These Are The Days

Smart ~ Writer ~ Mom

(Unfortunately) Me ,Too

#MeToo

And odds are if you’re a woman, perhaps you too.

There’s lots of chatter about this hashtag and this two-word phrase making the rounds on social media. Can two words really make a difference? Well, I’m not sure. But I can tell you that there is strength in solidarity and knowing you’re not alone. And that’s not nothing.

Fear and shame are two sides of the same coin, I think. And when it comes to something as life-altering (and life-shattering) as sexual assault, harassment, or something worse such as rape, I think fear and shame are unavoidably foisted upon the victim. There is the fear of speaking out. Will anyone believe me? Will I be fired/sued/harassed/ostracized/abandoned? And of course there’s the shame that comes with the actual act of telling your story. Here’s what happened to me in all its icky uncomfortableness. Am I less valuable, unworthy, a sinner, unlovable?

When I read some of the stories emerging from the #MeToo hashtag, it makes me realize how lucky I am. Seriously. Lucky. There’s really no other way to describe it other than luck. I have never been raped or sexually assaulted, but I know women that have. And their stories are important and fragile and worthy of being told. I’m in awe of the women speaking out and my heart hurts for those that simply cannot bear to say a word.

And this all leads me to the weird feeling I have, which I think is all just another part of this whole #MeToo thing. Are my experiences justified to share in this space? Of course they are, but still, there’s this feeling of “well at least I was never raped or sexually assaulted…” Nice to see that imposter syndrome isn’t just reserved for the work and career space.

I have experienced sexual harassment and lewd behavior by adults and people who should have known better.

The creepy male gym teacher who made us 8th grade girls lay on the floor, knees bent, and do sit-up crunches as his eyes were laser-focused in the private space between our legs. Note: we all wore the same tank top and baggy school-logo’d gym shorts so in that position the shorts were baggy enough to give you a clear view of a 13 year old’s underwear and private areas. This happened almost every week in gym class and I remember feeling so uncomfortable that I spoke to the female gym teacher who taught the 9th grade girls. She seemed disgusted, but unmoved to do anything. Nodding her head she said, “Yeah, that probably did happen. He’s kind of creepy like that. Just keep your legs closed. Or turn the other way.”

Or the equally creepy geometry teacher (same school) who, with a wink and a smile, poked my ass repeatedly with the pointy end of a protractor when I stayed after class one day to ask about math formulas. No one else was in the room and it was gross and uncomfortable.

Or the older high school friend who asked me out. When I said no, he smacked me across the head. Literally – whack. I was stunned. This was the end of our lunch break and a bunch of us were hanging outside the music rooms on the top floor of our high school amid an alcove of lockers. There were tons of other people around but no one else seemed to notice. He stormed off in a huff, unapologetic and carefree, while I quickly gathered my books and headed to class, confused by what had just happened.

Or the time an old man called our house, posing as some kind of salesman and asked me to go find one of my mother’s bras and tell him the size. I was around 11 or 12 at the time, and it was after school. I was the only one home.  Naively, I did what he asked even though it sounded weird. And then he started making groaning noises on the other end of the phone. I quickly hung up, completely confused about what had just happened.

As an adult, I’ve experienced a lot of sexism in the workplace but that’s not quite what the #MeToo movement is about. I’ve not been hired for a job because I wore pants to the interview. Literally, I was told that was the reason I was not hired. WHAT THE FRESH HELL IS THAT ABOUT.

At one point during my Disney years I had a team of supervisors to whom I reported. All but one was female. Coincidentally, all but one told me I was doing a great job in my new role as a lead (a Disney term for a front-line supervisor), while the one male supervisor said I needed to “tone it down a bit” because “many people” thought I was “a little too aggressive.”

I’ve been whistled at on occasion and had a few car horns beep at me when I used to run regularly. None of that bothered me. In fact, I’m almost embarrassed to say that I was flattered. The car horn startled me a bit, but mind you, I’ve never been cat-called and no one yelled disgusting things at me so there is most definitely a line. Side note – I’ve seen a few people (including the super disgusting pedophile Woody Allen) question whether men will still be able to flirt with women now that so many women are coming forward. To which I respond: if you don’t know the difference between flirting and harrassing or assaulting then you need help.

And of course, as I said on Twitter recently, if I had a nickel for every time some dude told me to “smile” I’d have eleventy bajillion nickels. (roughly). Seriously men. Don’t tell women to smile. Ever.

I don’t know what it’s going to take to change a culture that allows people like Weinstein and so many others to not only exist but to be, in a sense, untouchable. But I will say that there is freedom in speaking out. Whether it’s by using a hashtag, writing a blog or social media post,  peeling back the layers on a therapist’s couch, confiding in a close friend, or filing a report in the HR office.

Not only are we living in a misogynistic culture, we also have a culture that encourages silence. It’s just easier that way, right? Just move on with your life and forget about it. But like a cancer, this slowly eats away at a person’s self-worth and self-esteem.

Like everyone else, I was surprised to see my Twitter feed light up with this hashtag (less so on my Facebook feed, but I suspect it’s because there is greater anonymity on Twitter). And then to hear the disgusting stories of what Weinstein has done over the years? Blech.

Note: I was equally as repulsed with Ailes, Cosby, Allen, Polanski, O’Reilly, and yes, even with what Clinton did. But for some reason, this is making me angry.

The night before last I had a dream about Weinstein. I know. Eww. He was wearing a tux and a smug look and he dangled a toothpick from his lips. I don’t remember anything else about the dream other than the fact that I must have been right in front of him because I uncharacteristically kicked my left leg up in a Bruce Lee type of move to nail him right square in the face. Keep in mind I do not know any kind of martial arts and have never in my life had to physically defend myself. I have no idea where this anger and rage came from in my dream (or the decent technique, if I may say), but lordy it was there. I woke myself up and realized I had karate-kicked the sheets and comforter into the air with a swift force. Thank goodness my six-year old hadn’t come into sleep with us that night.

And that, of course, brings me to the part that really angers me: my daughters. It is simply not right that I have to have certain conversations with my girls that I surely would not have with boys.

I often drop off my older daughter at a theatre for rehearsals and when I do it’s usually from across the street. I wait until she’s crossed safely and has entered the building before driving away. On more than one occasion, as she’s crossed, I’ve noticed men in stopped cars watching her cross. I realize she’s not a little girl anymore, but she is still a child and a minor. They didn’t do anything or say anything, but their faces told me they didn’t hate what they saw. And that makes my stomach turn.

Not only do we as parents have to remind our daughters that nothing they do, say, or wear is to blame for any kind of sexual assault, but we also must provide a plethora of preventive measures that will help keep them safe…just in case.

Women, you know just what I’m talking about. Making sure you walk to your car with keys clutched in your hand. Checking under the car and in the backseat before entering the car, especially if it’s a dark or unfamiliar place. Parking in a well-lit area. Never leaving a drink unattended unless you’re with friends. Mace, pocket knives, a rape whistle. Going to the restroom or to a club with a friend rather than solo. Hidden cameras in ladies restrooms. Consent – what it is and what it is not. Choosing an upper-level apartment or hotel room versus one on the ground floor…I could go on. And I bet you could too.

Bottom line is, I’m hopeful that women and men will be silent no more. That more people will be brave and speak out strongly against sexual predators and those that commit sexual assault and harassment.

I’m hopeful that men will stand up and speak out when they see their fellow men engaging in this type of behavior (yes, I realize women do it to men and that is not at all acceptable, but this is overwhelmingly a crime against women).

In my book, the silence of bystanders – of those that know and see and still choose to do or say nothing – is complicity. It is a rubber-stamp approval of behavior that is not only gross and despicable but also criminal.

I’m hopeful this movement will help move the needle and begin to change the culture. But more than anything, I hope that the hashtag #MeToo is one that my daughters will never have to use.

The Moon Knows

the pink moon

The pink moon

I tell the moon my secrets
While it pierces the inky sky
All the contents of my heart
And what resides behind my eyes.
The longing I have to know you
The words I have to say
May not be my fortune
In this lifetime
Still.
I wait another day.

This Is Us (Or, The Very Best Show on TV Right Now)

I don’t mean to judge you but if you didn’t watch This Is Us last season and you’re not planning to watch it this season, I’m pretty sure we can no longer be friends. It truly is the very best show on TV and I am so not exaggerating.

The characters are human and complicated and real. And the actors that play them are filled with a talent that makes me want to crawl into the TV every week and just hang out with them. The one-hour show is over way too quickly each week. Why do we need commercials? Can’t we just swim in sixty straight minutes of exceptional storytelling and not worry about advertising revenue?

Although it’s hard to pick a favorite storyline, mine is Sterling K. Brown’s portrayal of Randall.  I love Kevin, Kate, Rebecca and Jack, but there are so many things with Randall’s character that just make my heart ache. Most significantly, it’s the transracial adoption storyline. Bravo to the writers and the actors for tackling this topic and allowing it to play out on the national stage in all its messiness and beauty.

I have tremendous respect and admiration for the way in which this show and this character have opened a conversation about what it means to be adopted. There is, of course, no one answer or one simple definition of what it means to be an adoptee, a birthparent, or an adopted parent – but I give them a lot of credit for making this a central part of their story. I simply adored the storyline last season of Randall finding his biological father. Although I admit I was hesitant at first.  Birthparents (mothers in particular) are not often shown in the best light. But as Randall’s story unfolds I found myself feeling right alongside him as he moved through a range of emotions … from anger and bitterness to curiosity and longing, and finally, to hope.

Hope for reconciliation and hope for a relationship.

Not to spoil too many facets of the story, but there was indeed a beautiful relationship that grew between these two characters. Questions were answered. Some, harder than others. And forgiveness.

And forgiveness. Oh the forgiveness that eventually flowed from the heartbreak was so moving.

The relationship between Randall and William was significant. And I think the writers and the actors told their story brilliantly, through layer after layer of discoveries and pain and finally, connection and love. But it’s the relationship between Randall and Rebecca that affected me the most and about which I have the greatest curiosity.

One scene last season left me absolutely breathless. It was the scene where Randall returns to his mother’s house for the first time in weeks. He had discovered a secret that she had kept from him all these years and he was angry. He rings the doorbell of her home and you expect him to fly into a rage. But he doesn’t. He’s still angry, but instead of indulging that anger, he turns toward forgiveness. Slowly at first, and then all at once – like falling in love, as author John Green described in The Fault In Our Stars.

In the words he speaks, he gives his mother an inkling of hope that all is not lost. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting to hear and as such, I was instantly overcome with sobbing tears.

this is us It was a brilliantly-written scene and Sterling K. Brown played it magnificently.

From that scene and really from this whole show, I’m coming to realize just how sensitive I am to the notion of forgiveness. And I’m realizing how much I may need it – both to give and to receive.

Television, like theatre and movies and all art really, has the power to do so much good.  I believe this show is doing a lot of good. I cannot wait for This Is Us to resume next week. It’s been a long summer and I’m ready.

If you haven’t watched This Is Us, there’s still time I think. Perhaps On-Demand or something? Regardless, get to it. You will not regret becoming consumed by this extraordinary show.

Storm clouds

You can sense when a storm’s coming.

The wind gets cooler and sharp.

The air tight with anticipation. 

The birds flutter and scurry for shelter under a porch ledge or under the thick brush. Ready for the chaos of a storm.

It’s been building. But now only silence.

A few drops at first and then suddenly. 

Nothing will be the same when the storm passes. 

Or maybe it will make everything better. 

On This Day

A friend is hurting today. Well, to be honest, she’s been hurting every day for the last five months because today is one of those marker days. Not necessarily an anniversary or a milestone day, but a day you remember. You know the kind. It’s like the date that new couples celebrate as their three-month-a-versary. Or when parents identify their toddler as “21 months old.” When something significant happens we mark the date as a reference point in our minds and on the calendar.

Today isn’t a happy day for my friend. Five months ago, she lost her little girl in a senseless accident that ripped her world out from under her feet. She’s still finding her footing, but I imagine she’s a little less steady than she was before.

I can’t imagine the loss of a child. Just thinking about her loss makes my heart ache and my eyes tear up. Truth be told, I never met her daughter. My friend and I met through work and although I did meet her son, I moved away in 2012 before her daughter was born. We remained connected over the years and I watched her beautiful family grow through Facebook pictures. The ones she shared before the accident and the ones she shares now, after. Those must be the hardest of all.

When the “On This Day” appears on my Facebook timeline I often think of my friend. As I look back at what I was posting last year or the year before and I make a mental note of how much my own family has changed and grown, I think of her. I think of what it must be like for her to see these images of her daughter – smiling, happy, learning to crawl and then walk – and how incredibly painful it all must be to remember the happy times while carrying so much grief and sadness.

Today, she shared a picture on her timeline from this day last year. Of happier times. She wrote, “well, we survived five months without her…”

*********

Her before pictures were so wonderfully ordinary. Just like what you or I would share. Snaps of a happy kiddo visiting her dad at work or playing with her big brother or making silly faces at Mommy. And then one day the world falls apart and these memories land on one side of the fault line that was the tragedy. And everything after is overshadowed with sadness, grief. As if the memory knows there’s something missing.

Soon after I saw her post, I saw a blog by Anna, a writer and blogger I follow online. We aren’t friends, but she is the friend of a dear friend of mine. She, too, lost her child unexpectedly on a random rainy day six years ago. Before her son’s death, she shared stories of love and family life on her blog. But after he died, her blog became the place where she bravely shared painful stories of loss and grief. Her post today talked about the befores and the afters and how it never really gets easier after such a searing loss. She offered a bit of hope that after doesn’t mean over.

I’m thinking of my friend today and every day. I wish things were different. I wish that her little girl was still here with her. I wish I could take away her grief. I wish I lived closer so I could give her a hug. But more than anything though, I wish her the peace of someday knowing that, as Anna says, “after is different. After is often hard. But after doesn’t mean over.”

« Older posts

© 2017 These Are The Days

Theme by Anders NorenUp ↑

%d bloggers like this: