Words

I love books. Throughout my life I have read so many different kinds of books. Some of them I've merely flipped through and then tossed aside. I don't even remember the names of the authors or the content of the stories. Some of them I've read thoroughly yet quickly, to be remembered fondly later, often as a valuable lesson. Some books are so long and intense (like Harry Potter 4-7) that I feel like I have to read them in their entirety in a single sitting because I fucking have to know the ending, until I am wrecked, destroyed, sobbing on the floor, vowing to never read another book again.

Recently I've discovered a new kind of book. It's a bit tattered around the edges but its binding is still strong. Parts of it are written in different languages that I can't read and don't understand. Some of its words are so familiar it's as if they were taken from a book about me. As tempting as it is to skim through it, or get so wrapped up in it that it destroys me, I'm reading it slowly, sometimes only one word at a time. I want to savor every word, even the ones I don't understand, even if I never get to the end. Each word reveals part of the story, and this is a story I want to know, a story that becomes more beautiful with each word.

World of Shit

            It’s official.  The world has gone to shit.  A racist, xenophobic, Islamaphobic, homophobic, transphobic, and otherwise hateful sexual predator has been elected president.  The people he is appointing to his cabinet are one human rights nightmare after another.  His vice president believes in conversion therapy.  People are angry, afraid, taking to the streets to voice their outrage and opposition.  People have been meeting and planning and strategizing for weeks about what to do and how to keep their loved ones and communities safe.  Meanwhile, indigenous people are being brutalized by militarized police (who apparently have no jurisdiction, btw) for protecting their sacred tribal land and something every single one of us needs to survive: WATER.  And while we’re on the subject of water, Flint still does not have clean water, yet Nestle is pumping and bottling and selling water at an outrageous profit not too far away.  I could go on and on about the horrible things happening right now in the world but (hopefully, if we are paying attention) we all know it by now.  All you have to do is scroll through social media for five minutes and you will be bombarded by atrocity after atrocity, people making excuses and justifying the numerous atrocities, and other people posing ideas about what the fuck the rest of us can do to help.

            Today is Thanksgiving, a holiday that was invented to cover up the genocide of the native people of this land, a day when we are supposed to gather together with our families and be thankful for all that we have while we stuff our faces with a multitude of comfort foods, most of which we only learned about from the very native people we killed for their land.  It is a day chock full of contradictions and hypocrisy, and this year it seems even more so. 

As I write this, I am sitting here at home in my predominantly white suburban neighborhood while my mother is cooking a turkey for our upcoming feast.  I know that I am a lucky person.  I have a roof over my head.  I have clean water out of the tap.  I have electricity and abundant, nutritious food and a family that loves and supports me.  I have a college education and access to decent health care.  I acknowledge that my white skin has afforded me privileges and luxuries that many people don’t have.  I know that while I am sitting here, warmed by electric heat, typing on a computer assembled in a sweatshop, awaiting a home cooked meal, that people at Standing Rock are being blasted by water cannons in subfreezing temperatures, shot by rubber bullets and mace and concussion grenades and god knows what else. 

I have seen the pictures and read the horror stories and watched the videos.  I have witnessed the mainstream media either completely ignore it or distort it in order to justify militarized violence against unarmed, peaceful people assembled on their own tribal land exercising their first amendment right.  It is easy to feel helpless and overwhelmed, and many of us do.  But we are not helpless.  There are things we can all do.  We can share the stories, stand in solidarity, and send donations of money and supplies.  Some people can travel to Standing Rock to join with the water protectors, and some people can attend rallies and protests closer to home.  We can make phone calls, send emails and letters, sign petitions, make our voices heard.  We can make small (or large) changes in our daily lives.  My point is, everyone has different limits of what they are able to do, but each of us can do SOMETHING. 

November is a difficult month for a lot of people.  Anyone who claims that Seasonal Affective Disorder isn’t real has obviously never lived in a place where it is gray and/or rainy for most of the year.  The days are painfully short and dark in November, and getting shorter and darker every day.  And it is cold here, the kind of cold that cuts you to your bones.  The holiday season in general is hard for a lot of people for a lot of reasons.  November, to put it plainly, kind of sucks.  This month is also the anniversary of the day six years ago when I almost died.  I’m not being dramatic here.  The emergency room doctor told me that the fact that I was sitting there, alive, in front of him made him believe in miracles for the first time in his scientific life.  It’s hard for me to talk about what happened that night, and I can’t do it in any detail right now.  Suffice to say that I reached the point where I believed with every fiber of my being that there was nothing left for me in this world.  There was absolutely no reason for me to be here.

I made a decision.

I was unsuccessful.

It turns out, I was wrong.  There is a reason for me to be here.  There is a reason for all of us to be here.  And it is in times like this when we need to remember that reason the most.  When the world has turned to shit, when our lives are falling apart (that’s a story for another time…), when everything is terrible and the weather is miserable and everyone is scared and angry and it seems like nothing will ever be okay again.  Because, seriously, how can it ever be okay again?  It can.  Trust me.

Probably not anytime soon, but someday, things will be okay.  And it won’t be easy, but as Clark W. Griswold famously said, “Nothing worthwhile is easy”.  A lot of people are gearing up to fight.  We have to stand up for the rights and lives of women, immigrants, Muslims, the LGBTQ community, and every other marginalized group that the Trump administration sees as less than human and not deserving of basic rights.  We have to stand up for indigenous people who are also fighting for their rights and lives.  We have to stand up for the environment and science and education.  And it is especially important today, Thanksgiving day, that we stand up for all of these people and all of these reasons and more.  But it is equally important that we take a step back from the fighting, at least for a moment, and remember what we have and be thankful for it.  We need to tell the people we love that we love them.  We need to offer help and support to people who need it.  If we find ourselves in a position of privilege, we need to use that privilege to help people.  Sometimes all it takes is a simple phone call, one minute of your time, to let someone know they are important to you.  Six years ago a one minute phone call literally saved my life.

Today I am thankful to be alive.  I am thankful that I have a place to live, a solid group of family and friends, a community, a job, an education, an IUD.  I am thankful to have access to clean water, delicious food, mental health care (for realz!), a dentist, and the flu shot.  I am thankful for my mother, who not only gave me life in the first place but gave me a place to live when I was out of options, and who has made me the person I am today who can survive anything, even things according to medical science I shouldn’t have.  I am thankful for my baby brother, who isn’t a baby but whatever, he is always the baby.  I am thankful for the rain and the trees and the earth and the soil and the bats and every other living thing.  I am thankful that throughout my life I have been able to offer help and make a difference in people’s lives and the world.  I am thankful that I ever had anything to offer, and I am thankful for the people who had help to offer me when I needed it.  I am thankful for the people who wouldn’t or couldn’t help me because it taught me to help myself.  And on and on I could go…

Every one of these people and things makes me who I am and gives me strength.  Sometimes I lose sight of all of this and fall into despair.  These are the times when I need to remind myself of all of the things I have.  These are my reasons for being here, for staying alive, for fighting.  It is easy to get caught up in anger and fear and sadness and forget why we are angry or fearful or sad.  It is easy to get caught up in fighting and forget why we are fighting.  Today I am taking a step back to remind myself, because if we forget our reason for fighting, then what is the point of even fighting? 

I know we have our own ways of fighting and our own reasons for doing so.  None of us needs to explain or justify our methods or reasons.  But maybe take a moment and remind yourself, then do something nice for yourself and for someone else.  Then get right back to it.

Now that I have reminded myself of my reasons (and also triggered myself by digging up some heavy shit), I’m going to eat delicious food with my family, drink red velvet hot cocoa, snuggle with my cat, and steady myself for whatever comes next. 

If you’re reading this, please remember that you are important and you are loved.

Some Nights

            I just got out of the bath.  I literally don’t even have pants on yet.  My hair is wrapped up in a towel.  I need to clip my nails.  I should be doing chemistry or geology homework.  But I can’t.  I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve.  I have been known to over-share.  And I have been doing that a lot lately all over social media and to my friends in private.  But there is a lot I haven’t been talking about.  I’ve been bottling things up for weeks, hiding in my schoolwork, focused on anger, putting on a brave face and smiling through a soul-crushing, earth-shattering pain.  I know what people will say: he’s not worth it, you did it to yourself, blah blah blah, and they would be right!  But it doesn’t change the fact that here I am, in nothing but a towel, feeling miserable and heartbroken and confused and fucked up and twisted all around inside.

            Last week my therapist asked me what I wanted my life to be like six months from now.  I had no idea what to say, so I wiped the snot off my nose and hated myself and told her I just didn’t want to feel fucking rotten.  I don’t know who I am anymore and I don’t know how I got to this shitty place in my life.  I did it to myself.  YES!  But why?  And how do I get back?  What the fuck happened to me?

            When I was 14, I cheated on my boyfriend at the time because he had cheated on me and it seemed like the reasonable thing to do.

            When I was 27, I was about to sleep with a guy and he told me he had a girlfriend and I said, “What does that have to do with me?”  But I was moving across the country in a few days and it seemed like no big deal to be the “other woman” with a guy I’d never see again.  But then I did see him again two years later and he cheated on someone else with me.

            Almost every guy I have been in a relationship with has cheated on me, and this trend goes all the way back to sixth grade!  And some of the ones who didn’t cheat left me for someone else.  I took a break from dating for a long time because I was sick of being treated this way, and I worked on myself.  I went to therapy, went back to college, moved to a new place, faced a lot of my fears, traveled, met new people, and survived a lot of shit.

            As soon as I decided to start dating again, this guy swooped in looking like everything I had ever wanted.  He was sweet, attentive, sensitive, and we had so many things in common as far as what we liked and didn’t like and how we imagined our futures.  It was easy to imagine our future selves living that dream together, and I hadn’t felt that way about anyone pretty much ever.  And before I knew it, I was in love.

            I loved him.  I opened myself up to him in ways I have never opened myself up to anyone ever ever ever!  I poured everything of myself into him and our relationship and he took took took and never gave a damn thing back.  I forgave him when he cheated on me last summer and gave him a second chance, something I had never done before.  He took advantage of that part of me and drained me even more.  A few weeks ago, after we had been together for over two years and three months, he told me he wanted to sleep with someone else.  I told him he couldn’t have both and he chose her, even though he said she wasn’t worth it and that he didn’t want to lose me.  He still chose her. 

They always do.

            And now I’m sitting here, wrapped in a towel, miserable, heartbroken, pissed off, violated, betrayed, hating myself for missing him and simultaneously wanting to punch him in the throat.  I think about him less and less, though I haven’t gone a whole day without thinking about him.  I have played every role in the cheating trifecta, and none of them feel good.  I had to learn that on my own.  I guess other people do too. 

            I’ve always thought that part of loving someone was giving them the space and freedom to be themselves and to learn and grow.  I hope he does learn and grow from this experience, but he probably won’t and that has no bearing on my life anymore anyway.  Like I said, he made his choice and it wasn’t me.

            But I can still choose me.  Because I am smart and funny and kind and generous and I love with everything I have and everything I am and I am adorable and I have nice tits and I am passionate and I work hard and I have dreams and goals and desires.  I deserve so much more than this pile of nothing he left me with.  I feel like such a disaster right now, and it’s going to be a long process to clean this up.  Maybe I should date myself, like Ann Perkins on Parks and Recreation.  I think that is a great idea.

            But for now, I’m going to eat some chocolate and read about volcanoes.

Rebirth

I was fortunate enough to have been raised with my great-grandmother, Myrtle, an avid gardener who was 77 years old when I was born.  She went barefoot everywhere, dumpster dove before it was cool, and never said a bad word about anyone, even when I believed they deserved it.  In her backyard garden in North Portland, I learned from her the inherent value of all living things and the interconnectedness of the natural world.  She taught me that all creatures deserve to be treated with care, respect, and dignity, and that compassion and empathy make us stronger, not weaker.  She taught me how to read, take care of myself, and stand up for what is right.  The most important thing I learned from her was that I wanted to leave the earth a little bit better, healthier, and safer, than it was when I got here.

My great-grandmother provided some of the only stability I had in my life, and her home was a refuge during times of turmoil.  She passed away when I was 20, and at that time I had just graduated high school (finally) and was struggling with depression, PTSD, and years of pent up anger.  I was devastated by her death, and I did not really know what to do with myself and my life.  I fell into a deep depression.  I decided to go to college, where I changed majors five or six times in the first two years, got kicked out of numerous classes because I was unable to keep my opinions to myself and resented being told what to do, and eventually flunked out and lost my financial aid.

Part of the reason for flunking out was of course my loud, bitchy mouth, but the other reason was that my uncle was admitted into the ICU and I spent every day there until he died (another story for another day...).  I was mad when he died.  I was mad at him.  I felt like he wasted his life and died too young, though I realize now that it was his life to waste and it was none of my business.  But at the time I was angry with him (I was generally angry with everyone, everything, and the entire universe) and I ran away to Tucson for two months to clear my head and get some perspective.  I have no idea why people go to the desert to gain clarity, but for whatever reason, it works.  I realized that I had been wasting my life, by being angry and mean and depressed and stewing and brooding and pissing people off at every turn.  I was stuck, stagnant, in a quagmire of bullshit and I would continue wasting my life if I did not get unstuck.  If I could not let go of the anger built up from my past, I had to at least figure out a way to turn it into something constructive.

I returned to Portland.  I started volunteering at different places around town and got my first canvassing job with the Sierra Club.  At first I was just registering voters and taking a survey, then I started campaigning against a ballot measure that would pretty much destroy two state forests if it won, which it did (even almost ten years later, drive from Portland to Tillamook or Seaside to see the aftermath...it makes my stomach churn...).  That was my first taste of the extreme disappointment that can be associated with trying to protect the environment, but I did not let it stop me.  Rather, it started a fire deep inside me.  For a while after the election, I tried other types of work, but nothing brought me any fulfillment.  After a long term relationship ended, I felt completely lost and went back to canvassing to find myself.  I was afraid of wasting my life again, and I wanted to be someone my great-grandmother would be proud of, the woman she taught me to be. 

The next two years of my life were dedicated to protecting the forests of the Pacific Northwest.  I threw myself into this work completely, at the expense of my mental and physical health.  (Read more about this here.)  It was very rewarding work, yet ultimately depressing.  At the age of 28, I was completely burned out and jaded.  My anger was eating me alive.  I had to do something about it before I completely lost my mind, so I moved 2700 miles away from my home and the forests I had vowed to protect.  This time I went not to the desert of Arizona but to the mountains of Appalachia.

I wanted to start over in a place where no one knew me and where I would not be constantly reminded of my past.  I had no idea how hard it would be and what challenges I would face.  In the first six months I lived there, I cried a lot.  I cried at home, I cried during class, I cried in the kitchen at work, I would drive to Swallow Falls State Park and sit on a rock and cry.  I feel like all I did was cry.  Somewhere inside me, a dam had burst, and 28 years of repressed emotion came out in the form of tears.  I stopped brushing my hair, I lost almost thirty pounds, and I became a complete mess. 

Then I was offered the chance to take a class in Costa Rica during the winter intersession.  I of course jumped on it.  I needed a grand adventure, but mostly I needed to escape the terrible cold of real winter, for which I was ill-prepared.  Before I left, I made a wish list of what I wanted to experience most.  I wanted to hold a snake, see a monkey, and most importantly, see a bat.  The first two were easy and happened right away.  After a week of mud, beans and rice, and intense studying, I finally got my chance to fulfill the third wish.  One evening I received an invitation to accompany the French-Canadian students into the jungle to see what they called “les chauves-souris,” or “bald mice.”  François, their instructor and long-time bat researcher, asked the students to speak English so I could understand as they used dichotomous keys to identify each bat.  One by one, the bats were weighed, taken out of the cotton holding bags, had their forearms measured, and then were fed.   For most of the evening, we saw three species of bats: Carollia perspicillata, Artibeus lituratus, and Carollia castanea. 

Toward the end of the night, François removed a small bat (Glossophaga soricina) from a purple holding bag, examined it closely, uttered a few words in French which led to a collective gasp, and turned to me.  “She is pregnant,” he said, “You may touch her.”  I did not count on getting to actually touch a bat, and I certainly did not think doing so would have such a profound effect on me.  Slowly I reached out and gently touched the round, swollen belly of the tiny creature, and instantly burst into tears.  I felt the unborn baby inside her and at that moment something deep down inside me changed forever.

According to the lore of animal totems, a bat flying into one’s life signifies the death of an unhealthy part of the soul and a subsequent rebirth into the people we are meant to be, coming out of a long darkness, breaking down of the former self through intense tests, and facing of our greatest fears.  When I felt the belly of the pregnant bat, I had what I refer to as my “Bilbo Baggins Moment,” a moment that changed me so deeply I could never go back to what I was before, and why would I want to?  

That word is "Yes."

            I do not get offended easily.  Seriously, it takes a lot.  Normally I simply roll my eyes and avoid whatever it is that might offend me, but sometimes it is not that easy.  As was the case earlier this summer when I had the misfortune of hearing Robin Thicke’s “Blurred Lines,” which I insist is not a song.  As it played, something rose up inside me; maybe it was vomit, or an urge to punch someone in the nuts.  I had no idea at the time why I was so upset.  Sure, the song is terrible and boring, the video is disgusting and misogynistic, and Robin Thicke is a creepy, talentless douche.  But there are a lot of terrible, boring songs out there, misogyny is rampant, and creepy, talentless douches are everywhere you look.

            Then, several weeks ago, my friend posted this article on Facebook, and I could not help but take a look.  I was shocked, disgusted, and horrified.  I do not know the persons responsible for the song, so I will not presume to know their intentions or motivations behind the lyrics (after all, we all know what happens when we assume anything...).  All I have authority to discuss is how said lyrics, and the article dissecting them, made me feel, and that is what I shall do.  I warn you, this is going to get really personal really fast, so maybe some readers should continue no further.

I have heard some of those things before, that I had asked for it, deserved it, and wanted it, even when I had done no such thing.  I do not want to admit that we live in a culture that would justify or condone rape.  I would like to believe we have evolved as a species and a society, but perhaps that is not the case.  I was raised with the mindset that “no means no,” and for a long time I thought everyone believed that.  At a rather young age I learned I was mistaken, and that many people, men and women alike, think there is a gray area between “yes” and “no,” between consensual sex and rape.  Even in college, when a classmate got into my car in the campus parking lot and molested me, the head of my department scoffed and said, “Well, I’ve seen how you act with the guys around here...”  Yes, I flirt with everybody, but I had also told this individual on many occasions not to touch or come near me.  Apparently, even though I had said, “NO,” my body said, “YES.”  Several college officials told me I had no recourse, since I had not been “physically hurt,” and there was nothing I could do.  I had to spend most of the rest of the school year in classes with this person, and he eventually dropped out and moved to another state. 

I tried to warn people about him, to tell the truth about what happened that day, but it seemed like everyone had an excuse for him, and even some of my closest female friends tried to justify his behavior.  “He’s a good guy once you get to know him,” they would say.  I had a hard time believing that, because I for one do not believe in the gray area between “creepy molester” and “good guy.”  The most disturbing thing about the entire situation was not that people did not believe me.  I mean, he and I were the only people present when it occurred, and there are two sides to every story.  No, the most disturbing thing is that in the eyes of many of my classmates, I became the bad guy.  I was “talking shit” and trying to ruin him.  People sympathized with him and I was just another slut.  It was quite reminiscent of something that happened to me when I was only 14, in the summer between eighth and ninth grades.

I was visiting a friend for a few days in a town where I had previously lived.  One night, we were talking about boys, a common topic.  We giggled like crazy as we made lists of boys with whom we would hypothetically have sex.  After one particular boy’s name was mentioned, my friend decided to call him and tell him I wanted to sleep with him.  I yelled while she was on the phone with him that I was only kidding.  Apparently, he did not hear me.  The following day he showed up with a group of friends at the park where my friend and I were hanging out.  One of the other friends suggested we go back to his house and watch a movie.  It was something I had done before, so I saw no harm in doing it again, plus I knew everyone there and felt comfortable with all of them.  We had walked almost all the way to the house before I realized my friend was not with us.  I asked about it, and one of the guys said she would probably catch up.  We arrived at the house and started the movie.  Nothing to worry about, right?  Wrong.

After a while my friend had not shown up, so I said that I should probably go back to her house and I got up to leave.  Everyone except for the one guy left the room and shut the door.  I stared at him awkwardly.  He said to me, “I thought you wanted to fuck me.  Isn’t that why you’re here?”  I laughed and told him that I had only been joking and went to the door, which I discovered was locked from the outside.  I demanded to be let out, and heard muffled laughing from the other side of the door.  The guy said, “You said you wanted to, so here’s your chance.”  I froze.  I was trapped and I knew it.  I told him again that I did not want to have sex with him.  At that point he grabbed me by my hair and pulled me over to the bed.  He then demanded that I take off my clothes.  I said no and he hit me in the face.  After that, I did as I was told.  He was going to get what he wanted from me whether or not I wanted to give it.  I did not know what else to do.  I went along with everything he did because I was afraid of what else he would do if I fought or screamed or did anything.  When he was finished, he grabbed my hair again and put his face up close to mine and said that if I told anyone what happened, the next time it would be worse.  I believed him.  I was too young and scared to know what to do.

The door was unlocked and I was allowed to leave.  One of the guys had called my friend, and she and her mother were there waiting with all of my things packed in the car.  They dropped me off at the local supermarket and gave me a quarter to call for a ride.  My brother picked me up and once I got home I took the longest shower of my life.  For a long time I did not tell anyone what really happened.  I went along with the story that spread through the town like wildfire that I had wanted to do it.  Many months later, I told my school counselor the truth, and he told my mother.  She believed me, and that gave me strength to tell others.  They, however, did not believe me.  Horrible rumors were spread about me and I lost almost all of my friends.  At the age of 14, I felt devastated and totally betrayed.  If I had known then what I know now, I would have said, “Fuck you!  You were never my real friends anyway!”  Live and learn...

I tell this story because I believe it is a perfect example of the so-called “blurred lines” between yes and no, between consensual sex and rape.  I had said out loud that I wanted to have sex with him, apparently rendering any future protestations null and void, at least according to most of my social circle in 1994.  I had also surrendered and allowed him to do what he wanted, which solidified the public opinion that I had consented.  Many people back then, and some in the 19 years that have passed, have told me it was not rape. 

It sure felt like rape at the time.

Fuck that.  There are no blurred lines.  There is a very distinct line, as a matter of fact.  “No” does not equal consent.  “Maybe/I guess/sure/okay/whatever” do not equal consent.  Silence does not equal consent.  Compliance does not equal consent.  There is only one word that equals consent. 

That word is “Yes.”