On Rape Culture; A Message to the Good Guys

I

Am

Furious

I have been trying to find the words to meld together and organize into comprehensible sentences. Thoughts. A message. But I am mostly just overwhelmed by the one thing I feel so compelled to write about. I avoid it in general, when and where I can because I don't want to feel like I'm contributing to a culture of victim thinking... which is a whole problem all it's own that desperately needs to be dealt with. A pervasive issue that is affecting everything from interpersonal relationships to big scale government corruption. I also know the crippling nature of anger in our lives and how focusing too much on the injustices around us causes us to internalize a severe amount of hurt and fear and rage. How that is a poison that if we allow it, can ruin everything good we experience. It undermines our ability to process humor and connection and joy. But...

But.

I need to write about rape culture. I can't avoid it anymore. Because it's own brand of poison has already taken root in my life and refusing the antidote because if its negative side effects is no longer an option. I need to talk about it because simply acknowledging the good guys out there and focusing on them isn't enough to balance out the prevailing attitudes that are so dangerous to women. It's the good guys that I need to speak to about this. Because while I am furious at CNN (and other media outlets) for sympathizing with the Steubenville rapists, it is true that the were good students with promising futures and talent in the athletic arena. And that info, while delivered with the entirely wrong slant, is important to know. Because most rapists have good qualities in addition to the bad. They are people. Not creatures waiting in an alleyway at night only existing in the moment of their crime.

The reason I want to talk to the good guys is because while they know what consent means, they are interacting daily with other males who do not, and it's easy to assume that they do. It's easy to write off things that their friends and co-workers and family members say as being a joke rather than something indicative of a thinking problem. It's easy as human beings to live our lives under the assumption that the people we are surrounded with, for the most part, know what we know. At a base level believe what we believe.

It's also easy to assume of ourselves that because we would never intentionally disregard someone else's physical boundaries and act on our urges against their will, that our attitudes and our talk to and about other human beings are innocent and respectful. It's too easy to fall back on "normal" and not question ourselves.Or where that brand of thinking came from. But my point that I am trying to get to, is that by the time we are in a court room debating what  does and does not constitute consent we have already long since failed. The fact that someone who was otherwise a "good person" (whatever that means... we're all capable of evil) was able to act in a way that is so ridiculously far off of the correct path is proof that somewhere along the way we as a society, whether that be a small HS football town, a family or the whole country, began taking little steps in the wrong direction.

Please. Do not confuse what I've said to mean that I actually think there was ever a point in time where things were 100% on the right track in this regard. I don't. But I do Think that there are many men who've got it as close to right as a human can get when it comes to their attitude toward women. Now and throughout our history. But... it's not being taught for the most part. The closest I feel we're getting outside of a few communities that go out of their way to focus on it, is trial, error, backlash and a lot of people left feeling like they're mangled and/or walking on eggshells.


To be honest I feel both of those things. Right now.

And while there is so much more to say I have to leave you with a cliffhanger. Because from here there are multiple different components of the problem that each deserve their own post... and they will get them....

To be Continued...

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Writers Block in the Real World

     Words have the power to build up and to destroy. Spoken or thought. Everything about our world... or at least mine, boils down to words. And I have hundreds of thousands of them, but so often I'm left feeling like I have none at all. Because part of my obsession with words materializes itself in my compulsion to judge words. The deem them worthy or unworthy. Sincere or shallow. Intelligent or immature. The problem however is not so much in the judgement of the individual words themselves, or even in their structure and sound when combined with others... but in the snap assessments of the meaning intended by the one who wields them. Including myself. Oh Lord how I judge myself.

   That is precisely why I struggle to use words in the real world. At least articulate, deep and meaningful ones. Because I fumble when I don't have the space to judge each one as it comes out. I find myself analyzing the beginning of my sentences as the rest left to be said falls out without what I would deem to be the proper amount of thought. I backtrack in the same moment as I'm attempting to conversationally move forward and as a result I wind up getting overwhelmed and lost. So I hide behind my keyboard and my pen... fearing that if someday enough people were to read and enjoy my written words that they may want to hear my spoken ones. Particularly the kind that don't have the opportunity to be rehearsed in advance. And that scares the crap out of me.

   It's true that sometimes... many, many times actually, success scares us far more than failure. Success scares us because we don't believe we have the capacity to maintain it. Or don't believe we deserve it. Or that if we achieve and then lose it we will never recover from the wound it leaves behind. Success leaves scars we tell ourselves. Subconsciously or otherwise... and that notion holds us captive whether we realize it or not. And captivity breeds hostility. At least in me it does.

   It's a good thing then, that every once in a while I am reminded that I hold the key.

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My Not-So-Terrible Two Year Old

   I haven't been blogging lately. At least not much. I haven't been working on my book lately either. At all. But I have been writing lately. More than in a long, long time. I lost it for a couple of months there, and in the process I kind of lost myself as well. But I've recently reacquainted myself with the lost (to me) art of journaling. And in that journal I've begun documenting the parts of my life I usually forgot to write about. Moments. The fleeting kind. I am far more accustomed to writing about ideas and opinions. Stories are somewhat new territory to me. But it is the area in which I feel most compelled to improve. Because it scares me and thrills me the most. It has less concrete parameters. In stories I feel as though my safety vest has been removed and I must rely solely on myself to keep the narrative afloat. Myself and that finicky little thing called memory... a trait, if you will, that I have, but not not the most trustworthy among them.

   So I have been here and there writing down seemingly minor observances of and interactions with my son. The type of things that I always tell myself I will remember, for their sweetness or humor, but never do. For above all I am forgetful. I am that mother who always answers the "How's your kid?" questions with "awesome! He's growing so fast and he's hilarious..." followed quickly by an awkward pause and a blank stare as I try to think up recent examples. Because I can't, and I feel so awful about it. These moments are worth remembering... and so I'm taking it into my hands, literally, with pen and paper, to lock them into permanence of the only kind I know:

 Photo C/O Josh Rogerson | Photography

Tuesday February 28th 2013:

   I knew I shouldn't have let him play with that darned thing! What kind of mother let's her kid run around with an uninflated balloon between his teeth? A teeny tiny water balloon no less? The nurse at the doctors office said she'd call back after consulting him... Oh that must be her right now! "Yes? Ok... yes, I understand. I just wanted to be on the safe side. Yes, he's eating, drinking and breathing just fine. The coughing stopped. Honestly I don't even know if he swallowed it, I just know I turned around for a second and he was gagging. He said he swallowed something but wouldn't tell me what and I can't find the balloon anywhere! ....Oh MY GOODNESS, I feel like such an idiot for even calling! He just walked up to me now... balloon in hand. He must have gagged on something else. I'm so sorry!"

Friday March 1st 2013:

   Bastian is across from me at the kitchen table as I write this. Sitting in a bar-height chair without restraints, eating his turkey and Muenster grilled sandwich (and sweet potato fries) in strips... because Daddy discovered the other day that he prefers it over the smaller squares.
   He picks up a particularly long fry in his hand that is shaped, at least the way he is holding it, like an upside down "U". He gives me a sly smile and says "it's eensy weensy spider; mom." ...he already says Mom in the way of a teenager. The way that elicits a silent "Duh" on the end... only from him it bears a bit more excitement and wonder. Thank God. I don't think I could bear the sound without it.

Tuesday March 5th 2013:

   My heart soared and burst into a billion tiny pieces just now. Bastian, on the couch next to me, trying his best to keep his balance as he half jumps, half stands tip toed, each leg doing it's own thing... "I can Fly Mommy! .... Bastian not flying" the facial expression synonymous to a motherhood punch to the gut forming on his adorable little face. It's only the beginning I think to myself as I try to figure out whether to smile or cry... and I hug him to hide the bewilderment on my own face.

Wenesday March 6th 2013:

   The first thing Bastian said to me this morning was "Spatula!" As I walked down the stairs he held it up and repeated the word Daddy had just said as if it was some great treasure. Just now, maybe, I don't know, a half hour later, this interchange took place:
Bastian (holding spatula pinched between shoulder and ear): "I'm making a phone call!"
"Bastian making phone call!"
Me: Smile and what I believe to be a look of encouragement.
Bastian: "I making a phone call"
"Bastian making a phone call Mom!"
Me: "Cool"

The above was repeated in similar variations a few more times until I realized that "Cool" wasn't cutting it for him

Bastian: "I'm making a phone call!"
Me: "Who are you calling Bastian?"
Bastian: "It's not a phone Mom!!"

Duh...

photo C/O Josh Rogerson | Photography

   So... I am definitely a little late to the game when it comes to recording milestones, but I've got to say that for all the mental resistance I gave the idea, it feels pretty incredible to be mother/record-keeper now that I am doing it.  

Doing it my own way.

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The Value in Nothing Left to Give

   This is a story about a girl who one day woke up to find out that she was suddenly twenty six years old with and husband and a son living in an unfamiliar home full of boxes because they (her and her family that appeared overnight) had just moved in... and truth be told this little girl had always been rather lazy. Looking around her new quarters she quickly realized that not much had changed. Not in regards to her natural tendencies and abilities anyway.

   The night before this shock to the system she had been scrolling endlessly through her ridiculous number of open tabs on her two different browser windows that were simultaneously buzzing out the faint "Choose me! Look at me!" song she had grown so familiar with... when something caught her eye and made her heart sink. A post on some strange social media site or another by an artist she had admired for quite some time. Someone who not just created art but lived it... who had made mention of her upcoming birthday. Her twenty. fifth. birthday. The one that the girl doing the scrolling and browsing and reading had experienced already, the year before. Only one year before. Not two or ten or five... but one felt like more than enough. Because the girl was in fact reading, not writing. On writing she waited. Waited for the right topic or inspiration or input... that same damn trap. Again. A. Gain. How? Why?

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   This is another story. A story about a guy who gives and gives and gives. And gets frustrated. And sometimes says hurtful things without thinking about it... because he cares so much that his heart has to put up barriers to keep itself from exploding in his chest. Who woke up yet another morning to an unsatisfied wife. A sorrowful woman who had in her this radiant light but instead chose to mourn every moment as it passed by. He wondered why she didn't notice that everything they have between the two of them, all the things that she now seemed to despise... he bought because at one point she said she wanted it. Maybe not with words. But with her eyes or a hint of the smile she withheld from him much of the time.

   She began to tell him one night how she was broken, after he had carefully, with every last word he had in him, told her all the things she made clear that she was longing to hear. And instead of rightful disappointment or hurt he reached out and healed her. He forgot for a moment about his walls and he chanced explosion... it was the perfect amount of electricity to jump-start her hardened heart. And though it depleted him for the moment it was a good exhaustion... to finally see her exhilarated over words he didn't think he had. For they had been hiding cleverly behind those heart walls of his. 

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Creating Characters in a World Worth Saving

   Sometimes I think that it's necessary to live with a certain amount of sadness in order to be a creator. Other times I get indignant over that line of thought asserting loudly within the confines of my own mind that it's a fallacy that one must be tortured to be an artist. Things being mutually exclusive is actually quite rare if you think about it. You can hear thunder and not see lightning but if you are close enough to lighting to see it, you will hear the resulting thunder at some point however faint it may be. Unless of course you are deaf.

   Or something like that anyways... I am no expert on weather. In fact I am far less intelligent that I'd like to think that I am... and have others think that I am. But I am also far more intelligent than I feel many people give me credit for. And this is where much of my sadness comes in. It comes in regards to peoples perception of me and my abilities. It comes in the dissonance between what I know lies within me and what I gather of peoples impression of me... because of my lack of action. They don't know because I don't share. They don't see because I don't do. I just think. Think far too much, and spill far to little.  And due to my lack of practice in the making external what is internal, when I do, it isn't eloquent enough to be fully comprehended. Not like when I write. Although that could use some work too... but this thing called talking, it is my biggest downfall... if we're not counting connecting, because I'm far worse at that. At least I think I am...

   And so there it is. All still about what I think versus what others perceive. Too much time spent analyzing my own introspection. Too much thought focused on myself.

   I'm feeling pushed again, as a writer to go a new direction. At the same time as traveling the original one that I did not stick closely enough to, I confess... I need to get out of my head and write about others for a bit. Create characters. Maybe explore the people in my story that aren't me. Because while mine is the story I'm telling, it's really for the benefit of the supporting characters. Isn't that what life is about? What fun is being the hero of your story if you don't develop the characters that make up the world you are supposed to save?

   The time in my life finally came when I felt honest in identifying myself as a writer. But now it is time to shift from a journalist (in the sense of a personal journal or diary) to a novelist. Someone who sees others as stories as well. Not just herself. This worldview I've been looking through is feeling a bit narrow. And as it turns out the hand restricting my air supply is my own.

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Do All The Packing!!!

   It's true! We're moving! Again... The house we've been living our lives in this past year and a half in has sold, and so us renters must find another place to rent. We just might have done that depending on what we hear back over these next few days. But packing waits for no one. Because new residence affirmed or not we have to be out of here soon, soon, soon! And so I spend days picking up the things we own in my hands, feeling their weight and their awkward shape as I attempt to judge their true value, whether or not they deserve the required box space, set them down to decide later, after I've accomplished some more straightforward packing, only to repeat the process with the next item. It's cathartic and heartbreaking at the same time. Heartbreaking because it's time to let go and I don't feel ready but I don't think I can bear the added weight either. Or because I'm ashamed for having allowed it through my door, my filters in the first place and that I've allowed it to weigh me... us, down all this time. Allowed myself to become so burdened by and tethered to things. Plastic and metal and glass... things that break and warp and gather cobwebs in their hidden corners where they stay until some big up-heaving life change. Some things I want to keep but can't. They refuse to come with me and I am saddened by their refusal to fit logically into our new space. Hurt by their lack of desire to evolve into something that can stay with me in this codependent existence we at one point or another entered into. Those silly self-righteous things. With their lack of awareness. They mock me. And yet it makes me care for them all the more.

   Then I remember that it's all just stuff. All of it. Even the best of it. That what really matters is the people I share my home with... and I feel silly for getting so stressed over the minutia of it all. I realize that I have far more than I deserve and even if half of this mysteriously disappeared or was otherwise ruined, I would still have more than I need. That I am incredibly blessed.

   And after all of that I realize that I've been sitting on the floor for 40 minutes trying to untie a really stubborn knot a pair of nylons, that I've worn once, made of themselves (a weird long story as to how that is even possible) and OH NO! I forgot that I have to pack for our trip this weekend too, and I haven't done laundry in well over a week!

Oh the joys of moving...

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Sing Me Something That I Know...

   As far back as I can remember I have been plagued by this feeling that I just don't quite fit in with my peers. In some ways this has been a great blessing and in others it has felt like a curse. It has fueled some really poor decision making, especially during my teen years. But who can't say they've experienced that to some extent? We all feel like the odd man out at least every once in a while. The problem is how we respond to that feeling when it becomes a looming overtone in our lives. For me I went through various stages of trying to fit in and then trying to rebel in my pre-adulthood years. Looking back what is most funny to me is how much more I "fit in" when I was trying my hardest not to. The way in which all of us high school rebels rebelled in such similar fashion that we wound up just being another group of separate sameness. We all bought our "uncool" clothes at the same stores, listened to the same too-heavy-for-mainstream bands (that were for the most part pretty widely accepted among the mainstream) and smoked the same cigarettes on the same corner every morning before school.

   Don't get me wrong, I actually liked the aesthetic (still do... sorry) and some of the music. But in trying to be different and proud I wound up eschewing the things which actually made me different. I narrowed my focus and my tastes to only those things that were cool within the uncool crowd. If anyone hinted that they knew of my secret love of mellow music with tight harmonies, or my preference of tense thriller movies over the gruesome shock factor movies everyone seemed to be boasting, I would swear up and down that it wasn't true. I was scared that my interest in or love of some things would negate the validity of my status in others. That I would get the dreadful label of "poser" if I didn't preemptively inform everyone that "No, really, I was wearing my Dad's ties before Avril did it in that cheesy video" (that I secretly loved). And even though it was true I stopped wearing them when she started because she was making a mockery of our subculture with her badly written lyrics and bubblegum infused style. I didn't want to be associated with it... at least not publicly.

   I also wouldn't admit to knowing all the lyrics to my parents Simon & Garfunkel albums, or the songs on the country radio station we always had playing in the family home and cars... If you asked whether I enjoyed playing board games or putting together puzzles with my parents I would definitively tell you no. Mission trips and family vacations? I did those because I had to! Totally sucked. I basically didn't like anything... liking things, being enthusiastic wasn't cool, unless of course it was stuff that creeped "normal" people out. In fact I went so far as to pretend I liked spiders for something like two years... in which I actually picked them up with my bare hands to carry them outside and save them from being squished, all while my stomach was tying itself in knots and I was desperately attempting to not hurl the thing at the nearest hard surface and run the other way! All to prove what a bad ass I was. Seriously. What could be more lame?

   Things started to change as I began to heal from some of the bad decisions alluded to earlier... in the midst of the healing process, while I was just vulnerable enough to be open to it, I was introduced to a band I would likely never have listened to during my rebel stage. To this day I am not one to loudly endorse a particular musical group, mostly out of fear that they won't stand the test of time and I will look back on my enthusiastic writings about them and feel the same way I do when I crack open one of my high school diaries. Embarrassed. Because I really don't know that much about music, except for the way it makes me feel and the impact it has on my life as a result.... but Bleed American by Jimmy Eat World was a saving grace to me at that time in my life. I think most people found themselves uplifted and comforted by the single The Middle. I was no exception. And I still feel that way when it comes on, but I hadn't yet heard that song (if I remember correctly) when the album made it's way into my hands and then made it's home in my car stereo, where it for the most part stayed on repeat for years. It was energetic and mellow, challenging and comforting. Something about it felt like home. I could listen for hours, days, weeks on end without growing tired. I would change the CD only because I felt like at some point I should, only to return to it shortly thereafter. It was cathartic. I fell for it. And for once I wasn't afraid of what the rest of the rebels might say. They were already talking about me in much worse ways so what did I have to loose? I wore Jimmy Eat World Tshirts to school and sang along at the top of my lungs with the windows rolled down regardless of who I might pull up next to at the next stop light. I cried through Hear You Me more times than I can count. And I resolved over and over to not spend my life wondering, standing in the back just looking around...

   A Praise Chorus is what I think of immediately when I think of that album, that band, but most importantly that time in my life. A time when I freed myself up to like what I like because I liked it, and that's it. A time when I decided to re-inhabit my own body and do everything I could to be the person that I wanted to be. It's no surprise it felt like home... the chorus of it with things, snippets, of songs I didn't even know that I knew. A reminder of a childhood spent listening to and learning things about other people's lifetimes... not just mine. Not just my high school bubble of black clothing ripped apart and put back together with safety pins while Korn songs played in the background as I snuck another cigarette hanging out my parents bathroom window. It subtly reminded me that I was more than the stage I was in. I was a whole person, not just an image of one.

   And so all that being said, I did something I've always been a little leery of... something that felt like giving too much importance to a fleeting thing. A lyric. I tattooed a lyric on my skin.... well technically I didn't do it, a very talented artist did ... but still. I got a lyric tattooed on me in permanent ink. But if there was ever any lyric it was this one... because it is the opposite of fleeting. It has already lasted the test of time. And while it reminds me of the feeling a particular album gives me first and foremost, it also reminds me that there is more to me than one genre. I can and do love Tommy James and the Shondells, Joan Jett and Jimmy Eat World. And that is more than ok in my book.

Over and over... and over... and...

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