Suburban Goddess

I was recently introduced to the “Slutwalk” movement through an old friend. He sent me the message on Facebook as a jab at the way I used to to dress; in my twenties, I had a pretty skimpy wardrobe. Lucky for me, I also had the legs to pull it off… but the message intrigued me in another way entirely. The Slutwalk movement is genuine in nature. If you haven’t heard of it, it rose from the public outrage of a Canadian police officer who made the statement “women should avoid dressing like sluts in order not to be victimized”.

That caused me to pause.

So if I’m wearing a short skirt, that gives someone the right to sexually assault me?

This whole subject seems to be coming up a lot lately, and not just with the clothes. A local case made national headlines when an 11-year old was gang-raped by allegedly up to 28 men in a trailer. James D. Evans III, an attorney who represents three of the defendants, stated that “This is not a case of a child who was enslaved or taken advantage of.”

She was 11 years old. Are you freaking kidding me? And the men who assaulted her: as young as 12 and old as 27. Are you telling me a 27-year old doesn’t know better? I don’t care if she was BEGGING for it… you have NO BUSINESS boinking an 11-year old!

Then came the case of Lara Logan, the reporter who was simply trying to do her job when she was sexually assaulted by a gang of men on the street. She was reprimanded by many people for being there to begin with. As a woman, she should have “known better” than to be there.

It’s easy to forget, that although I think of myself as a strong, independent and tough woman, there are much stronger and sinister forces at work in the world. These stories are finally coming to light, and for every one that is told there are hundreds that aren’t. As a woman, I’m outraged. As an American, I’m thankful to live in a place where there is some measure of recourse.

As a mother, I’m terrified.

I understand that we, as a society, have over-sexed our media. Our children are subject to lewd and provocative images constantly. My disgust at Abercrombie & Fitch, with their padded bras and thongs for 10-year-olds, is immeasurable. When I see tweens in Halloween costumes that rival their slutty mothers’ outfits, I cringe. But nowhere, NOWHERE does this give the man a right to force himself upon a woman. I cannot comprehend how a pack of men can justify the filth that these women, and sometimes CHILDREN, are forced to endure. As a woman, we look to our men to protect and guard us; not use us for their own twisted pleasures and base desires. I cannot comprehend how anyone could justify the behavior by saying, “she had it coming because she dressed like a slut,” or “she had no business being there anyway,” or “she asked for it.” Since when did the perpetrators become the VICTIMS in sexual assault? What shame do they have to endure? What debilitating psychological effects will they carry for the rest of their lives?

And when did poor fashion sense on behalf of a woman become an excuse for a felony?

I certainly don’t condone my daughter dressing like a slut, and as a parent, I will certainly be practicing my veto power. However, when she becomes of age to do and wear as she pleases, I cannot control her wardrobe choices any more than my parents could enforce mine. So if she decides to dress provocatively, as many of her friends will as well, the last thing I would ever want to hear from an OFFICER of the LAW is that “she had it coming for dressing like that.”

Truth is, thousands of women are assaulted in the world everyday, regardless of dress. It is a foul and despicable crime. Forcing yourself on a child is even more disgusting; I cannot understand how someone did not step in and save that girl. Even if she appeared to “enjoy it,” as some people have perversely noted, as an ADULT someone should have done something.

While I understand the motive of the Slutwalk movement, I worry that it will further inflame the very people they are trying to reach. The problem lies with men who still treat women as possessions or playthings. Our society is sending mixed messages, telling them it’s okay to objectify us, admire us, desire us, even stalk us. We do, in a way, invite men to lose control… then become outraged when they do. When do we start to teach these men we need to be respected, protected, and revered? When do we hold them accountable for the pack mentality that ensues when one crosses the line?

As an adult, I think a female has the right to dress any damn way she sees fit, but I do think we need to stop dressing our little girls like whores. Stop manufacturing slut clothes for children. Stop marketing smut to my kid. Stop making “The Girls Next Door” and “Teen Moms” look so appealing to the younger age groups. Stop encouraging children to dress like whores by making these items available. As a society, if we’re willing to shove it all out there prematurely, then its our duty to protect them as well. These children have no concept of consequences, and won’t, because they simply have not developed enough to understand them. The town of the 11-year-old blamed the girl and the parents: they should have blamed themselves as well for raising their own children to be completely bereft of morals and common human decency.

There is simply no excuse. A short skirt, heels, and some cleavage doesn’t give anyone the right to strip away a woman’s dignity, self-esteem, and personal rights. And if that officer is still on the street, I pray to God I never run across him, because I would kick him soundly in the balls.

Women, in general, can be pretty catty. I am no exception.

I got one of those calls you hate to get as a mother today: the your-kid-is-sick-you-need-to-come-get-her call from school. My problem is that I’m locked in a room with 30 kids that belong to someone else; they get a little cranky if you leave them alone. So I had to put the call in to the ex, who put the call into TOW, who went and picked up my kid.

I’m thankful. I really am. (You thought this post was going to be a TOW-basher, didn’t you?)

I have accepted the inevitable. She’s around, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It doesn’t do any good to make waves, and life is far easier if I just let stuff go. I’m pretty lucky she cares enough to take care of my kid. So no, my beef is not with TOW.

But when I pulled up, kicked back in a chair was one of my old running buddies, a woman I told all my secrets to. A woman, who as soon as I dropped into a lower tax bracket, dropped me as a friend like I had herpes. (Just for the record, I do NOT have herpes. Or any other STD. I’m just clarifying.) One of my major complaints about this woman is how much emphasis she puts on looks and appearances. Really, beauty fades (unless you’re Demi Moore) so I don’t understand why some women hold on with a death grip that just makes them look foolish in the end.

I think her betrayal in the divorce hurt me more than Chip’s; she was supposed to be MY friend. But I wasn’t even out the door when she started cozying up to the enemy. And now THEY are BFFs. So when I come around the corner and see her looking down her nose at me, I had a sudden redneck urge to spit. Luckily, I refrained.

“Oh my GOSH.. it’s so good to SEE YOU….”

Like you didn’t have my number.

“So I hear you’re a teacher now… where do you teach?”

No where that you can have your little gossip network check up on me.

“What are you teaching?”

“Media technology.”

“OH! Computers!” (Was that condescension in your voice?)

“Yes. 3D and animation to be more precise.”

“Oh, that’s great. I’d love to be able to teach computers.”

Yes, because we all know how you like to hack your husband’s email to see who he’s cheating on you with THIS WEEK.

“Yes, it’s a great job. I love it.” With that, I swept my child along, wanting nothing more than to GET OUT OF THERE. It’s one thing to come face-to-face with a betrayer on your own turf, but it’s another thing to be standing in home base in enemy territory with nothing more than a water gun and a pair of flip-flops. I was not prepared for this.

And on a side note, WHY do you always run into these people on a day you didn’t bother to fix your hair or put on make-up???? (Speaking of shallow and superficial)

I know I came across as a stuck-up witch for my short answers, but I really could not face this woman today. At one point, I told her all my deepest darkest secrets, which I am 100% sure she has blabbed not only to TOW in one of her drunken escapades, but the rest of the yayas in that deceitful neighborhood as well. She never could keep a secret. I could write a tell-all about that neighborhood that makes Jersey Shore look like Sesame Street. But I always kept my mouth shut.

Because I WAS A GOOD FRIEND.

I always tell my kids, look around. Because this junior high crap, we never outgrow it.

I’ve watched today with a strange feeling, the coverage of the death of Osama Bin Laden. I remember exactly where I was on 9/11; locked in a cinder block closet with my best friend and co-worker Dylan. Actually, I was waiting for him to get there when he burst through the door and told me a plane had flown into the Twin Towers. I thought he was kidding at first: surely, it had to be some bizarre accident. We all piled into the main assembly room of the printing company we worked for and crowded around a small TV, watching in horror as the second plane crashed into the second tower.

Days later, the details started to make more sense. Terrorism. Osama Bin Laden. Islamic extremists. In the years to come, these terms became more familiar than ever. The Cold War had given way to Muslim extremists, and a new enemy started to prevail. A new fear was reaching into our lives… instead of a bomb from above, it became the person, or child, standing next to you.

I struggle to understand the mindset of people who can convince a child to strap a bomb to their body and blow themselves up. I look at the children I teach, and I see how easy it would be; they are fearless, impressionable, and compliant. Even the roughest little boy can be stoked to anger; put an automatic weapon in his hand and you have the perfect killing machine. Point him at a person who looks different from him, tell him it’s that person’s fault his life sucks, and let him work. When you are taught the concept of brain development, and you are told that a child’s brain does not fully form the area that risk development takes place until they are around 25, you suddenly understand why they recruit children as they do.

Hell, we do it too. How many kids go straight into the armed forces right out of high school? It hardly seems right.

So when I saw that Bin Laden had been killed, I did not experience joy. Don’t get me wrong; I think he got exactly what he deserved… but the Christian in me has a hard time celebrating the murder of a person, no matter how vile. It’s a part of my faith that I struggle with; as a human, I understand, even crave, for vengeance. But we have to examine the hypocrisy of cheering in the streets: that is exactly what the extremists would do when they killed our soldiers. And we would look upon the celebration in disgust and horror. What kind of people are these?

I’m not saying some sort of celebration is in order; I just don’t think holding up signs that say “Rot in Hell” while chanting “hey, hey, hey, goodbye,” is appropriate. I am highly impressed with the disposal of his body, and how our government went through great lengths to make sure his faith was represented in a sincere and honest way. I cannot imagine the relief for the survivors of the 9/11 attack, or their families. I cannot imagine the anger and grief they must carry on a daily basis, to have their loved ones stolen by the maniacal beliefs of one man. Perhaps if I’d lost someone there, I might feel differently. I just know that gone is gone…. and nothing will bring back our loved ones when they have passed, no matter how they were taken.

While I believe justice was served, I don’t think jubilant joy is the answer. It’s like having a party after they fry someone in an electric chair. Someone loved that monster, and now they suffer just as you did. In the end, we are all humans who must account for our actions, but we don’t stop to think about those around us enough. Perhaps if we did, we wouldn’t do so many selfish things.

Who am I to judge? Like I said, I feel that he had to pay for what he did. I think standing in silence, holding my flag and the picture of my fallen loved one would be the image I want his people to see. These are the people your “leader” murdered. We wish you no ill will; he had to be brought to justice. I simply fear that the thoughtless chanting in the street is sending the wrong message for peace.

But then again, I’m still naive enough to think that peace is possible.

Alex and I went to see Rio this evening (great movie, by the way). Movie night is a big deal for us; it’s a girl’s night out tradition that involves a lot of window shopping and a little self-indulgence. So we sat down with our large popcorn and our Icees, ready to enjoy the movie, when a tiny voice came from behind me.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I turned to find a small brown-haired boy, his cute little chipmunk cheeks framed by precious baby ringlets. He couldn’t have been more than four. I smiled at him, waiting to see what he wanted.

He pointed at my Coke Icee. “That has bad red dye in it. It will make you SICK. You really shouldn’t drink that!”

I turned to look at the people who spawned this precious creation. It was exactly as I imagined. Mom, perfect blonde highlights, manicured and Botoxed, with flawless tanned skin. Dad wore a Polo shirt, cargo pants, and a mortified expression.

“Honey, leave the nice lady alone.”

“But if she drinks that, she’ll get SICK!”

“It’s her choice, son.”

I looked over at my daughter, who held a blue Icee in one hand and a box of Whoppers in the other.

I figure this must be how smokers feel.

I’m approaching the end of the school year a completely changed person. Again.

My thirties have been brutal, no doubt about it. But the things I’ve lived through this past school year have really put a lot of things into perspective. Like, the things I used to get pissed about were pretty trivial & stupid, and I’m really not as smart as I thought I was. Losing Daddy was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to live through. Even now, it’s hard to believe the permanence of death. I flip through old emails and see one that he sent. I have old messages on my phone. Pictures are everywhere. I just expect him to call on Sunday and bitch about the latest Nascar race.

And then this crushing reality hits me like a load of bricks on my chest. That will never happen again.

Already his voice is fading from my memory, and I’d give anything to hear him play the guitar and sing to me again. I miss him so much.

I know he’d be proud of everything I accomplished this year despite the challenges. Of course, he never told me, but he would brag to everyone else.

I’m disappointed how quickly his friends have deserted my mother, but we all knew that would happen. Daddy was a light in everyone’s life; I’m not the only one adjusting to the ordinary world left behind. We all miss him.

I wonder what he would say if I could tell him about my life today, and the kids I teach. Many times in my life, I watched my father change his views as I lived through various situations. He became a better tipper, and a kinder customer after watching me toil through years of waitressing. I wonder if I could convince him that maybe Democrats aren’t all insane. Maybe some illegal immigrants are worth keeping. Maybe all kids are worth feeding. Maybe anyone is capable of being saved.

I wish I could just have those conversations again. Everything in life is worthless, empty, when you don’t have someone to share them with. Relationships, family…. that’s all that’s real. That’s all that matters.

I look at the person I’ve become, and I hate it sometimes. I used to be pretty solid; I’m always a little over-dramatic, but I wasn’t this wired-up, twisted knot of anxiety. And the rage… oh my God, I’m a paperclip and a jugular vein away from the five o’clock news, I just know it.

I get slammed all the time from various people who claim I’m always “playing the victim.” Of course, I don’t have a lot of respect for those people anyway, since most of them are PEOPLE I HATE anyway. Okay, “HATE” is extreme. Let’s just say if they were on fire, I’d just grab a bag of marshmallows. But I digress; maybe I do play the victim a little. I think it’s a matter of perspective; I think of myself as overly trusting and naive (STOP LAUGHING.) Because honestly, when someone stabs me in the heart, I’m notorious for pulling out the knife and handing it back to them. Repeatedly.

I guess I believe a little too much in the ability to change. Just because people have the ability, doesn’t mean they’re going to. And irony, the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over again, expecting different results. Well, the results aren’t different. So why do I keep doing it?

As much as I like to sling the insult, I think *I* might be the idiot.

“Mommy, you have to sign my field trip form.”

“Okay.”

“And you can be a chef if you want to.”

“You mean a chaperone?”

“Yes. That.”

Silence is the true friend that never betrays. ~Confucius

I have all but stopped writing. It’s not for lack of things to say, but more out of fear. In all areas of my life, I am monitored. I have to be careful what I say, because, finally, I understand the consequences.

I cannot speak of my job. I am a teacher. We cannot discuss our students, although I wish I could. The things I see, the things I hear… noteworthy. Perhaps when I retire from teaching, I’ll write a memoir about it. Although I don’t write them here, I journal them, because without the release I’m not quite sure how I would survive. It is both heartbreaking and rewarding in ways I never imagined. It has changed me.

I cannot speak of my daughter. Although the court case pending has nothing to do with anything I’ve ever said, it’s not a risk I’m willing to take in any way, shape, or form. Alex is my light, my love, and my stabilizing factor. Without her, everything I’ve become no longer exists. Without her, I am an empty shell. So I understand, now, the importance of playing nice. You do whatever is necessary for your children… no matter what.

I cannot speak of my family, because I am still not over the death of my father. The moments are swift and brutal, when I realize he is gone forever. Like a kick to my chest, I can’t breathe. I have to distract my thoughts… I’m simply not ready to deal with the depth of the loss.

I cannot speak of my relationship. If I speak of the downs, I damage it further. If I speak of the highs, the jealousy of his ex rears it’s ugly head in the form of manipulation and games. I’m tired of it all. I’d rather not say anything at all about it. Perhaps in time the roller coaster will stabilize. Perhaps, in time, things will be as they should. He tries so hard. It’s all we can do.

It’s not to say I’m not happy. So many incredible opportunities are opening up all around me. I can barely keep up with it all. I love my job, my businesses are starting to take off, and while times are tight, there’s a light at the end of the tunnel. I no longer pray to trade my life for something else.

My only regret… censorship. But for now, it’s simply necessary.

“I’ve turned into a jealous psycho. It’s not who I am.”

“He seems to have that effect on a lot of women.”

“Yes, I’ve noticed.”

I can always tell when I need to lay off the news sites, because I feel myself sliding into deep despair over the state of the world. I mean, what’s to become of Charlie Sheen’s poor children???

Seriously, nothing irritates me more than American conglomerate media. Amazing things are happening in the middle east, our country is going to hell in a handbasket, and Charlie Sheen is headline news. Are we that brain-dead now that this is what’s relevant in our lives?

You don’t even KNOW Charlie Sheen. Who CARES if he’s having a melt-down?

I read a great opinion piece that offered an explanation; we care because if the rich and famous can’t hold it together, it makes us feel better about our poor little insignificant lives.

I agree in part; but on the other hand, it bugs me that this man can have a public meltdown and get treated like he’s special. When we start putting these nutjobs on pedestals and idolizing their glamorous lives, it’s not fair that they get away with things while normal people get hauled off to jail. The more I live, the more I realize how completely unfair life can be. I don’t know why I can’t grasp at the notion that it can’t be; it just seems like these is some inherent cosmic balance that must be. How can the world be so tilted?

And so, it wears on until I have to go on a self-imposed news fast, and purge myself of the insanity that is mainstream media.