Drowning in Denial

I stood on top of a tall lumpy rock overlooking the Benicia Bay while my baby sister climbed down and went for the sand. She was barely seven while I had already left childhood long ago. Reaching into adolescence and ready to die.

The ocean is majestic. Drinking in the salty waves and noticing the sweet breeze run along your cheeks takes most of us to smiling places. But perhaps its enormous mystery felt equivalent to my damaged heart while my mind regularly wandered away for its own safety. I would often burn things including myself. I was finding tiny ways to inflict pain; attempting to bring my body forward to finally greet my mind. I desired to be home, but it was a deep hole with an endless sea of shame so only visiting on special holidays was allowed.

On that day, at the precipice of adolescence, I was done. My second family had fallen apart and my first stepfather was greeted by another man in my so called home soon after. My stepfather had retreated to his family and we were left with mounds of spoiling leftovers to stare at. My sister began her career at eating the pain while I dug in, literally, until I could take no more.

So, THERE. There I was swallowed up, desperately wanting it to all be taken back, swish over this broken and damaged body. Let someone or something else be accountable to this life as I just could not do it any more.

It’s cold since the Pacific Ocean is rarely for lounging in the sun and the lumpy rock looked like a good place to lay this tired body to rest. I watch my sister edge to the water, feet wet, staring back at me, making sure someone was not far away. Yet…..I had been a million miles from a grounded place since she was born. Do I leave her? Would it matter? I just don’t know. I am not even able to touch my own emotions to understand what hers must have been like. She separates farther from me, like one of those wobbly watery force fields and to see her clearly I have to poke at the space between her and I.

I was ALONE. Not a soul had gotten close to this dangerous and treacherous heart. Not even myself. I wanted desperately to belong, but to what? I did not have a family. What once was family now brought trauma and shame into my life. I was so frightened of what may come next. What if this was not the end of the horror? How much more could I take?

I stood a little longer on that lumpy brown rock and edged just a little closer to the end. My heart did not race. I felt at ease and perhaps was breathing normally for once. I could end this madness and stop flirting with pain like it really offered me more than a mere 50 cents of release. I had become someone’s play toy so why not throw the used up rag doll down this rock and into the ocean?

The sea spray picked up and my sweet sister laughed and ran away from the waves playing tag with the bubbly water. She took her tiny fingers and dug them in the wet sand drawing her name…..and then mine. I don’t even know her. My baby sister was trying to craft a life in this moment out of the brokenness that she must have felt. This was her father and her family. I was just along for the bodily ride.

Then, my body must have startled in the wind. Did I hear my name and the warbled water divide and disappear in the sea?

I don’t know. But I took a broken-winded breath from my chest and sat down on that lumpy rock. For today dying was over. Perhaps I would be brave enough to take my own life and spare myself the lifetime of agony that I foresaw ahead. Today, I felt like a coward. I couldn’t speak my pain and I couldn’t stop it. I would continue to be forced to swallow it for many years to come.

Inside that deep darkness, suicide seems logical and brave. It appears to the mind as the one way to have some control over what has puked havoc over your life. The chaos of trauma is like carrying a soaked wool blanket over your entire body. One might think this was a cute trick or a funny attempt to play Halloween ghosts; instead it makes your body and mind unrelated, unknown and separated from yourself. And despite the confabulation of bravery in suicide, it was not a story I took off the table until adulthood.

I had to learn how to die internally so that I may rise again and fly.

This way is not easy or simple like a crash onto lumpy rocks in the Benicia Bay. I was so long away from understanding how courage worked, but as I reflect back, I thank my sister for remembering how to live in the moment. All the while I am attempting to die, she played, calling the waves to dance with her, scribbling her name in the sand with those stubby cute fingers. She carried such loss in that moment too, but perhaps had not yet lost the ability to remember to RISE.

 

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Feeling Helpless in the Idolatry of Whiteness

I just had to watch. Normally, I NEVER watch. Not even pictures. Sometimes I have to wait to see much of anything beyond the radio reports. But this time I had to watch because I was just there.

A dear friend began to clearly and purposefully make their way farther north in an attempt to escape some of the hatred that has been petrified in our culture. We agreed it may have not been far enough. Now, white supremacists are radically showing their faces in an attempt to take back areas that have grown progressive. It’s appalling and strange for a community to be punished for seeking something beyond blind acceptance of a mono culture.

So I had to watch what unfolded in Charlottesville, VA. Unfortunately, this is unlikely the end. I foresee the rise of the unspoken beliefs of hatred and racism (along with other divisive belief systems) bubble back to the top and it become trendy to carry tiki torches screeching about blood and “the many sides”.

And the helplessness continues to settle in. I am often named as a strong woman, often outspoken; but this continues to rock me to the core. I feel naked and unstable as I waiver watching the idol of whiteness make its way through scores of people. To be clear, I am not surprised. I live in a southern white strong hold where it is clear that the ‘other’ will be placed in tiny houses without access to resources and your only ticket out of that state is to enter it with money from your inception. I am so undeniably aware of the #usandthem phenomena that I mostly feel internally isolated and unable to share who I actually am. I am aware that if I am silent, I can hide.

I am a white upper middle class female who on some days can just blend in, but I don’t want to be associated with, not even by a single stray hair, with such hatred and bigotry. But it gets complicated very quickly.

The United States, a country I am grateful to be a part of, was built upon the backs of bloodied slaves. This horrifying system was put into place as a result of the sin of whiteness. We seem to collectively forget we will continue to pay for idolizing whiteness as an equivalent to greatness without change. And, without a doubt, I know I have benefited from this system as a white person. I feel desperate and clingy as I imagine myself being dragged forcibly by hands and feet at the back of the tiki torch line. I want to disentangle myself with a kind of force and rage I have rarely felt in my life.

And yet as I watch, I am so frightened I cannot undo what I do not fully understand. I still remain a gifted one while this idolatry parades itself around in both private and public arenas. I find every crevice I can, but I suppose in many ways, I cannot be released fully until collective salvation and justice occur in communion. I suppose strands of my hair and a few fingers will have to remain attached to this collective sin. For that I am heartbroken.

Because we created and love our country as we do, we ALL become a necessary part of the change. We cannot use the bullshit lines, ‘my ancestors didn’t have slaves’ or ‘that was a long time ago’ or my very favorite line, ‘I’m not a racist.’ I hope you can see my hazel eyes rolling DEEPLY in the back of my head. My fear and helplessness settle in as I look around and worry that the complacency of some white people is born out of the silent agreement with the collective sin as to not upset their pretty lives.

I don’t EVEN know what all that is and I still say, ‘BRING IT! I NEED EVERYONE TO HAVE A SEAT AT THE TABLE!’ Because I feel so little power in following the best path, I get stopped. I gasp for air, try to breathe and stall out in a stand still. I am a parked car on the Highway 5 at 5pm. And so here I am, doing the only thing I know. Say it. Write it. Let it be known that the helplessness is rising and although I am fearful, I know I am not alone.

I just keep waiting for our collective salvation. I am in it and hopeful. We desperately need to grow as a people. We are responsible for learning and transforming the past. I ask my clients to wake to it every day.

So can we? Together? RISE.

Why The Phoenix Rises

Five years ago, in 2013, the staff of The Crisis Line and Safe House of Central Georgia took a chance on this survivor/therapist in the hopes of perhaps a little fundraising and likely a whole lot of chaos. To date, we have raised close to 70,000.00 dollars and it goes without saying there has definitely been some chaos. I have this terrible problem of being the kind of ‘Go Big or Go Home’ type of woman and tend to manage to swirl in a little crazy with my philanthropy projects. Still, none of our very committed staff and volunteers cannot say there is no fun going around! Phoenix Rising 5k has become something I believe many in my community take great pride in being a part of.

2013 was also the year I began this Blog, leading down a path of being public about my position as a survivor. I hoped my own coming out and sharing my rising would create a depth of love and support for others in my community. I still continue to feel afraid sometimes when I hit that ‘publish’ button, but I certainly have heard the reverberation from my fellow survivors over these last five years. Phoenix Rising has not only allowed me to continue in my healing process, but has also provided a safe place for other survivors to give back. This was an unexpected gift and one I gather up in my heart every year as I watch so many volunteer, sponsor and pound the pavement asking for donations, silent auction items and support.

In January of 2013, I sent out my first call for support and the responses of love and generosity were tremendous and many continue each year. You will find below that first email I sent and many of the kind responses I received. Today, I do not share these for pats on my back (although I do keep copies of them in treasure box for rough times) but to show you- my fellow trauma survivors- that shame dies when we speak it. We can die to our old selves and rise up again out of the ashes, beautiful and reborn like the phoenix.

January 2013

Dearest Friends and Family,

There was a time in my life when I felt fairly certain that I would not live to be 37 years old. Not because of some melodramatic twenty something drama, but genuinely, that my soul had been taken and would never return. I was sexually abused from the age of 6 to 11 and until college carried the grief and self hatred that not even my enemies would have for me.

In my office bathroom, you will find a movie quote, maybe just a cliche’, but the start of a real life for me. One of my best friends in college was close to his own feelings of suicide and once he returned after a break from the stress of what to make of himself, he said, “You better get busy living or get busy dying.” That is what I have been doing ever since. I am a therapist today as a part of the giving back that I was given. If it weren’t for him and the therapists that walked with me along my journey, I am certain that this path would have been cut short.

So today, I stand at the precipice of one of my life dreams. I have wanted to publicly give back to my community in a way that would model for other survivors as well as create a legacy that we as a community could support. What has been most overwhelming, is that the moment I verbalized to my loved ones that this race was something I wanted to do, NO ONE and I mean, no one, once, questioned me or suggested that I could not.

So here we are….this race is real and I am sending you this email to ask that you consider being a part of my history…..and then, make it your own. One in Four women over the course of their life time will be sexually assaulted and One in Eight boys by the time they reach the age of 18.

All of the proceeds go to support our only Rape Crisis Center in Middle Georgia. I will be happy to send you the shirt from across the miles. If you cannot register, sponsor. If you cannot do either, get the word out. If you cannot run, walk. If you cannot walk, come and be together on what will be one of the most special occasions in my life. If none are possible, be with me in spirit and know that you are with me. I may have known you all of my life, or for just a small amount of time, but we all know that sexual abuse affects us all. I will not remain silent and I will no longer carry the shame of a victim. I am a survivor and this is my chance to create a community of survivors. Please consider taking part now and every year to come……

And The Loving Notes that followed:

I am so incredibly honored to know you.

Words cannot express the depth of gratitude or the love my heart and soul hold for you, Allie. I am not sure you will ever fully understand the critical role you have played and continue to play in my life,not only to help me overcome my own crises and hurts to regain the sense of self I had lost, but also to help and guide me as I strive to serve the young people in our community.

Your email subject, The Phoenix Rises, struck a chord with me which prompted me to want to make sure you know how much you mean to me……..My last tattoo, designed and applied during the time in my life when I was your client, is a Phoenix 🙂 How fitting to me that you, the person who taught me how to rise from the ashes, also chose that same symbol to describe your own journey.

You are so precious to share this. I would NEVER have known that was in your past. I have actually marveled at how humble and down to earth and transparent you are (rare in a person so evidently intelligent and gifted). I recall when you were doing our ethics

workshop last year, I had a quick image of an adorable, precocious little red headed girl with her Converse sneakers. You are a walking miracle, Alicia. I opened the registration to fill it out and it is the same w/end we have reservations, but I will surely plan to be there next year! I also was molested as a child during an intensive (seemed to me) 6 month period when I was 4 yo. You are a radiant gift from God and I pray the run will be all you have dreamed and that it will grow exponentially over the next years.

The day I meant you I know where was something special and powerful in you. I am soooo proud of you. I would miss it this year but u would be in my thoughts.

Alicia…I have not previously been aware of your survivor status, but am, of course, not surprised given the statistics you mention in your message and given my work of now 40 years as a therapist. Not surprised, but deeply saddened and sorry that you have experienced such trauma, pain and grief. I am very grateful for the work you are doing and for the very public attention you are bringing for the need to continue to bring abuse out of the shadows. I think I am committed to an out of town trip for that weekend. If I can change those plans I will.

Thank you for sharing with me; I had no idea that you went thru that!!  But as you said, you are a SURVIVOR. And that is wonderful!!!!! I have found over the years that so many people do not want to share their“true” life stories. I guess my life has always been an open book because growing up in a small town, everyone knew my family business. I am a HUGE believer in sharing….and I always encourage others to do the same. Hiding behind something does not make it go away. But not everyone is me….LOL!!! You have taken a tragedy and turned it into triumph!!! That is the kind of happy ending I love to hear!!

Alicia thanks so much for your transparency and your vulnerability….it is refreshing and so inspiring. I am so happy for you and that your journey to this moment has brought you full circle to a place of peace and giving. I hope that you will have the time to not only give, but to receive the fruits of your accomplishments! You really deserve it.

See You on Saturday April 1st

Phoenix Rising 5k

Event at 3:00pm, Race @ 6:00pm

Live Music, Silent Auction, Bounce House

Find more information on FaceBook:transformativetrauma

LIVE.OUT.LOUD.

My Mother Didn’t Teach Me to Hate: Compassion First

I grew up in the naiveté of Northern California, a place where I thought the only match of Us vs. Them occurred in movies and television. My neighborhood was wild with diversity and that was easily reflected in both our work and personal lives. My Dad is of Hispanic descent and grew up the majority of his life in an all African-American foster family, sometimes making my nuclear family the only white people at my larger family gatherings. There was little discussion of race in our house and I believe, much like not experiencing religion shoved upon us, it left me with less scarring of the heart when it comes to issues around race and ethnicity. This is not to say there weren’t consequences with the lack of discussion. It led me to believe that the days of racial and ethnic divides were behind us and only when I moved to Alabama for college and saw the literal dividing line of the railroad tracks did I realize I lived in some bizarro cosmic bubble where my utopia obviously was solely in my own head. I remember feeling like the wind had been torn out of me and I spent the majority of my college years building up my knowledge and understanding of what I severely lacked.

As for my understanding of myself as female, it was rotten from the sexual abuse I endured and to this day I am still called that girl with all her “women’s lib shit” by some of my family. Then, I was just angry and hungry to hurt someone back the way I was hurt. I had a low level of understanding about what it meant to be a feminist, but I knew that word gave me some small amount of power and autonomy. I am afraid my mother thought I was just going to be a lesbian because despite her own open ideas about some things, she refused to buy me a dirt bike or Converse shoes. (Hey Mom- I have seven pairs of them now, including some mint green low tops- and I have a pair on my Christmas wish list.) My college experiences have allowed me to grow and understand myself in context of this belief system. I have learned to be fierce and cunning as a feminist rather than running around clumsily cutting people with knives.

Interestingly, sexuality was a conversation on the table. Harvey Milk was the first openly gay politician in 1978 in San Francisco and the waves of HIV positive (mostly) males followed in the Castro District. We watched Phil Donahue parade around the gays like the new world wide pariah and although when the rubber met the road it may have been a different story, my mother openly told me she didn’t care who I loved. As an aside, sex was also on the table and given that we were a blended family, we had loads of fun making fun of my parents’ sexual activity at the dinner table. I know- weird huh?!! However, this is one of the many aspects of my family I am grateful for.

Despite my very staunch belief in participating in our civic duty to vote, very few adults in my life did and I recall very little about politics until I was 18 and participated in my first election. Then, I was limited in my understanding and did not want to vote for Clinton simply because Al Gore’s wife was the head of the PMRC ! Freedom of speech was very important to me and EVERY heavy metal CD that I purchased had one of those parental advisory stickers on it! Thank goodness my mother didn’t care or I would have died a horrible death as an outsider in my own peer group. We were known as the “Stoners” back then. I think the equivalent group today are the “Emo” kids, although neither us tend to use substances as much as the label implies.

Only in this most recent election did my parents take part in their civic duty and voted. And I have participated in the last seven presidential elections and hope to participate in many more in my lifetime. As a feminist, I do not take lightly the sacrifices made in order to participate in this privilege.

I know what you must be thinking…..either ‘what is your point lady?’ or ‘Ah, hell. She is about to politic us over the head-and I have had enough.’ Hang in there with me; I have got some good stuff for everyone.

Like many, in the days following our recent election, I have run the gamut of emotions. From afraid to angry followed by puzzled and making cynical jokes. I am not sure even those who voted for our President Elect- Donald Trump really believed he would actually do it, while so many others had their emotional heart set on having our first woman president. 110 out of 116 polls were wrong and so few of the experts that may have had some knowledge appeared to ZERO political voice. This is the dawning of a new era and whether or not you are excited or appalled, the sun shall rise and change is coming.

So let me begin by speaking to my fellow democratic brothers and sisters. I am an avid believer in equality for ALL people and there have certainly been times in my life when I have twisted my life into a pretzel to fit into some perfect ideology, however, if a liberal thinker is to grow and change, we cannot play the game of Us vs. Them. Who are the people that primarily voted for our next president? Yes, it is true that the non-college educated white male was the majority of the group while 42 percent were females. Some may be considered the “self made man” who have some wealth through hard work and time. Many live in the rural areas of our country and perhaps a very small percentage (as things like violence and hate continue to be) of this group is interested in maintaining sexist, racist and xenophobic ideologies, but most- just like you– are complicated and intricately different humans. I don’t want to in any way make excuses for the ongoing “isms” that exist in our country, however, if we are going to make any headway in working through the shame that we carry in this nation, we must grow our lens.

I have had the unusual pleasure of living in the rural south for the last 14 years. And when I say rural, I mean like I live with a mere 20 thousand people in the county. Like everywhere I have lived, there are those folks who just aren’t my people (and yes I do mean asleep at the wheel assholes) and the few that I find ways to create meaningful connection with. And it has little to do with politics. I find that, in general, people who live in rural areas are very much the salt of the earth. Yes, in these parts of the country there is more fear that stems from a lack of exposure to the unknown and sometimes cultural knowledge. As I have found my way to fold into this rural community, I have found a tremendous amount of kindness and generosity that I never experienced living in a large city.

There are many complicated elements of a typical life in a rural small town. There are still young teenagers working at the grocery store and sometimes if you want to get out of there quickly, you better put your head down and not do the usual direct eye contact and speaking because you may get caught in a conversation while your ice cream melts in front of you. I share names and history with the people I bank with and collect my pharmaceuticals from. I see them out in town and we speak and share stories of our children and family. This crosses ethnic and racial backgrounds. Is it all lollipops and rainbows? No kids. That’s ridiculous. None of us live in Oz. But my southerners try to live in the world a little like we are supposed to in church; we are expected to be kind and although not ideal, I surely miss it when I leave to go home to California where not one human will smile at me walking down the street.

Some of the reasons we have to accept their votes are due to the abject poverty in which many live. There remains a weekly food bank and local ministries that provide clothing to our community. The overwhelming majority are white families that are struggling to survive. Eleven of the schools in my county are considered Title I schools; meaning that a high percentage of children are eligible for free lunch. Programs have begun popping up during the summer time just to feed these same children because it is a known fact they are going without food. To demand that this part of my community have clarity on something like the higher good related to race relations and whether I am being treated fairly as a woman becomes a ridiculous prospect to a person trying to make enough to feed their family each day. This does not mean we let all the privileged white folks off the hook. I am asking that we pull the lens back onto the entire country and examine how we can show compassion even when we are frightened and understandably angry.

As for the many who voted for our new president-elect and do not fit into the catogories described above, the disenfranchisement with government and the lack of connection with the everyday American has led to this severe uprising and perhaps a silent revolution with the intention to reclaim the government away from the seasoned politician that is often bought out by the lobbyists swarming every crevice of our United States House and Senate. With this considered factor, perhaps those are the true ‘liberal’ thinkers who wanted to revolt in their own way through their vote. Of course, the outcome remains to be revealed.

This leads to my thoughts to my fellow Republican brothers and sisters. It is true that whenever their person is not the chosen one, there is a major let down that often follows for several days. This election has already shown to be something more than this. For many, the grief is in multiple layers and some is the loss of a wish that America is less racist, less sexist and more accepting of the LGBT community than ever before. This election showed the entire world that perhaps that is not true just yet. I know for myself as a trauma survivor, I spent years rebuilding that layer of grounded trust that humans were potentially less sexist and have a greater willingness to protect little children than in the past. And for now, the results have attempted to shake that foundation. Honestly, it is all a reminder that our fears are not unfounded. I felt betrayed and once again back in my naïve young life of Northern California, just wanting the fear to subside. For so many minority and marginalized people this was just another amplification of the fear they live in everyday and it warrants our concern and honest understanding.

Change did not have to come packaged in a man that had such terrible vitriol, spewing hatred and causing the trickle to ride all the way down to my daughter’s sixth grade class where a young African-American student was excited about the Trump victory to only hear another student say they ‘shouldn’t get so excited, they are going to be sent back to Africa!’ I am afraid that Trump did not really understand the consequences of rallying the hate that resides within all of us and will now have to spend a fair amount of time putting out the sparked hate fires that have been spurred on by his rhetoric.Voting for Trump did not necessarily symbolize that you are sexist, racist or xenophobic; that you don’t hate. It does represent a lack of care about the marginalization of people not like you. The fear of being abandoned or rejected is a kind of shame that makes us all want to vomit.

Further, it has been a long time wish to see a mirror rather than possible attempts at reflection. Although HRC was a long time politician and a member of the elite establishment, it was a great time to follow the first African-American male president with our first woman. I understand this is not in of itself a good reason for a vote. However, how many voted for Trump simply because he was NOT a member of the establishment and could overlook many things others could not? In the faces of so many young women who wept, we are anxiously waiting for someone to have the highest office in the country reflect who we are as women. And then to get the extra smack in the face while already down has made the pain and damaged feelings even deeper.

We still have a LONG way to go.

Maybe this reminder will allow ALL of us to do more.

We need not swallow that bitter fruit of hatred.

Hatred cannot be our way. Lacking compassion and taking the angry way out cannot be our answer. I was given many mixed messages as a kid, but hating others was not one of them. My Mom and Dad taught me the face of kindness and how a deeply giving heart can win over even the surliest of men. I have watched them just keep at their intentions of kindness even when I am sure the sour neighbor is plotting how to blow them up. And most of the time, their love wins. I believe in the freedom of speech and I am grateful we have a mechanism to protest and be heard when we are passionate about something. This passion cannot come forward without compassion for all Americans. Take the time to work at understanding each other and continue to draw the lines of connection that already exist, but may remain unseen. We are ALL connected within the intricate and complicated lives we lead and if this once naïve girl from Cali can find her connections in rural living, I will remain hopeful and proceed with compassion first.

So now, let’s get to work.

Audrie & Daisy Film Screening

Wednesday, November 30th at 6:00pm

Wesleyan College, Taylor Amphitheater

Public Film Screening of Audrie & Daisy

A powerful documentary about sexual assault and social media

JOIN US FOR FOOD AND DISCUSSION

Hosted By: The Crisis Line of Central Ga and Reflections Psychotherapy, LLC

 

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The Genetics of Sexism

 For #AudrieandDaisy

In a culture that continues to lack the ability to rise to the occasion to view both males and females as equal participants in society, it is going to take all of us in of our communities to make meaningful changes in the genetics of sexism.

I am continually baffled by the notion that my culpability for being female needs to be the only thing questioned when a crime has been committed. However, I am left with the recognition that we are losing in our ability to raise our boys. We lack the courage to even recognize that the derogatory and covert remarks against women continue to be at the heart of why males will blur the lines between a comment or gesture and criminal behavior. If a female is supposed to just tolerate whatever is said or how she is touched, no matter how subtle or direct, then what are we actually saying to half of our society?

Let me answer that question for you: We continue to inform our boys that girls are just a commodity, no different than my messy nightstand. And if you are not clear about how your behavior is not potentially translated into the blur that becomes rape, let me provide just a few examples of what this looks like from the perspective of a woman.

  1. Sexist behavior is when your first inclination in evaluating a female person in the public is to judge what she is wearing and whether she behaved appropriately.
  2. Sexist behavior is when a male orders their partner to do something for them without consideration of her needs much less her existence.
  3. Sexist behavior is when you grab at a female in public expecting her to follow your expectations or assume your gesture is simply a form of play.
  4. Sexist behavior is assuming that another female will give you attention simply because you asked for it and if she does not respond in a ‘nice manner’, you become self-righteous in an attempt to knock her humanness off its block.
  5. Sexist behavior is assuming that when a female speaks up about the horrible thing that happened to them, you say, ‘they just want attention’.
  6. Sexist behavior is hearing others making derogatory remarks about a female and remaining silent.
  7. Sexist behavior is calling a woman who has sex a whore while the males are champions making notches on bed posts.
  8. Sexist behavior is downgrading a woman’s success, basing it upon luck or what other people gave her.
  9. Sexist behavior is having an even higher standard for women, expecting her chastity and accomplishment to be pristine in order to be worthy.
  10. Sexist behavior is assuming that a girl or woman is a “bitch” because she speaks her mind and has an opinion, especially if it does not suit you.
  11. Sexist behavior is being told that ‘you should know your place’ when as a woman you state a clear opinion that does not favor men’s behavior.
  12. Sexist behavior is continuing to overlook one’s unacceptable behavior in the name of some false higher good labeled as politics or position.

 

I wish I could say the concept of rape culture was not real or true. And if it’s not clear what rape culture is, refer back to my examples and make the connection. I would hand over limbs in an effort to wake up our culture to the fact that our subtle acceptance of sexist jokes and seemingly little things is at the heart of why young boys and men continue to rape and why we continue to tolerate it. And each time we are either a participant or witness, another sexual assault is built upon the sexist comment tower we created. I know it is a difficult challenge to swallow the notion that our process addiction to daily sexist behaviors creates this monster, but it does.

This is exactly why when a sexual assault occurs in our neighborhoods- we want to separate ourselves and lay no claim to the possibility that a crime could have occurred. We would all have to admit that we played our part in the acceptance of the process that leads men to believe that women are things and not humans. It is why in watching the documentary Audrie and Daisy, Daisy stood zero chance at a fair opportunity for justice. Wanna know what rape culture looks like? Watch this movie and hear the words, REALLY hear the words of several of the officials. One just couldn’t believe that their beautiful golf course wasn’t the more important topic in their town than a young girl who was sexually assaulted.

We are called to something better than this. We should demand a concentrated effort on recognizing our own biases and ask ourselves, for once, honest questions about our own internal struggle and what we accept on a daily basis that creates the monster of rape. Monsters are not born, as written in the documentary, they are made. And if we are the tower’s architects, then it could take very little to obtain the permit to burn that shit down. We would not condone words or actions built on the misogyny of sexism. This does not have to be our DNA- we can shut off this belief that somehow the presence of a vagina automatically implies less than. Perhaps one day, a young woman like Audrie will not take her own life in an attempt to escape the rape culture she lived in.

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