Some Kind of Pithy Title About This Time of Year
The cheese grater of late September / early October.
Harken back to September 19, 2018
Christine Blasey Ford comes forward to let the public know about Brett Kavanaugh.
Two years earlier, in early October 2016, I had shared publicly (on social media, a post that got forwarded over 200 times that I know of) that I’m a sexual assault survivor when Trump’s “grab them by the pussy” tape came to light.
I shared that it had been a long and agonizing process of believing myself — Could it be rape? Did it “count” if it was a boyfriend I’d had sex with before? — And hinted the physical/emotional trauma I needed to work through in subsequent relationships. The physical memories. The feeling of something evil or unclean planted inside of me.
The therapy. The support group. The first time I said out loud that I was raped was at a Take Back the Night march and speak-out in college.
And that in my 20s, after “graduating” from a survivors’ group offered by a local nonprofit, I joined a group called SHOUT (Survivors Helping Others Understand and Talk).
With my SHOUT comrades, I spoke to groups of police officers, among others. I had the experience of sitting in front of a group of all men, in their sheriff and city cop uniforms, telling my experience — and then having them accuse me of making it up for attention. Of exaggerating. Of being compared to a cookie jar. Of being lucky it was relatively brief, the rape, or being lucky it was someone I knew.
In some ways, those SHOUT sessions were as difficult as my rape.
Cops telling me I wasn’t raped.
College-aged boys telling me I was lucky it didn’t last long. (Which was, I’m just now realizing, also what the guy who raped me said to me at the time.)
All those years of diligent, painful work to trust myself and my experience coming up against a middle-aged white male cop leaning back in his chair, comfortably, happy to impart his wisdom to a clearly misguided and naïve little girl: “Come on, now. If a boy has his hands in the cookie jar once, don’t you think he’s going to want to get his hands in there again?”
So yes: I feel it deep in my soul whenever a woman comes forward to talk about her experience.
(I can sit in courtrooms for murder trials. It isn’t easy, but I can do it. What I still can’t do is sit in a courtroom for rape hearings or trials.)
And yes: I feel for Christine Blasey Ford, the woman coming forward to share her experience of attempted rape by Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh.
A lot about Ford’s experience is similar to mine:
- It happened in high school.
- By someone we knew.
- The guy probably thought it was a joke, a mistake, or otherwise No Big Deal.
- The guy was popular.
- She was devastated by the incident.
- She needed therapy.
- It deeply affected her subsequent relationships.
- She didn’t tell many people.
- She wanted to be anonymous. (I’m not anonymous, but I still don’t publicly share who the boy was.)
- She didn’t want to be re-traumatized: disbelieved, accused, raked through the mud.
Because let me assure you, it is re-traumatizing. It’s not an exaggeration. It hurts. Deeply. It’s like being violently pushed off your feet, but with words.
A lot about Ford’s experience is different than mine. We weren’t at a party. The guy didn’t hold his hand over my mouth. There wasn’t a witness. Oh, and — the guy who raped me isn’t up for a seat on the Supreme Court. I’m not testifying before the Senate.
“But he was a teenager at the time.”
Yeah. He was.
And what if we were all held responsible as adults for what we did in high school?
Many of us do idiotic things as teenagers.
Indeed.
I did plenty of stupid stuff.
But for all the parties I went to and all the mousse with “shimmer crystals” I used and drunk I got and all the anorexia I had and all the dirt bikes I rode and all the cliffs I jumped off (into water) ... sexual assault?
That’s a different can of worms entirely.
There are a lot—and I mean A LOT— of people who did and do stupid stuff as teenagers and who still manage not to sexually assault anyone, or even come close.
A lot of men grow up without ever laying hands on anyone.
And the vast majority of women or marginalized genders grow up without doing so. Let’s call that point A.
Point B: What do we do about the men who did commit sexual assault as teenagers, but who are grown men now? Do we hold them accountable for what they did at seventeen?
Aye, there’s the rub.
How could the harm-doers make things as right as possible? (as we say in Restorative Justice)
For me —and I can only speak for me— at this point in my life — and remember, I’ve had decades of healing — for me? A contrite, sincere, soul-level apology would be enough.
Does that surprise you?
It kinda surprises me.
But it’s true.
I would want to know that the guy who raped me understands it was rape. And the guys who sexually assaulted me understand that what happened was, in fact, sexual assault.
I would want them to do their very best to learn everything they could about how to never, ever assault OR abuse their power again.
I would want them to teach their children how to never, ever harm another human.
I would want him to literally look me in the eyes and say, “Holy crap. That’s really bad. I am so, so sorry I did that to you.”
-It gives me chills just writing that-
And then I would accept his/their apology. And I think —I think— I would wish them well.
But what if they pull a full Kavanaugh?
What if they denied everything?
What if the guy who raped me said, categorically, that he’d never ever sexually assaulted anyone ever?
If he was so blind to his misuse and abuse of power, then and now, that he would joke that “What happens in high school stays at high school”?
And then ranted and threw himself a pity party about how much he likes beer? (This is actually quite likely, I would bet.)
And then what if the stakes got higher?
What if he was so clearly lacking any personal honesty or integrity that he had already lied, repeatedly and publicly, under oath?
And he was *still* up for a lifetime appointment for what should be a position that, at bare minimum, requires honesty, integrity, empathy, and fair-mindedness?
What if my rapist were up for a Supreme Court seat?
Stuff goes from personal violence to potential systemic violence? His blithe denial or blindness to abuse of power could hurt millions of other people?
But it meant you had to testify before a Senate Judicial Committee on live TV. And you saw how well that went for Anita Hill.
Well, I’d have a lot of soul-searching to do.
The main concern would be my family’s safety. Because folks have lost their minds when it comes to going after “accusers.” Christine Blasey Ford lost count of the death threats she received.
But I suspect I’d find myself before that Senate committee.
At least I hope I would.
So yes. I lift up Ms. Ford for her courage. And Ms. Hill. I believed both of them when they testified and I still do today.
They both stood up with great courage, in the hope that it could help.
Courage and hope are a great combination
Hope is my middle name, a gift from my parents.
Courage is my son’s middle name. (He changed it to Courage himself when he turned 13, as a rite of passage.)
Courage can be big and small.
Sometimes, as author Mary Anne Radmacher says:
Love to all y’all courageous beings. Hoping for brighter days ahead.
Thanks for reading.
XOXO
Do you have something to say about the personality differences in types of criminals?
1. The rapist or sex predator.
2. The con artist who takes your money through fraud.
3. The thug who beats you up and takes your money.
4. The corporate executive who sells worthless crap to gullible consumers.
Note that Trump fits 1, 2, and 4.
Do all 4 share the same personality traits? (like, "I am the only one that counts")
No response needed. Just a thought.