Legitimate Rape on a Soapbox

Legitimate Rape on a Soapbox

I really try to not say much about politics. I attempt to take seriously the old saying of “never talk about religion or politics in polite company.” Except, I don’t follow the, “religion” part and I question the definition of, “polite” company. I will, however, state that Representative Todd Akin-R from Missouri managed to make me re-think my stance on my self-imposed political gag order. Don’t get too excited. This will not be a partisan rant accusing all members of the GOP of some form of buffoonery, ethical missteps or outright evil. I am well aware that these human faults can occur in any political camp. Rather, I want to share some instances in my life of sexual harassment that bordered on sexual assault. I would like to step on my soapbox for a few minutes to decry the outrageous amounts of sex crimes committed against women and children daily. Although, my experiences do not come close in severity to those who have suffered from what Rep. Akin calls, “legitimate rape.” I also think it is important for those of you who have not endured such victimization to become aware that these offenses not only violate people’s minds and bodies but also their souls (more on this later).

An excellent date rape mobile

The senior from the local all-boys Catholic high school peeled up on my driveway with his fully resorted and hopped up ’67 Chevy Cheville. He was ready to whisk me away to dinner and a movie and possibly some date rape. I sprang from my front door. It was the beginning of summer in 1988 and I was happy to be done with my freshman year in high school and thrilled to have a date. I was 15.

(Pause) How many of you just thought, “15! Why was she being allowed to date at 15!?!” If you didn’t think that thought or anything equally as condemning, please disregard what I am about to say. If you are passing judgment, let me ask you if you think it was justifiable for this boy to rape or attempt to rape the 15 year old me? No? Ok, let’s continue. (Yes? Please tell me so I can cut you out of my life).

After finishing the flick he drove me out to lover’s leap. The spot he actually took me to was an abandoned housing construction site in the far west valley. No homes were built yet in this would-be suburban development. Only the roads were completed and he easily found a secluded cul-de-sac. The necking began and it started off as fun and then his manner changed. Within minutes I was forcibly being pushed into the back seat over his newly recovered front bench. I resisted physically and told him to, “stop” but my pleas were not acknowledged and his passion seemed to turn to anger. At which point something inside me rose up and I pretended to relinquish control for a brief moment. Then I grabbed his head and slammed it repeatedly into his driver’s side window while clawing his face. “Stop it bitch! Stop it!” is all I can remember him saying. He drove me home and barely stopped to let me out. “Fuck you! Dick tease!” were his parting words.

I was lucky. Lucky that he didn’t have a weapon. Lucky that I was bold and knew I would not let anyone victimize me if I could prevent it. Even with all of this luck,  I would venture to say that if he had been able to rape me my reproductive system would not have, “shut down.”

Several years after that high school incident I slapped one of Rob’s fraternity brothers across the face for soliciting me for a blowjob. It obviously didn’t bother him that I was dating one of his, “bros.” I ran into him years later. He had his young daughter with him and I wondered what advise he would give her if she were ever to be pestered for oral sex at a party.

Then one night while partying in Mexico (don’t judge) my female friends and I had to fight off would be attackers. (I thought of leaving this out because there is part of me that has been culturally conditioned to think, “We were asking for it.”).

Through talking with many female friends these propositions and physical intrusions are commonplace. In fact you might be bored right now hearing about it.

When I became a professional, I really doubted that the stories of workplace sexual harassment were real. I would wonder if they were just cases of uppity, sexually repressed women trying to get attention or if they were being just plain old whiners. As I think back over the past 15 years I can’t even remember all of the instances of inappropriate talk and physical advancement I have been witness to at rehab and educational facilities.

Two instances stick out in my mind. The first was an unsolicited shoulder rub from a vice-principal while I was attempting to make copies (this sort of stuff always starts out at the copy machine). Mr. Rico Suave whispered in my ear, “You always seem so tense” followed by, “Your husband is a very lucky man.” I squirmed away and laughed nervously. I avoided him at all cost the rest of the semester.

A school leader also flung the second instance at me, but this time it was a female. I was working at a residential facility devoted to adolescent sex offenders. A snickering psychologist made me aware that I was a patient’s, “journal fantasy.” In other words, I was a “healthy” mental image of someone to beat-off to. When I approached the woman principal about my concerns she scoffed and said, “No wonder he fantasizes about you. You wear those tight shirts and you have those large nursing breasts.” No wonder, indeed.

Currently at my job I encounter numerous children every year who are either acting out or not talking at all because of sexual abuse. Speech Therapy always seems to be brought in for behavioral problems and obviously if the child is mute. The amount of victims is sickening and from what I have heard, the prevalence has actually decreased over the last 30 years because of awareness.

I just saw Deepak Chopra talk about how sexual energy is the same as spiritual energy because they are both creative energies. I think this might help to explain why sex crimes hit people’s souls. It has been documented that it is the worst kind of abuse but many current and hopeful legislatures seem to neglect this issue. I guess it is too hard for them to talk about.

I’m off my soapbox now.

Sh** Sandwich

Sh** Sandwich

I was recently at a fundraising event for a non-profit group that I am involved with and I started to talk with a friend who met me during my, “Lulu’s Cupcakes days.” She is in the food industry and she shared with me that she was no longer participating in one of her culinary pursuits. We both commiserated about how the food business is rough. I confessed that I was happy to be back in my professional career and to be actually making money instead of it draining out of every orifice of my existence. After the conversation, I felt a sense of calm and realized that I had finally digested one of my life’s shit sandwiches.

Urban Dictionary defines “shit sandwich” as a, “bad situation.” I would like to expand this definition. I believe the true meaning of a shit sandwich encompasses any condition or event that is negatively life altering in a seemingly permanent way. So, here is a non-exhaustive list: business failure, large financial loss, death of a loved one (especially when you or the deceased is young), chemical dependency (either you or someone close to you), abuse (physical, emotional, sexual), divorce, etc…

To further delineate, all people can be put into four broad categories: People who have yet to eat their shit sandwich (usually, but not always under the age of 35), people who are struggling to get the damn thing down, people who have been served at least one and have fully digested it, and those who deny they could ever be served a shit sandwich. This last group tends to walk around with their un-perceived shit sandwiches smeared all over their faces and they appear to have no fucking idea.

I will not address those who have not been served one yet. But rest assured they will not escape this life without at least a shit slider.

Variability in how people go about ingesting their culinary shit-show delight is wide. Some try to take the mucked up bun off to add condiments in the hope that it can be more tolerable to them; denying to oneself the gravity of the situation. Others, try to put it in a to-go box to hide it from others; “Things are great! I’m doing fine!” Still others try to choke it down fast like Kobayashi on Fourth of July. Unfortunately, the last group often ends up regurgitating and it turns into a real mess; “Well, he died three weeks ago. I should be fine, right?”

Those who have successfully digested at least one shit sandwich appear wise and are able to share their experiences in a way that is genuine and non-defensive. Emotions are regulated and projections of their problems are close to non-existent. Anger and blame are not assessed on the messenger of the bad news or the therapist they have sought treatment from or the person engaging in small talk at a cocktail party. They realize that their shit sandwich was not prepared by these people. They are whole human beings, at least for a short period of time, until the next course is served.

Now, on to those poor bastards who are painful to watch; those lost souls who wander through their lives appearing to have been pelted with shit but are totally unaware. They cling to material goods, people, relationships,  personally held beliefs or dogmas. At times they might appear as if they have started masticating the sandwich but then seemingly out of nowhere they unleash in a vengeful spew. This can be overt aggression or hidden toxically behind a benign persona. Cutting remarks and attempts to blame others flow readily from their existence. And the thing is, they are completely unaware and many of those who have to suffer being with them are unaware too.

Once I was venting frustration about this last group of people to a wise mentor (who I know has digested his fair share of shit sandwiches) and he told me, “It’s not about you. It’s those people’s own shit.” Yes, their own shit sandwich.

My conversation at the fundraiser assured me that at least my business failure/financial loss shit sandwich was digested.  I have gained perspective and at least some maturity through working bit-by-bit to consume it. Condiments and a to-go box helped along the way. I know that I still have other sandwiches waiting for me in the order-up window but for now I can say that I got through one.

The Prophet Sarge

The Prophet Sarge

Occasionally I meet people who change my outlook on life. These people are rarely leaders, are generally not important by any common definition, tend to lack higher education and have questionable cognition or at least present with dubious mental health. These people inject meaning into my life on a much truer level than any motivational speaker or leadership training event that I have ever been privy to.

I met Sarge this summer during my mountain vacation at a seedy local tavern in rural Arizona. Initially, I only witnessed him. He was being called, “Blue” seemingly to mockingly compare him to the less than responsive octogenarian college fraternity pledge from the movie, “Old School.” Sarge was a primary participant in the Saturday night karaoke party being offered at the bar. He donned a baseball cap, unbuttoned shirt that exposed his amazingly fit mid-section, jeans and a cane over his arm. It appeared that he had not shaved in several years and perhaps had never visited the dentist. He attempted to sing along with the machine but the karaoke operator had to assist due to Sarge’s inebriated mumbling. However, Sarge effused happiness and the glow in his eyes let you know that he was truly living the life that he wanted. The crowd would cheer him on with hoots and hollers and Sarge would dance with the intermittent use of his staff. At times he seemed to transcend his surroundings and he appeared in a daze. Maybe he was just really drunk.

The following week my friends and I were back at the bar and Sarge appeared in front of us as we went to take a seat. We greeted him warmly and he began to hover over our table. “You ladies having a night with just lady talk?” he asked. I responded with, “Are you asking to join us?” He quickly sat down. Pleasantries were exchanged that I would characterize a sub-finishing school conversation and that is when I started the questions, “So, were you in Vietnam?” “I sure as hell was, that’s why they call me ‘Sarge’ I was a Sargent in ‘Nam. The Army loved me because I figured a way to detonate a whole line of explosives. It blew a bunch of Gooks straight up in the air. I killed a whole fucking bunch of them.” “Oh, wow!” was my puerile reply. “You don’t wanna hear this shit. You’re here to have fun.” One of my companions quickly chimed in, “It’s ok. We are used to it. We are all therapists.” No matter that we are all Speech Therapists.

He began to share with us his entire life while showing us every bit of identification he had on him and we learned that his real name is Edward. He had previously been married and has four adult children. He was estranged from three of them. One of his sons had half of his face blown off in Iraq by an I.E.D. His wife left him or he left his wife (this was unclear) because of his alcoholism. He had primarily traveled throughout the southwest United States and held various odd jobs throughout his life including selling sought after treasures at the annual swap meet in Quartzsite and foresting in Idaho where he killed a, “fucking asshole black bear.” He concluded his tale with a story of living with a, “whore in Elko, Nevada.” Apparently, “she would give me tune-ups.” And one night he was allegedly sexually assaulted by this prostitute and the interlude netted a child who is apparently now about 8 years old.

Within this conversation it emerged that he was previously diagnosed by the V.A. as a sociopath. My partners and I were curious about this diagnosis. “How did they come to that?” was our joint question. “Well, the lady psychiatrist, she was real good looking, well she sat down with her binder and she started asking me questions about the war. And she asked me, ‘Do you feel bad that you killed those people?’ And I said no fucking way do I feel bad about blowing those fucking Gooks up. She closed her binder and next thing I know they tell me I’m a sociopath and wanna serve up a whole tray of meds. You know the V.A. wants to put everyone one those fucking meds. Everyone is a guinea pig to them.”

My companions and I sat quietly and exchanged glances. We collectively agreed that he was not a sociopath. PTSD yes. Detachment disorder yes. Sociopath, not so much. I looked him in the eye and said. “When you killed those people, you were doing your job.” He stared back at me and for a moment truth was punctuated.

Then, he dropped a doozey. He said, “My Grandfather and I had an Internet before there was an Internet. You know a different way of knowing.” Oh shit! I questioned him to confirm my fears. My buddies knew why I prodded him for clarification and finally it was clear. He was an intuitive mystic. He could sense things beyond our realm of earthly existence. Here he was, someone with a similar experience with the spirit world that I have had and I could easily relate to him.  I wanted to call my priest who was in Ireland and tell him that I was right and that only crazy people have these experiences.

Initially, I was mortified and then I realized that Sarge was just another prophet in my life. He presented himself to me as an equalizer. Why would I think I was any bit above this man? Does my professional persona along with my quasi-intellectualism really outweigh his service to our country and his work-a-day blue-collar ethic? If I am truly a Christian he should go before me or at least be able to humble me. And this was Sarge’s gift to me; a reinforcement that all of God’s creatures deserve respect and not the clinical coolness that was afforded to Sarge by that Psychiatrist.

Who are the prophets in your life?

Quietly Faithful

Quietly Faithful “The quietly faithful never get any press.” A Catholic Sister, on my retreat, gave these words to me earlier this summer. We had been discussing my reluctance to share my spiritual beliefs with others because of my perception that the media has created an American Christianity that is anything but what Christ would have taught.  I tirelessly lamented that I didn’t want to be associated with the, “judgmental religious types.” She listened empathically and agreed with me that the media is so skewed that she no longer watches the news and carefully chooses what she reads. She also suggested that perhaps more was going on with me than my extreme abhorrent reaction to the cultural perception that all Christianity is the same. Throughout the past several weeks, her words have continued to echo within me. I have given a lot of thought to my own Christianity and how it is played out in this world. I liked the idea of being, “quietly faithful.”  But the question remained; “what does being, ‘faithful’ mean to me?” I think I am getting closer to an answer or at least a hypothesis. In short, I believe that faithfulness can be defined as showing up. I wake up every morning and show up for my life. I show up to work. I show up to get my kids from school. I show up on vacation. I show up for lunch with a friend in the midst of life’s struggles. I show up to the party.  And, I show up for births and for deaths. Notice I didn’t say, “I show up for church,” or “I show up to pray.” This is not to say that neither of these things hold meaning for me, but rather that I would like to think of my Christian spirituality playing itself out in my mundane or not so mundane daily activities. I am determined to reclaim this aspect of my existence that has been sidetracked for several years. This is not the first time I have been derailed in my spiritual life and unfortunately I notice a pattern emerging that I need to be aware of.  Since I was very young I have been sure of God’s work in and around me. I have also, since adolescence, had a dark sense of humor, enjoyed irreverent thinking, used too many vulgarities, laughed readily and generally enjoyed earthly delights. Deep connections with the divine have unfortunately not been theologically allowed to mix with irreverent merriment. Historically, the church and church doctrine have perpetuated the thinking that those who are devoutly religious must be staid. My personality has been easy game over the years for those who fancy themselves as pious. Disapproving quips and condescending looks have been commonplace since high school. I always want to say, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I offend you? Last time I checked God doesn’t care that I used the F-bomb.” I unfortunately have allowed these critics to insidiously infect my spirit, weighing me down with guilt and self-doubt. The religious culture of dour, excessive piety doesn’t suit me well and when I realize what has happened I am able to shed these shackles and move back into my true self. The Danielle that God created and continues to animate with the Holy Spirit that is ever present. Since my visit with that nun, I have determined that she was right. My problem was not only the media but also the weight of judgment that I had allowed to creep in yet again. So, with this realization, I will continue to show up quietly faithful to my life. The life that God has provided, where I can always sense His presence without strict dogma but certainly full of F-bombs and cackling laughter. Rejoicing in hope; patient in tribulation; constant in prayer; Romans 12:12