I first became aware of their existence while fighting downtown traffic just after 5:00. That’s not really the best time to face Marion Street; it might not be Portland traffic, but it’s bad enough. The traffic stacks up for blocks and blocks. A light will turn green and the line of cars might not even shift. Everyone jockeys for their spot on the bridge and free-flowing traffic – unless you’re heading to West Salem. Then the misery just continues.
Rowan (9) and Henry (6) sat behind me, happily playing with their Burger King toys. The deal right now is these blobby-looking plastic things that remind me of the Pillsbury Doughboy. But get this – they come with playdoh and are designed with spaghetti squeezers and accessories to make cool impressions. It’s actually pretty sweet.
Back to the van. We slowly oozed along the road, hoping stoplights would stay green long enough for the cars in front of me to move out of the way so I could cross the intersection, when I saw a man hurrying along carrying a sign under his arm. From what I could see, I think the sign read, “PRESIDENT not GOD.” I looked around for other people, but saw none.
Two blocks away from the bridge, I spotted them. They thronged on both sides of the street, all corners of the intersection at the bridge, so many people, waving their signs high in the air. My initial reaction was apprehension. I envisioned people running out and blocking traffic, rocks being thrown, general mayhem and possible violence. I pictured struggling to keep my autistic children calm while simultaneously trying to get them to safety.
There was none of that.
The throngs respectfully kept their distance on the sidewalk. Occasionally a car would honk in support and everyone would cheer. Nothing was thrown. No one got in our faces. It occurred to me that while there certainly are violent protests, I shouldn’t automatically assume that every protest is the same.
Rowan asked me what all the people were doing, which led to a beautiful talk about our country’s founding principles, one of which is the freedom to speak. We have the freedom to stand on street corners and wave signs. We can criticize our government loudly and publicly. We can make our voices heard and demand change. Whether or not I agree with these particular protestors is not the issue. Everyone here has the right to make their voice heard.
I told Rowan that not all countries have it this way. Some countries will put their citizens in jail for speaking out. They can’t say anything bad about those in power. Rowan asked if some are even killed, and I said, yes they are. While no government ever likes to be criticized, here we are still free to do so. I am extremely thankful for that.
Rowan pondered this all. I reminded myself that every moment can be a teaching moment for my children. Every inconvenience can be turned into something more. My children are always watching what I do, what other adults around them do. They see and they learn. They will model my behavior and my words. Rowan understands that even when people have different perspectives, kindness and listening will go a long way. And I was reminded that for my children to grow up showing kindness and understanding, they must first see that behavior in me.
Friday, November 9, 2018
Friday, October 26, 2018
It’s Not About the Men
I’ve waited a long time to write this post. By now, most of the noise and clamor of Believe Her/Believe Him has died down. That’s the way it usually goes. My mind ponders a subject, goes over it again and again, editing and rewriting without it ever getting on paper, desperate to have Just The Right Words that will have Just The Right Impact. Even when I’m finally ready to commit my words to the screen where everyone can see them, I still second-guess myself.
But it’s been long enough, and some things need to be said, even when I haven’t achieved perfection with them. If I don’t put my own words out there, if I only repost what others have written (no matter how eloquently), people can believe that I am only a Bandwagon Jumper, New To The Scene, and Not Really Passionate About The Subject.
The reality is, I don’t always like to share my heart online, and some subjects can be very painful for some people to read. I don’t like to share my friends’ stories without asking. I did ask, and receive permission, to share a few.
First, I need to get the obvious obligations out of the way. I know men have problems. I know men get assaulted. I know some men are raped. I know men are murdered. No one is saying that these things don’t happen to men. Of course they do. We live in a world that can be shitty at times – a lot of the time, in fact. Men have to be aware of dark alleys and lonely streets. Men have to be aware of their surroundings.
THIS POST IS NOT ABOUT THE MEN.
This is for Janessa*, whose husband raped and beat her on multiple occasions. She was told that because they were married, it wasn’t really rape. Even the police ignored her cries for help.
This is for Amelia*, whose boyfriend raped her. When she told a parent, that parent said that because it was her boyfriend, it wasn’t really rape.
This is for Nenia*, who was propositioned by someone she trusted. When she said no, he stalked her for two years.
There are more stories, so many more. I haven’t received permission to share them all. It hurts to be reminded of times when trust has been betrayed.
For millennia, women have been suppressed, oppressed, trodden down, beaten, raped, and generally subjected to restrictions that no one would dream of applying to men. Here in America, we are so blessed, so fortunate to not live through such atrocities where CHILDREN sold as wives is a common occurrence, where it it illegal for us to drive, where we can’t walk in public with our faces bared. We are fortunate. There will always be another place where other women have it so much worse.
There has never been a country where the women regularly rape the men without repercussion, where women can kill men for dishonoring the family by being raped, where men are not allowed to drive but women are, where women can vote but men can’t, where 10-year-old boys are sold as husbands to 80-year-old women, where men must cover their faces and bodies in public while women walk around uncovered, where it’s common for groups of large, strong women to chase and harass a lone man and demand sex because he’s wearing shorts and exposing his legs. Flip it to the reverse, and those things happen to women every damn day.
Just because we’re not as bad as some countries, that doesn’t make the problems here go away. We live in a culture where, if a woman is raped at a college party, the automatic response is, she shouldn’t have been there. Okay, maybe it wasn’t smart, but SHE IS NOT AT FAULT. The person at fault is the man who raped her. If she hadn’t been there, he would have found someone else to rape. The blame lies on the rapist.
No matter how aware and cautious men are, there’s a certain element lacking in basic, everyday interactions with everyday passersby: fear. Women (speaking in general here) have a constant hyper-awareness of every man they encounter. We choose our words carefully. Stroke the ego just enough so he doesn’t think we’re insulting him, but not so much that he thinks we’re flirting. Know that on a date, if we let the man pay, he will probably expect – and might demand – sex.
Being beaten and mugged is horrible when it happens to anyone. The thing is, men don’t usually have to worry about being raped into the bargain. For men, although they might be injured, their most private areas are generally left intact. For women, there is a very high chance of the assailant helping himself to her body as well as her money. Very few rapists are actually arrested. Even fewer actually are convicted.
Of course there are some instances of false reporting, but those instances are astronomically fewer than the number of rapists who walk free. Women are shouted down, harassed, and questioned brutally if they even mention the assault. No one wants to believe that “that nice guy” committed such an atrocity. It’s easier to just say the woman is making it up or was asking for it.
No woman asks for rape. No matter how inebriated, no matter how she’s dressed, no matter how friendly she was, that does not absolve the man of his behavior. The blame for assault needs to be put where it belongs – on the assailant. Every person is responsible for their own actions.
*These are real people and real stories. Their names have been changed to protect privacy. There are so many more stories I could share, but I won’t do that without permission from the owners of those stories.
But it’s been long enough, and some things need to be said, even when I haven’t achieved perfection with them. If I don’t put my own words out there, if I only repost what others have written (no matter how eloquently), people can believe that I am only a Bandwagon Jumper, New To The Scene, and Not Really Passionate About The Subject.
The reality is, I don’t always like to share my heart online, and some subjects can be very painful for some people to read. I don’t like to share my friends’ stories without asking. I did ask, and receive permission, to share a few.
First, I need to get the obvious obligations out of the way. I know men have problems. I know men get assaulted. I know some men are raped. I know men are murdered. No one is saying that these things don’t happen to men. Of course they do. We live in a world that can be shitty at times – a lot of the time, in fact. Men have to be aware of dark alleys and lonely streets. Men have to be aware of their surroundings.
THIS POST IS NOT ABOUT THE MEN.
This is for Janessa*, whose husband raped and beat her on multiple occasions. She was told that because they were married, it wasn’t really rape. Even the police ignored her cries for help.
This is for Amelia*, whose boyfriend raped her. When she told a parent, that parent said that because it was her boyfriend, it wasn’t really rape.
This is for Nenia*, who was propositioned by someone she trusted. When she said no, he stalked her for two years.
There are more stories, so many more. I haven’t received permission to share them all. It hurts to be reminded of times when trust has been betrayed.
For millennia, women have been suppressed, oppressed, trodden down, beaten, raped, and generally subjected to restrictions that no one would dream of applying to men. Here in America, we are so blessed, so fortunate to not live through such atrocities where CHILDREN sold as wives is a common occurrence, where it it illegal for us to drive, where we can’t walk in public with our faces bared. We are fortunate. There will always be another place where other women have it so much worse.
There has never been a country where the women regularly rape the men without repercussion, where women can kill men for dishonoring the family by being raped, where men are not allowed to drive but women are, where women can vote but men can’t, where 10-year-old boys are sold as husbands to 80-year-old women, where men must cover their faces and bodies in public while women walk around uncovered, where it’s common for groups of large, strong women to chase and harass a lone man and demand sex because he’s wearing shorts and exposing his legs. Flip it to the reverse, and those things happen to women every damn day.
Just because we’re not as bad as some countries, that doesn’t make the problems here go away. We live in a culture where, if a woman is raped at a college party, the automatic response is, she shouldn’t have been there. Okay, maybe it wasn’t smart, but SHE IS NOT AT FAULT. The person at fault is the man who raped her. If she hadn’t been there, he would have found someone else to rape. The blame lies on the rapist.
No matter how aware and cautious men are, there’s a certain element lacking in basic, everyday interactions with everyday passersby: fear. Women (speaking in general here) have a constant hyper-awareness of every man they encounter. We choose our words carefully. Stroke the ego just enough so he doesn’t think we’re insulting him, but not so much that he thinks we’re flirting. Know that on a date, if we let the man pay, he will probably expect – and might demand – sex.
Being beaten and mugged is horrible when it happens to anyone. The thing is, men don’t usually have to worry about being raped into the bargain. For men, although they might be injured, their most private areas are generally left intact. For women, there is a very high chance of the assailant helping himself to her body as well as her money. Very few rapists are actually arrested. Even fewer actually are convicted.
Of course there are some instances of false reporting, but those instances are astronomically fewer than the number of rapists who walk free. Women are shouted down, harassed, and questioned brutally if they even mention the assault. No one wants to believe that “that nice guy” committed such an atrocity. It’s easier to just say the woman is making it up or was asking for it.
No woman asks for rape. No matter how inebriated, no matter how she’s dressed, no matter how friendly she was, that does not absolve the man of his behavior. The blame for assault needs to be put where it belongs – on the assailant. Every person is responsible for their own actions.
*These are real people and real stories. Their names have been changed to protect privacy. There are so many more stories I could share, but I won’t do that without permission from the owners of those stories.
Friday, September 28, 2018
Letting Go
As a parent, there inevitably comes a time when our children are ready to strike out on their own and be their own people. For me, it’s happening much too quickly.
I have very clingy children. They like to climb on me and smother me. Even at ages 9 and 6, they still want to climb in bed with me at night. They want to be snuggled to sleep. They clamber on top of my head and rub my hair in my eyes. They always say, “Mama, play with me! Mama, watch this! Mama, fix me a snack! Mama, mama, mama!”
I do my best to meet their needs, but for years I have longed for just a bit of space to myself, some room to breathe, some time alone to think. And suddenly, within the last few weeks, I have it.
I’m not ready.
We get to the playground at school in the morning, and instead of holding my hand and giving me a snuggle, Rowan (9) shouts a quick, “Love you, Mom!” and runs off to his classroom to dump his backpack, then heads off with his friends. Henry (6) doesn’t hold my hand anymore, either. He runs and skips and looks offended when I offer my hand. When we get to his classroom, instead of me going in with him while he hangs up his backpack, he pushes firmly on my tummy when the door opens, to let me know that I am Not Welcome in his classroom. This is his space, with his teachers and his friends. Mommy isn’t needed there.
Oh, my heart.
I was talking this morning to Donna, one of the assistants in his special classroom. She doesn’t see him much anymore, either, because he’s spending most of the day in the regular first grade classroom. The fact that he is not just going there, but thriving and spending the majority of his days there, simply floors me. There were many, many days and months and years when I doubted whether he could ever function in school at even a basic level.
Anyway, Donna and I were commiserating with each other about how Henry just doesn’t need us anymore, and she said, “Well, that’s really what our job is. We provide as much and as little support as they need, and the ultimate goal is that they don’t need us anymore.”
Oh, that is so true, and it hurts! Some part of me wants to cling to my little children forever, keep them snuggled up with me. This morning Rowan opted to stay in his bed for ten extra minutes instead of having snuggle time with Mom in the rocking armchair. And I love that he’s comfortable in his own bed, but my heart!
I know they still need me. They still come to me for hugs and kisses and snuggles, to find their shoes, to fix their food. There will always be a part of them that needs their mama. But it is growing less every day, and while I am so glad and so thankful for their continued growth and development, I am not ready.
I have very clingy children. They like to climb on me and smother me. Even at ages 9 and 6, they still want to climb in bed with me at night. They want to be snuggled to sleep. They clamber on top of my head and rub my hair in my eyes. They always say, “Mama, play with me! Mama, watch this! Mama, fix me a snack! Mama, mama, mama!”
I do my best to meet their needs, but for years I have longed for just a bit of space to myself, some room to breathe, some time alone to think. And suddenly, within the last few weeks, I have it.
I’m not ready.
We get to the playground at school in the morning, and instead of holding my hand and giving me a snuggle, Rowan (9) shouts a quick, “Love you, Mom!” and runs off to his classroom to dump his backpack, then heads off with his friends. Henry (6) doesn’t hold my hand anymore, either. He runs and skips and looks offended when I offer my hand. When we get to his classroom, instead of me going in with him while he hangs up his backpack, he pushes firmly on my tummy when the door opens, to let me know that I am Not Welcome in his classroom. This is his space, with his teachers and his friends. Mommy isn’t needed there.
Oh, my heart.
I was talking this morning to Donna, one of the assistants in his special classroom. She doesn’t see him much anymore, either, because he’s spending most of the day in the regular first grade classroom. The fact that he is not just going there, but thriving and spending the majority of his days there, simply floors me. There were many, many days and months and years when I doubted whether he could ever function in school at even a basic level.
Anyway, Donna and I were commiserating with each other about how Henry just doesn’t need us anymore, and she said, “Well, that’s really what our job is. We provide as much and as little support as they need, and the ultimate goal is that they don’t need us anymore.”
Oh, that is so true, and it hurts! Some part of me wants to cling to my little children forever, keep them snuggled up with me. This morning Rowan opted to stay in his bed for ten extra minutes instead of having snuggle time with Mom in the rocking armchair. And I love that he’s comfortable in his own bed, but my heart!
I know they still need me. They still come to me for hugs and kisses and snuggles, to find their shoes, to fix their food. There will always be a part of them that needs their mama. But it is growing less every day, and while I am so glad and so thankful for their continued growth and development, I am not ready.
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
Back to School
Rowan (9) and Henry (6) went back to school today. I thought briefly about taking pictures, but that thought was quickly driven out of my head when Henry went into full meltdown mode this morning.
It’s not that Henry doesn’t like school. He really does. He likes the structure, the activities, and the learning. He loves his teacher, Mrs. A., and the two TAs who work with him the most, Donna and Sharon. It’s just that he really, really enjoyed summer.
He loved waking up at 8:30 or 9:00, wandering into the dining room for cereal, then settling down to play Minecraft. He loved lazy summer days spent outside in our backyard, driving trains over tree roots, throwing the ball for our dog, Lili, going to the river, and spontaneous visits to cousins or grandparents.
We’ve been trying to prep him for school the last few weeks. He has always stubbornly responded with, “NO SCHOOL.” Yeah, not happening, kid. The staff at his school have many more tools in their toolbox than I do, to guide and teach through his autism.
So this morning he absolutely refused to wear any of his new clothes, despite them consisting of the same type of t-shirts and sweats he always wears. I guess with everything else, it was just too much new and scary. We compromised at last with just a new t-shirt, and everything else old and familiar. He’ll get used to them in time, I suppose.
There is a happy ending to this story. When I picked him up, Sharon said that Henry had a GREAT day, and that his time in the regular first grade classroom [he bounces between the special ed room & the regular class] was “night and day” different from how he started in the regular kindergarten classroom last year. He also got a candy for practicing safe body techniques all day, so that was great!
As for Rowan, while he wasn’t thrilled about going, he was excited to see his friends again. He sits across from his friend C. and she offered to introduce him to all the kids he doesn’t know yet! I got a running and jumping hug when he came out, and he told me that “today was the BEST school day I’ve ever had!”
In conclusion, I think we’re going to survive this year just fine.
It’s not that Henry doesn’t like school. He really does. He likes the structure, the activities, and the learning. He loves his teacher, Mrs. A., and the two TAs who work with him the most, Donna and Sharon. It’s just that he really, really enjoyed summer.
He loved waking up at 8:30 or 9:00, wandering into the dining room for cereal, then settling down to play Minecraft. He loved lazy summer days spent outside in our backyard, driving trains over tree roots, throwing the ball for our dog, Lili, going to the river, and spontaneous visits to cousins or grandparents.
We’ve been trying to prep him for school the last few weeks. He has always stubbornly responded with, “NO SCHOOL.” Yeah, not happening, kid. The staff at his school have many more tools in their toolbox than I do, to guide and teach through his autism.
So this morning he absolutely refused to wear any of his new clothes, despite them consisting of the same type of t-shirts and sweats he always wears. I guess with everything else, it was just too much new and scary. We compromised at last with just a new t-shirt, and everything else old and familiar. He’ll get used to them in time, I suppose.
There is a happy ending to this story. When I picked him up, Sharon said that Henry had a GREAT day, and that his time in the regular first grade classroom [he bounces between the special ed room & the regular class] was “night and day” different from how he started in the regular kindergarten classroom last year. He also got a candy for practicing safe body techniques all day, so that was great!
As for Rowan, while he wasn’t thrilled about going, he was excited to see his friends again. He sits across from his friend C. and she offered to introduce him to all the kids he doesn’t know yet! I got a running and jumping hug when he came out, and he told me that “today was the BEST school day I’ve ever had!”
In conclusion, I think we’re going to survive this year just fine.
Tuesday, August 14, 2018
Hello Again
Hello again.
I realized, looking on here, that it's been more than a year since I last posted. I am sorry for that. There have been many factors, not least of which is my ongoing depression. I keep telling myself that I need to write, but I just couldn't do it.
Anyway, I'm back, and I'm taking steps to make sure that I'm staying around.
So, what's new? I'll tell you. Rowan, my 9-year-old, has fallen completely in love with Harry Potter. Rowan, who was never, ever, EW, no WAY, Mom going to read Harry Potter. Actually, he mainly listens to audio books instead of reading print. It's easier for him to focus. We've been listening to audio books by C.S. Lewis, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Roald Dahl. Good stuff, yes? But everything has its saturation point, and although I never thought I'd say this, I found myself begging to please never make me listen to Charlie and the Chocolate Factory again! Enough! No more!!
So I convinced Rowan to listen to just the first chapter of Harry Potter, and that was it. He was hooked. I made the introduction, and J.K. Rowling did the rest. He's been binge-listening for the past three weeks. He's halfway through book 5 now.
Naturally, this translates into nearly everything else he does as well. Legos? He's building broomsticks and having face-offs between the different characters. Minecraft? He built a boys' dormitory & girls' dormitory, both of which have a portal to the nether in the back. Whaaaat? I didn't think even Hogwarts was THAT unsafe! He's placed a lot of armor stands around, decorated them with clothing, and named them according to various characters. So far he has Neville, and Draco Malfoy and his gang. Rowan, of course, is Harry Potter himself.
He also roleplays at home, and insists that everyone joins in. I alternate between being Hermione or Mrs Weasley. Lili, our dog, of course plays Fang. Henry, age 6, is generally relegated to being Ron, although Henry doesn't know or care, and refuses to follow instructions. He's a free spirit.
So I apologize, friends, if sometime in the next five years I get tired of Harry Potter. It's fun right now, but who knows where this obsession will lead! You may have to save me from it all!
I realized, looking on here, that it's been more than a year since I last posted. I am sorry for that. There have been many factors, not least of which is my ongoing depression. I keep telling myself that I need to write, but I just couldn't do it.
Anyway, I'm back, and I'm taking steps to make sure that I'm staying around.
 |
| Different book, but still reading! |
So I convinced Rowan to listen to just the first chapter of Harry Potter, and that was it. He was hooked. I made the introduction, and J.K. Rowling did the rest. He's been binge-listening for the past three weeks. He's halfway through book 5 now.
 |
| Yep, that's the face. |
Naturally, this translates into nearly everything else he does as well. Legos? He's building broomsticks and having face-offs between the different characters. Minecraft? He built a boys' dormitory & girls' dormitory, both of which have a portal to the nether in the back. Whaaaat? I didn't think even Hogwarts was THAT unsafe! He's placed a lot of armor stands around, decorated them with clothing, and named them according to various characters. So far he has Neville, and Draco Malfoy and his gang. Rowan, of course, is Harry Potter himself.
 |
| Whomping Willow? |
So I apologize, friends, if sometime in the next five years I get tired of Harry Potter. It's fun right now, but who knows where this obsession will lead! You may have to save me from it all!
 |
| Wild as a summer storm. |
 |
| Henry continues his search for Narnia. |
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