Why I Am Marching

I recently posted on Facebook that I was heading to Lansing for the Women’s March (with women and men) in solidarity with the March in Washington.  One person on my page simply questioned, “To what end?”  I’m not sure if they were trying to be snarky or actually seeking understanding.  It doesn’t matter.  I gave a response, but it made me want to reflect more deeply about why this march, this gathering of women is important to me.

TRUMP: You know, I’m automatically attracted to beautiful (women) — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything.

BILLY BUSH: Whatever you want.

TRUMP:  Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.

I was sick to my stomach when I heard these words. Physically repulsed.  Trump was boasting that he commits sexual assault. Regularly.  And still it wasn’t enough to stop 63 million people from voting for him. Not enough for men. Not enough for women. I started to reflect on all of the times in which I was sexually assaulted, abused or simply on the receiving end of sexually inappropriate behavior or words. 

This is one of the reasons I am marching.  IT’S NOT THE ONLY REASON. 

Most of these occurrences happened decades ago. Why didn’t I share them earlier?  Who would care? No, seriously. Who would really care? It’s not a “woe is me question”, it’s just “what do you do with this kind of information?” Prosecute people? There’s a fine line between criminal activity and inappropriate behavior.

I think its time we come down harder on inappropriate behavior.  And only we can do that.  If there is no criminal activity, then the response is ours… the actions are ours to take.  

 It begins by telling our stories.

KENNY & DAVID

Kenny & David were brothers.  We went to Catholic school together.  David was my age.  They did a lot of bad things like pouring bleach on Mrs. Musser’s flowers and breaking the window at the Bolema’s during street baseball and then blaming other kids.

When I was three, my sister came home from school and found me naked in the driveway at their house.  They made me take my clothes off to show all the neighbor kids what a naked girl looked like.  My memories of this are faded, almost non-existent.  I do believe my soul still carries this vulnerable experience.

When I was about seven, Kenny, who was 12 or 13 at the time, took me back behind Bob Bolema’s house and made me tongue kiss him.  This memory brings back a visceral reaction of disgust.  For years, whenever I thought of it, I’d get an upset stomach. Even today, I can still taste him.  I hated that he did that to me. 

Also, when I was about seven, Kenny and David tortured me one afternoon.  While out sledding I had accidentally stepped in dog poop.  I said that I was going to go home to pee and clean the poop off my shoes.  One of them, David I think, said it was “dog shit” and that’s what I needed to call it.  Now, believe it our not, and if you know me you know I am capable of cussing like a sailor, but back then I thought if I said the word “shit” I would go to hell.  I thought that swearing was a sin of epic proportions, so I said, “No!”  They kept me from leaving, jumping in between me and my house, then holding me, all the while taunting… “Say dog shit!”  And I kept saying “It’s dog poop!”   

Perhaps you’re laughing at the silliness. It sounds silly to me to write it. 

Then they pushed me down and put my face near it.  I really had to pee.  I begged them to let me go.  They said, “Not until you say “Shit”.  I wouldn’t.  Finally I had to pee so bad, I was afraid I’d wet myself. I started screaming, “Okay! It’s shit! It’s shit. It’s shit!!!”  They let me go.   

I ran home as fast as I could.  I made it to our mudroom and moved as quickly as I could to remove my snowsuit.  Then the damn burst, the pee started and I couldn’t stop it.  I stood there, by myself, sobbing as the warm pee ran down my cold legs and in to my snowsuit.  I remember thinking I was going to get in trouble from my mom for peeing in my snowsuit. I remember this as if it was yesterday.  What horrible fucking boys.  Sorry, this is the only sufficient language to define them.

Many years ago, I was walking downtown Grand Rapids and a man called my name.  It was David. I didn’t make light talk.  I told him what a horrible child he was to me.  I told him that I hoped his own children were terrible to him.  It wasn’t one of my finer moments.   Then a few years ago, Kenny found me on Facebook and friended me. His profile picture was "Chucky" that creepy doll.  NOT MAKING THIS UP.  I told him that never in a million years would I ever want to be reminded of my past with him and declined the friendship.  He didn’t respond. 

Parents, be sure your daughters know that it is safe to go to you when a boy treats them in anyway that makes them sad, scared, uncomfortable, angry, etc.

OTHER BOYS

When I was 12, Mike Sommers from Walker Jr. High and I were at a movie.  During the movie he slid his hand around me, unbuttoned my painter pants and stuck his hands through my underwear and tried to move his fingers inside of me.   I was frozen solid when he was trying to do it to me.  I didn’t know what to do.  Boys didn’t pick me.  Is this how a boy expresses his interest?  I was so confused.  I excused myself and ran to the bathroom to button up. When I left my girlfriend followed me and I shared what happened.  I was in a stall and she was in another. As I was telling her, I heard laughing.  One of the boys had followed us in to the bathroom. 

I felt violated all over again. 

When I shut Mike Sommers down, he barely looked at me again.  I doubt he would have done so even if he had achieved the outcome he desired.  He was a pig and I was a scared little girl who’s only experience up to that point was boys just doing whatever they wanted with me.

Now, here’s the kicker.  The movie we were watching was “On Golden Pond” and even at 12 I saw the irony in that.  For years I joked about it.  I mean Mike Sommers diddled with me during “On Golden Pond.” Hysterical! I sloughed it off.  We don’t even know how to react to something like this.  We joke about it.  This is why we don’t come forward. Even though it doesn’t feel right. Even though its not consent. We still think this is normal. It’s not okay. There was no consent.

Please teach your boys and girls that.  Please teach them that courting someone and assaulting someone are two different things.

**

Also when I was twelve… well that time I’ve already written about (where I was ganged up on by a group of boys, had my clothes cut and was forced to kiss them after having been dragged in to bushes near to my school.)  I won’t go in to more details again.  I didn’t tell anyone about that at the time.

It’s interesting, it seems I didn’t talk about situations when boys my age or near my age did things, but I did when grown-ups did.  We teach kids that it’s wrong when a grown-up is bad.  We need to teach them that it’s wrong when a boy does something bad.

GROWN MEN

When I was four or five, a distant relative took me to a park to watch fireworks.  I remembered that he wanted to play “the tickle game”… whatever that was.  I remember being on the ground and him touching me in a way that made me feel very uncomfortable.  I had the wherewithal to tell my mom that I didn’t like the way he played with me and that I didn’t want to be with him ever again.  My mother heard me.  Later we found out that he sexually abused his children. 

I was smart enough to understand.  My mother was smart enough to listen.

**

When I was 13, I was at band camp.  Yep, “that one time at band camp….” And I wasn’t feeling well.  I told my instructor, a man, that I had to leave early because I didn’t feel well.  He grabbed my arm. Then he caressed me from top of the arm to the bottom.  He said, “You feel fine to me.” It was lurid and disgusting.  I told my camp counselor.  I was removed from his class.  I don’t know what happened to him. 

**

When I was 19, I had a vocal coach.  A man.  He had me do these breathing exercises.  He had me lay on the floor and he would walk over me.  Then he had me stand up and close my eyes. He wanted me to fill my breath through my body.  In order to get me to do this he stood in front of me and placed his hands near the top of my chest. Then as I breathed he moved his hands over my breasts and down the front of my body.  He did this repeatedly. I was scared. Uncomfortable. Confused. Embarrassed. Mortified. Appalled.  I didn’t go back to him.  I didn’t tell anyone at the time.  Who would have cared?  How could I have even described it? It was disgusting.

I wish I knew why sometimes it was easy to share and sometimes it was difficult. 

MY BOYFRIEND

When I was 21 until 24, I dated an alcoholic.  He was always verbally abusive.  He was never physically abusive.  One night, he was sexually abusive.

He raped me.  I can’t share it here.  It’s too personal.  It happened.

IN THE WORKPLACE

The day I was applying for the biggest job of my career, as I was walking in the door to the interview, one of the board members, a man, who was going to interview me said, “I had no idea you had such amazing legs.”  On my way in for the most important interview of my life!  “Oh thank you!” I said.  Pu-leeze.  Thank you, my ass.  That’s just plain wrong and you’re a pig for saying it.  God, so many times I’d sit back and just say “thank you.”

**

One time I was raising money from a guy I had never met.  He was a referral from a friend’s father.  In the midst of our conversation, out of the blue, he said, “You know how you make a woman’s nipples hard? Put some emeralds in her hands.”  WHAT?!?!?  This was a breakfast meeting. With a “Christian.” I kept thinking… “What up to this point have I done to give him any indication that it was okay for him to say this to me?” What had I done wrong?  Not assault, not abuse, just sexually inappropriate.  He was testing me.  How lewd can I get with this woman? It was gross.  After, I told my colleague and told him we should let his father know.  He wouldn’t tell his dad, nor let me.  He didn’t want to hurt his dad. I should have told the man off right then and there.  I didn’t.  I didn’t want to hurt my friend’s dad either – or my friend.  I didn’t want to embarrass anyone.  I should have gotten up right there and humiliated him for thinking it was okay to say such a disgusting thing to me.  I didn’t.  Sigh.

When a woman is on the receiving end of inappropriate behavior, abuse, whatever, support her and if she wants to speak up, let her.

**

Then there’s the time I tried to laugh it off… make a joke.  Someone in power came after me. It’s too embarrassing to write about, because I only made the situation worse by joking about it… with him. 

We aren’t perfect. Especially when we are in situations like this. We will make mistakes too. It doesn’t make his behavior right. We have to forgive ourselves.

***

And there’s more… but I’m done for now.  I won’t include the cat calls, the times guys have barked at me for being ugly (more than once), the times I was called a slut and a bitch, the handful of other stories that would embarrass people I know (including myself) so I’ll not share those now. 

Years ago, a doctor and an acupuncturist both suggested that I may have been sexually abused based on physical ailments I was experiencing.  When I started therapy I asked the therapist to help me uncover if I was suppressing a specific traumatic moment. There wasn’t.  Now I know. I didn’t block any one moment. 

I remembered them all. 

I just didn’t realize then, like I truly do now, that any of them were actually traumatic. I’m not sure I’m every woman. I pray to God I’m not, but it is possible, I’m every other woman.  I know this isn’t just an issue for women. I know men are abused too.

We have so much work to do.  It isn't beginning with the Women’s March on the 21^st. It doesn’t end with that. We must continue to raise our voices. 

Let’s go be heard.