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.”

If Friends Were Flowers...

This is for my friend Jaimie, who came into my life at the perfect moment and has made me a better person and a stronger woman.  Since we became friends in Costa Rica, here are some of my favorite pictures of Costa Rican flowers.  I love you, Jaimie Lee.

 

A Reason for Living

           One of my conditions for release from the mental hospital was to make a list of “reasons to live.”  I thought about it for days and came up with nothing.  On the last day, I was sitting in the day room, coloring pictures in the corner, and I looked out the window.  The grounds of the hospital were beautiful.  A stream meandered peacefully through the green yard, with a little waterfall and a foot bridge.  Weeping willows hung over wooden benches all along the stream, and it was gorgeous.  I did not have outside privileges, I was too high risk, I suppose.  But I loved to sit in the day room and watch the mallards swimming and splashing in the stream and walking in the grass.  They were so beautiful, so majestic.  I realized that simple beauty like this is everywhere, so for my first reason to live I wrote, “the prospect of seeing mallards every day.”  I was released soon after.