violent words to hurt me. I will not give them another chance to do so. Forgive, never forget.

And so, I’m angry about being told to “give him a chance.” I accept the world that I live in is one that favors men, that says “boys will be boys” when a man commits a rape, and then blames the girl for the rape with “she should have said no more loudly” or “she shouldn’t have been drinking”; a society that says batterers were merely “pushed too hard” while blaming the woman for staying; religions that say that men have God-given potentials to lead others to salvation while women are merely meant to be wives and mothers and to serve the men they belong to.

I’m angry about a campaign that excused Donald Trump at every turn while vilifying Hillary Clinton; that shrugged off his sexual assault talk as “locker room talk” or “a long time ago” while lambasting her for calling some Americans deplorable; that excuses his failure to show tax returns and overlooks several pending criminal charges against him while constantly calling her a criminal for perceived offenses for which she is solely responsible. And I’m furious that we set up a patriarchal set of rules for Hillary to play by, saying this was the only way for a woman to become president, and then we tore her apart and blamed her for operating within the system that was set up.

I can’t keep making excuses for Trump. I won’t sympathize with him for being under pressure, I won’t explain away his terrible comments and statements about entire populations of people, I won’t shrug off his history of misogyny. He can put on a suit and speak to the people, but I will hear him describing walking in on teenage girls of beauty pageants so he can see them change because no one would stop him. I can watch him shake hands with foreign leaders, but I will remember him lauding Putin as a leader while threatening to register and ban an entire religion. I can see him shrug that gay people and black people and women are okay and they don’t bother him, but I will recall his endorsements by white supremacists, his governmental appointments of people who demonstrate hate toward those not like them, and the dozen women who have accused him of sexual assault.

Conservative or liberal, Democrat or Republican, it is long past time we let women have an equal, if not majority, position in leading our country, in any and all elected positions. There has been a lot of horrible and horrific things that have happened in our world’s history, and nearly all of it can be directly tied to a system that prefers men and places them in charge. We do not need men to merely honor and respect women, we need men to acknowledge and recognize that there are some things that women are better at, and on that list is leading.

I can only imagine how ugly things are about to get in a country that is willing to give men like Donald Trump a chance. I fear we are in for Richard Nixon, Joseph McCarthy, and J. Edgar Hoover levels of pain and shame in the few years ahead. And when someone strikes my cheek, I refuse to turn it so he can strike the other.

 

 

 

Raping Evelyn

Florence Evelyn Nesbit was a petite girl, with thin hips and a small frame. She was a bit androgynous, with a boyishness about her that photographers found irresistible. Her lush brown hair draped over her shoulders in some photographs, or was piled upon her head in the more adult style in others. When she started modelling as a young teen in the late 1890s, her popularity quickly mounted. She posed for paintings, for classic photographs, for stained glass windows, for magazine ads. Her likeness was placed on postcards and hanged in museums. Evelyn enjoyed the attention, and what teenage girl wouldn’t. She was carving a life for herself away from her controlling mother and sickly brother even while supporting them financially; her father was dead. Soon her work took her to New York, where she could model and pose, sing and dance. She was absolutely lovely.
When millionaire architect Stanford White, who had built famous parts of New York City, took notice, Evelyn was flattered. She was only 15 and he in his 40s. He was portly, with a thick moustache, and married, but he paid special attention to just her, spending months flattering her, entertaining her, and taking her to private dinners, where he would smile and coo at her across the table. He bought her gifts, gave her mother and brother money, and pushed Evelyn on a red velvet swing he kept in a room of his private quarters. He even had Evelyn’s teeth fixed at the dentist, taking away her only flaw in his eyes. And so Evelyn thought little of it the night he drugged her champagne and she woke up naked in his bed, her virginity stolen. He explained that no one could know, that her reputation would be ruined if she spoke a word and that no one would ever want her again, so she mustn’t even tell her mother. Evelyn was 16. Evelyn was far from his only victim.

stanford-white
But Stanny wasn’t the only millionaire to take notice. Harry Thaw had a sizable monthly income of $8000, drawn from his family’s railroad and coal fortunes, so vast that he didn’t need to work. Harry’s mother kept the family history of insanity quiet from the public, and she overlooked Harry’s habit of luring young women and young men up to his room, where he would force them to get naked, beat them with a riding crop, and sexually assault them. If the victims complained, Harry and his mother could just pay them off to keep them quiet.
Thaw courted Evelyn from afar for several weeks, sending her notes and gifts before introducing himself. Also much older, he worked to convince her that she should be with him, and began sending money to her family so he could Evelyn alone more often. With her mother’s permission, Thaw took Evelyn for weeks to Europe, and he proposed to her multiple times before she finally told him of the loss of her virtue to Stanford White, a man Thaw hated beyond measure. After weeks of violently and obsessively questioning Evelyn about every aspect of the events with White, he finally locked her in a room in a Bavarian castle and beat and raped her over the next few weeks. Evelyn was 17. Thaw would later marry her, after he had her followed, trained her how to act, and made her aware of his consistent demands and the consequences if she did not meet them. He then required her to get her dental work undone.

harry-k-thaw1
In 1906, at Madison Square Garden, Stanford White sat watching a play among a crowd of hundreds, including Evelyn and Harry. As the performers sang the song, “I Could Love a Million Girls”, Harry Thaw walked forward in his tuxedo, drew a gun, and shot White three times, killing him instantly for “ruining” his wife. Thaw was put on trial for murder a few times over the next few years and, declaring temporary insanity, was placed into a mental institution. Despite violent episodes and an escape requiring recapture, he was set free just a few years later, but was soon re-confined after committing more rapes and assaults.
Evelyn herself struggled the rest of her life with mental illness, alcohol and drug addiction, and suicide attempts. She had multiple careers, including, most famously, a touring show where she sang and danced about her husband killing her lover. She lived into her 80s after becoming a grandmother.

The Nesbit-Thaw-White story dominated the newspaper and gossip circuits for years, and reporters called it “The Crime of the Century.” Who could resist a story about a super-model and two millionaires, with all of the sordid details of murder and sex and rape and violence thrown in? The public couldn’t get enough.

missn
Although this story is well over 100 years old, it is easy to recognize the parallels of money, privilege, abuse, rape culture, misogyny, corrupt justice, exploitation of women and their bodies, internalized homophobia, insanity, and media sensationalism that are alive and well today. Reading this history, in conjunction with the results of the election of Donald Trump as president in 2016, has left me feeling how far we have come as a society at all. Many who abuse and exploit women use the same tactics of grooming, isolation, persistence, excuse-making, blaming, violence, shaming, and threats to get away with their crimes, and the media seems to only pick up on the stories about the millionaires.

America just elected a man who has been accused of sexual assault multiple times, and who has paid off people to drop lawsuits (and yes, I’m aware, Bill Clinton did the same thing). A man who has been heard on a public recording to brag about being rich and able to do what he wants with women, who excuses his actions and words as “locker room talk”, and who regularly rates women on their appearance. A man who buys women gifts hoping to lead them to the bedroom. A man who has publicly bragged about entering the locker rooms of teenage girls and seeing them change. A man who has cheated on his spouses.

I know a great number of people who are in shock right now. Among them are women who have been assaulted, groped, groomed, coerced, silenced, pressured, and abused, who now feel that their government is loudly saying that what has happened to them doesn’t matter and hasn’t mattered. Men have been using these tactics for far too long, and far too many have ended up hurt.

the other side of the political fence

fence

Every time I have a strong feeling of aversion and repulsion toward some of Donald Trump’s words, I have to take time to remember that there are those out there who, like me, are rational thinkers with clearly formed opinions, and they have similarly charged feelings against Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama.

In preparation for tonight’s debate, I wanted to take time to explore the rational side of Trump supporters. Now, I do believe there are many of them who are in that “deplorable” category, the holders-on to old standards of white, straight, male America where everyone knew their place, wanting to maintain their privilege and power until their last breaths. But for those who are rational thinkers and recognize progress and social change, they have some clearly formed opinions as to why they only trust Donald Trump.

These supporters seem to see Trump as a brilliant businessman with an innovative brilliant brain, a man who employs thousands and gives everyone equal shots to advance within the company, a man who has no trouble holding those who err accountable. They see Trump as a man who is willing to call it like it is, regarding issues related to abortion, immigration, anti-terrorism, and many other hot-button issues. These supporters see “political correctness” as a plague to the country, as something that gets in the way of clear policy making. They see Trump as a fresh face who is willing to dig the country out of what they consider to be the worst state it has ever been in.

Now these individuals are clearly able to see the questionable aspects of Trump’s character, including his harsh statements against women, immigrants, and veterans, but they are, in large part, willing to overlook them because they consider his strengths as more important than his weaknesses.

This willingness to overlook questionable character aspects is not unique to the Republicans, it belongs to all party systems and are a focused aspect of American politics. One key case in point, for Democrats, particularly salient to this election, was the presidential election of Bill Clinton. Prior to Clinton’s first election as president, there was a large sex scandal, when Clinton was accused of not only infidelity, but assault toward women over a period of decades. There were tabloid headlines and news reports, the only thing missing was social media with constant Facebook and Twitter updates.

When Bill and Hillary Clinton were questioned directly about his infidelities, they were evasive in their answers, they wouldn’t confirm or deny the allegations, instead they would urge Americans to focus on the bigger issues that mattered to the people. And after the Monica Lewinsky scandal in the White House, both Bill and Hillary willingly and out-rightly lied to the media and the American people in statements that said the affairs never happened. (Look up Gennifer Flowers and Juanita Broaddrick as examples).

Now don’t get me wrong, Hillary Clinton absolutely has my vote. But to empathize with the other side, I have to recognize that they see Hillary as an option as undesirable as I do Donald Trump. They stack up the popular issues, like the Clinton Foundation spending, the Benghazi attacks, Whitewater, and the missing Emails scandal, and they absolutely don’t trust her.

In tonight’s debate, I’m expecting there will be a lot of rhetoric. There will be a strong push on both sides to vilify the past of the opponent. Donald Trump is going to call Hillary: crooked, a liar, an enabler to her husband’s atrocities, a bully to her husband’s victims, and he will continue to bring up the idea that she has been an ineffective and failed leader. Hillary will focus in on the issues of this past week’s headlines, related to Trump’s treatment of women, his taxes, his dealings with Russia, and his long list of embarrassing statements.

Hillary still has my vote, no question. I think she is a powerful and dynamic leader with a tremendous amount of experience; not only do we need more women in power, but she has the endorsements of the Obamas, two of my personal heroes, who describe her as the most experienced presidential candidate in American history. I want to see the incredible work Barack Obama has put in the past 8 years pushed forward ever farther. And it is worth noting that the very origins of our country’s political systems are rooted in misogyny, racism, and patriarchy; there must be some changes to these ancient and terrible power dynamics of privilege and oppression.

As a personal example of this, I recall a time as a youth when my abusive stepfather hurt my mother. Gossip spread through our community and a woman stormed up to my mother in a grocery store and whispered, “I hear women like you like getting beat.” This woman, instead of holding my stepfather accountable for his words and fists, blamed my mother for staying. And that is the image I’ll enter tonight’s debate with, the willingness to blame a woman while the man stands with blood on his hands.

Trump vs. Hillary: the Feminist Election

In Profile: 100 Years In US Presidential Races

It’s 2016, and we are facing a historical election. It’s Hillary versus Trump, and in many more ways, it is Woman versus Man.

Disagree?

In my small world in Salt Lake City, Utah, I know very few people who will actually say out loud that they are voting for Donald Trump. Instead what they are saying is that they don’t know who they will vote for. They agree, in some sense, that Trump would be a very frightening president, but they like he ‘tells it like it is’. Hillary, they say, they just don’t trust because Benghazi and corporate funding and the Email scandal.

I took time to question a friend recently about this thought pattern. I was, admittedly, passionate and a bit angry in my words and phrasing.

“How could you even consider not voting for Hillary? I understand that you don’t ‘like’ her or consider her trustworthy. I get that, completely, given the many scandals that have surrounded her name.

“But on the other side of things, look at the sheer list of offenses on Trump’s part that are not mere allegations, but are direct quotes delivered to the public directly in speeches or over social media. He has called Mexicans rapists. He has said that he is the only man who can ‘save’ our country or make it ‘great’ again. He has encouraged violence toward those who disagree with him and offered to pay the legal fees of anyone arrested. He has threatened to ban an entire religion from the country’s borders. He has referred to the size of his genitals to the public. He has sent out unflattering photos of his opponent’s wives and implied that his wife is hotter. He has referenced that a female reporter was being unreasonable due to her menstrual cycle. After 50 men and women in a gay club were shot down, he Tweeted out that ‘he was right’ rather than expressing concern and love toward the victims and their families. He has shamed the parents of a fallen soldier. And, most shockingly, he has hinted that men who wield guns should take matters into their own hands in a veiled encouragement of political assassination.

“And those are just moments from the recent presidential run. Trump’s life prior to this was fraught with marital affairs, alleged abuse, failed business dealings, and alleged financial crimes. Hillary has been in politics for decades as a first lady, a governor’s wife, a senator, and a secretary of state, and she has run a presidential campaign prior to this. Before that, she was an attorney with a successful practice, with a long marriage. Trump has been a bizarre real estate mogul who is the very epitome of the rich white man, the one per cent that Bernie Sanders was so passionate about, who has plastered his face on board games, books, and T-shirts, and is most famous for hosting a reality TV show, and who has been married multiple times… to super-models.

“In the past, entire presidential campaigns have been decimated over singular offenses, like Mitt Romney being accused of flip-flopping. And when Bill Clinton had a marital affair and lied about it, the country sought to impeach him. Trump’s offenses are far more excessive in number and in pure extremism on every level, and you are telling me that he calls it like it is and that is why you like him? What does that say about you?”

Because this conversation was with a trusted friend, it ended okay, but she let me know that my feelings on the matter were very apparent, and very passionate.

And I’m completely okay with that. Because when I reflect on this topic a bit more deeply, I realize that this is very much about America’s feelings on women. Historically, our country has treated women abysmally. As property, as targets of rape and violence, as pretty objects that should be devoted to their men and children and belong in the home. The laws have changed, somewhat, but the attitudes have not. I could recite a long list of statistics to back this up, but it can all boil down to a few simple facts, that women are mistreated in business and health care and politics, that they represent a majority of the population and a minority of leadership positions, and that the United States has still never passed a equal rights for women law. In fact, while we require other countries to pass laws regarding protections for women in order to receive our aid, we refuse to pass the same protections for women in our own country. We even refuse to sign the mandates from the United Nations that have been put in place in nearly every country around the world. The law is called CEDAW, the Convention on the Elimination  of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, and it has been in place since 1979, and has been signed by nearly every U.N.-affiliated country. The only U.N.-affiliated countries that have NOT signed the treaty? There are six: Palau, Somalia, Tonga, Sudan, Iran… and the United States. That means it has been signed by every other one, including China, Afghanistan, and even Iraq.

Many of the largest countries in the world have had female leaders by now, including England, India, Germany, Liberia, Central African Republic, Senegal, South Korea, Haiti, South Africa, Mozambique, Bangladesh, and Pakistan. The United States is not on this list either.

And yet here in America, we have a candidate in Hillary Clinton, who was named by Barack Obama as the most qualified presidential candidate in United States history, running against Donald Trump, who has been described as the least qualified candidate in presidential history, and who has zero political experience. The most qualified? A woman. The least qualified? A man.

And if you still aren’t sure who you want to vote for, or if you are considering not voting at all, we can go extreme, and you have to ask yourself who you want with their finger on the button of the nuclear codes.

I understand if you don’t like or even trust Hillary Clinton, I get it, intellectually and emotionally. But if you can stack that up against every piece of the puzzle that makes up Donald Trump and still be not sure who you are voting for, I’m not sure I can call you anything but sexist. Take time to examine your biases and feelings about women in power, and your ability to excuse Trump and hold Hillary accountable.

And if you disagree with that, well, I suggest you do a bit more self-exploration. The fate of the country is at stake.