#NotOkay: Sexual Assault and the Politics of Winning

Trigger Warning -- Sexual Assault Descriptions

"Silence" - Johann Heinrich Fuessli (1741 - 1825)

Canadian journalist, Kelly Oxford (@kellyoxford), has been running a Twitter campaign in response to Donald Trump's 2005 remarks regarding the treatment of women and fame that has drawn more than one million women (no exaggeration here) out of silence to talk about their sexual assaults. I started to participate but decided that I had more to say than 140 characters would hold.

Since my childhood, I have been the victim of 7 sexual assaults, only two of which I reported.

5 years old - In my own backyard. I was stopped by a man in a car in the alley behind my house who showed me "what (he had) in his pants" and then offered me the opportunity to put my mouth on it. I declined but never told anyone because I had no idea that it was anything but just gross.
8 years old - At a Summer Camp, I was taken into a grove of pine trees by a group of boys, who raised my shirt to look at my breasts (which were apparently unimpressive, whereupon, I was let go). I reported this to my counselor who went looking for the boy I could describe. When he was found, he denied the whole thing and I was told to stop making things up.
10 years old - In my house, my babysitter decided to feel me up while "making sure I was in my bed." When I told him to stop it, he did, so I never told my parents.
11 years old - On the city bus, I was seated on a bench seat. The man who sat next to me began to spread his legs out until they were touching mine. I didn't realize what was going on until he put his hand on the seat next to me and started to touch my hip. I got off at the next stop and waited for the next bus and assumed that it was just me being hypersensitive.
12 years old - On my paper route, I was collecting for the monthly bill. An old man who had been very kindly toward me and had several grandchildren that he looked after, grabbed my breasts (which were more impressive than they were when I was 8) and humped me. He told me I was a good girl and he'd take good care of me. I quit carrying papers that month. I never told anyone because I figured that no one would believe me.
14 years old - At a babysitting job, a man who had been a guest in the house for dinner, stayed to help me with the dishes and then stayed to help himself to a little heavy petting. I participated, but he was 28. I was 14 and he knew it. I never considered this an assault until last year when I realized what had really been going on.
16 years old - At a party, I was given enough beer to get pretty well trashed and then raped by a co-worker who was twice my age. When I finally told my parents, because I was so ashamed that I had been at a party where I should not have been, nothing could be done about it.

Why are these stories so important to tell and what does this have to do with the 2016 Election?

The stories are important to tell because they point to an objectification of women that stretches far back into our history. Women and girls are simply tools for gratification. Actually, rather than raising our stock to "personhood" feminism has simply degraded the stock of men, so we objectify them, too. This has now become pervasive in our society, so much so that we have enshrined it in our entertainment.

Take a look at our obsession with shows like The Bachelor/Bachelorette, Survivor, and Big Brother. And how about the 50 Shades trilogy? We are making those people into objects for our own gratification. We are seeking our entertainment from watching their pain and discomfort. It is this obsession with people's discomfort that drives these sexual assaults. It's all about power: I can make you flinch or do what I want you to do.

This objectification of people has everything to do with this year's election because BOTH candidates are guilty of using and abusing people in order to gain power and pleasure. This is the battle we have been ignoring. We've been following this wild dog of objectification and it's about to turn around and bite us in the collective face.

There are many who are defending Donald Trump by saying that these were just lewd comments and that actions speak louder than words. This ignores the fact that he is describing an actual encounter in which he sexually imposed himself on a woman without her consent. This is an admission of an actual sexual assault. Furthermore, it belies a much more deep-seated issue that Mr. Trump seems to struggle with on all fronts - the dehumanization and objectification of all people. For Trump, everyone is an object --a tool, if you will -- for his gratification.

He has displayed this same contempt for the women in his family, giving shock jock, Howard Stern, permission to call his daughter Ivanka "a piece of ass" and making the comment that he thinks his daughter is hot and he would sleep with her.

Really? This is the man we want representing our country? Even in his apology, he says "I'm sorry if you were offended" squarely placing the blame on those who are offended, and not taking the blame himself.

I have said before that I do not believe that the man is pro-life. He views those children's lives as a tool to get elected. If that rhetoric does not serve him in the discharge of his office, if he does not get what he wants, he will dump it.

Hillary Clinton is not immune to this objectification problem, either. No, she's not objectifying beautiful women, just because they are beautiful, but dig into her remarks about the White House interns and the women who accused Bill Clinton of sexually assaulting them.

The problem is NOT that she stayed with her husband, the problem is how she treated the victims of those assaults. She shamed those women. She told them to stop making things up so that she would not lose power. First they were objects for her husband's gratification, then they became objects that were not doing what she wanted them to do, so she shamed them into silence.

Sound familiar? It does to me.

I was silent about my sexual assaults because I was told to stop making things up when I was 8, because a camp counselor just wanted to go hang out at the campfire with the other counselors. How many other women and girls suffered at these men's hands because I was silent? I'd be willing to bet it was more than one and even one more is too many.

Hillary Clinton should have to answer for this. I hope that she does, but I am not naive enough to think that this will actually happen.

What bothers me most about this "Trumpster fire" is the Cirque du Soleil-like contortions being engaged in by his supporters in order to win this year. And make no mistake, it is about winning, not being right. Right would be a move toward overall virtue. There is more than one virtue, Pro-life America!

I know Hillary is no saint, but Donald makes her look like flipping Mother Teresa. The objectification of women is only the latest way in which he has dehumanized large groups of people. The poor, immigrants, anyone who disagrees with him, fat people, ugly people, disabled people... It's not that he's so very different than any other politician --they have all objectified groups of people and individuals for their own personal gain or pleasure. It's that he's so very proud of what he has done.

Basically, to Donald Trump, if you are not white, wealthy and male, you are not a person. You are a tool.

Please, don't be a tool. Vote. And vote smart. 

If you are a Catholic, you cannot in good conscience vote for either one of these candidates, but do not be silent. My suggestion to you is to vote solidly pro-life (in all senses of that word) down-ticket. If you are concerned that Hillary Clinton would put pro-choice justices on the Supreme Court, vote in enough pro-life legislators to block that initiative. If you are concerned that Donald Trump would just run the country into the ground and get us into wars around the world then vote in legislators that would keep him in check.

Artwork:  Public Domain

Immortality and Other Second Chances

"Look toward Him and be radiant and your faces may not blush for shame.
This poor one cried out and the LORD heard and from all his distress He saved him."
Psalm 34: 6-7

This past week I received a diagnosis that I was sort of expecting. After extensive testing my doctors have discovered two nodules on my thyroid gland. We already knew it was big, but now there are nodules on it and it has to come out. The further threat is that these nodules might be cancerous. The blood work looks good, but there are other biomarkers that don't look so good.

Usually, people with overactive thyroids are given radioactive iodine to kill the thyroid and then they are monitored for new lumps and bumps over the rest of their lifetime. But not so with me. In the course of my testing, we discovered that I am very allergic to the iodine. So surgery is the only option for me.

So, out it comes!

The thyroid gland sits at the base of the throat and surrounds the windpipe. Just behind the thyroid are the vocal nerves. In order to get at the gland, they will have to cut an incision in my neck and move all the muscles aside so that they can see what they're doing. Everything is so tightly packed in there, that they don't do laparoscopic surgery. This means that for the first several weeks of recovery, my speaking voice will be hoarse. My singing voice will be out of commission for about three to four months. If it is not damaged by the surgery (and there is no cancer - please, Lord, no cancer!) I should be able to sing again by the summer.

I'm worried.
Okay, I'm terrified.

There have been times, in the depths of my depression that I have wished for some deadly disease to take me quietly. Something that I wouldn't have to explain to God. I have hated my life - and that is a very sad thing. There is so much joy in my life, but all I could see was the suffering.

And that's the dark part. But that's not the end of the story.

This is old hat, but here goes: You never appreciate what you have until you might lose it. 

I have always appreciated my voice. Maybe I've appreciated it too much, in fact. While I have been off chasing my muse, everyone else has had to stand by and wait for me. My husband put college aside for me. My children have done without me for large expanses of time. My faith is intimately connected to my voice and my ability to sing for Mass.  It is an exercise in humility for me to NOT sing (and to ignore those who sing poorly) during Mass.

So many, many times I have bristled with the idea that I could do something so much better than someone who already had the job. I have harmed friendships and careers with my ambition. And where has that left me? Busy to the point of a breakdown. Lonely, though I have many friends. And frightened that the thing on which I have built my life, (and in many respects, my faith,) is going to be taken away.

But, there is hope. There is always hope - because we have a Savior. And he is so good to us.

For me, that hope came to me while singing for the funeral of a woman who was just a little bit older than me. As I sang the familiar parts of the Requiem Mass and listened to the readings I had heard a thousand times over I was reminded of God's great generosity.

The first reading was Isaiah 25:6-7, 9:

On this mountain the LORD of hosts will provide for all peoples. On this mountain he will destroy the veil that veils all peoples, the web that is woven over all nations; he will destroy death forever. The Lord GOD will wipe away the tears from all faces; the reproach of his people he will remove from the whole earth; for the LORD has spoken. On that day it will be said: "Behold our God, to whom we looked to save us! This is the LORD for whom we looked; let us rejoice and be glad that he has saved us!"

I know that I need to trust that God has a plan for my life. I have no idea what that plan is. Maybe that's why things have rolled out the way they have over the past several weeks. There have been many new doors opened to me - and some closed, too.

I may have years left or I may die tomorrow. There is no way for me to know when I will be called. The best I can do is to live for God in the time I have - however long that time may be.

So, in the midst of all this Sturm und Drang, I found a prayer today while beta testing an app that I thought fit the bill pretty well:

Prayer Against Depression

by St. Ignatius of Loyola

O Christ Jesus

When all is darkness

And we feel our weakness and helplessness,

Give us the sense of Your Presence,

Your Love and Your Strength.

Help us to have perfect trust

In Your protecting love

And strengthening power,

So that nothing may frighten or worry us,

For, living close to You,

We shall see Your Hand,

Your Purpose, Your Will through all things.

(via Catholic Short Prayers App - http://shortprayers.valent.co/)

Finding Direction

There are times in my life when I feel very keenly that the world is unraveling quickly. I don't know if this is a function of my struggles with mental illness or if it's a real sense that time is moving past more swiftly as I age. 

As things move along, I find myself stumbling into walls of frustration and down hallways of worry. And, in my worry, I begin to go in many different directions at once. Then, suddenly, everything becomes scattered and disorganized.

Me: Are we going in the right direction?
Myself: I can't tell. Let's try another path.
Me: Is this the right way?
Myself: Maybe, but this one looks good, too.
I: Well, we can't go all three ways at once! Pick one!

It's at these moments that I find myself searching out the solace of the Mass and quiet time with the Blessed Sacrament.

Spending time alone and quiet in adoration or at least at a prayerful mass is essential to my health, both as a person, and as a Catholic. It's in those silences that I can hear the "Holy GPS Voice" telling me where the next turn should be.

There is a lovely hymn, the text of which is by Bl. John Henry Newman, that reminds me to be patient and to trust God when I can't see where I'm going.

Lead, Kindly Light, amidst th'encircling gloom,

Lead Thou me on!

The night is dark, and I am far from home,

Lead Thou me on!

Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see

The distant scene; one step enough for me.

But, in order to see the next step, I have to keep my eyes fixed on God. He is the lamp that lights the way. Sometimes I need a reminder that no matter what "noise" is going on in my life, if I keep my attention on the Blessed Sacrament, I will find my way. God will not let me fall unless I pull my hand from His like a runaway toddler.

Focus - Pray - Trust

It seems so simple, but it is so hard to do.

Nada de Turbe (Let nothing disturb you)

A re-post (with a little bit extra) in Honor of the Feast of St. Teresa of Avila.


The Ecstasy of St. Teresa - Bernini

I have been looking for something. A piece that is missing from my life. I cannot tell you what it is or where I might find it. I suspect, though, that many people feel the same way that I do. They fill their days and nights with pursuits of things that will make them feel better or feel less pain or more pleasure and just to feel whole, But no matter how many drinks or pills, things bought on shopping trips or fancy cars, Mocha Mint Frappucinos or strawberry cheesecakes, pleasures of the flesh or lost pounds in hopes of regaining some semblance of one's youth...there will always be a missing piece.

The truth is inescapable. We are not whole without God. All the missing pieces are to be found within him...and we will never find them anywhere else.

I am reminded sharply of St. Teresa's Bookmark. St. Teresa was a Spanish Carmelite nun from the city of Avila. For those of you who know Renaissance music, her time in Avila coincides with the time that Tomas Luis de Victoria was composing in the Avila Cathedral. It is suspected that she suffered from migraine headaches and also from some sort of mental illness (probably bi-polar disorder). St. Teresa's Bookmark was found scribbled on a margin in a book that she kept.

Nada te turbe;
Let nothing disturb you.
Nada te espante;
Nothing frighten you.
Todo se pasa;
All things are passing.
Dios no se muda,
God never changes.
La pacïencia todo lo alcanza.
Patience obtains all things.
Quien a Dios tiene, nada le falta.
Nothing is wanting to him who possesses God.
Solo Dios basta.
God alone suffices.

Yes...I think that says it best. I could write for hours and never say it so well.

Keeping My Focus

Sometimes it is very hard for me to keep my focus. I have a lot of very different projects that I am involved in and sometimes they all crowd together and make things messy in my head. And suddenly, I discover I have taken on one thing too many.

It is a delicate balance that I run from day-to-day. I run two choirs, work almost full-time (and my hours just increased) and attempt to raise two teenagers. Just the addition of a couple of extra things to do at work and a few more hours on the job have thrown me for a loop this past two weeks. I feel like I am forgetting everything and nothing is getting done, but I am constantly in motion. At that point, I need to take one task and make it work its way out to the very end. I have to accomplish something.

The other night I lay awake in my bed for hours on end. I couldn't sleep no matter how many things I counted (blessings, as well as sheep). My thoughts kept drifting to the things I hadn't gotten done at work last week. And the calls I hadn't yet made for the choir at the church. And the Liturgy Plan I hadn't developed yet. And the concert plan I hadn't developed for the Kinderchor...it just went on and on. Finally the alarm clock went off and I realized I hadn't slept at all. I needed to pick something to and finish it to break the cycle.

Today, I made a concerted effort to focus on my desk. The piles of paper were taking over. I can actually see the top of my desk now, which is a big step. As I sat here clearing things, filing things, and entering data into my database, I started thinking about the roller-coaster I have been on this past couple of weeks. I realized that I have actually accomplished a lot, even though some things have fallen through the cracks. I started making a list of things that needed to be attended to and I have those things in hand, now, too. I feel vaguely better about the past two weeks and I feel more hopeful about the next couple of weeks, too.

Maybe tonight, when I lay down to go to sleep, I'll think about the things I did get done and the jobs I have accomplished and be happy that I kept my focus for just today. And, tomorrow, I'll do it again.

To Write Love on Her Arm

This poem is based on the name of a cause that you can join on MySpace or on Facebook. The goal is to raise awareness of teen suicides and self-mutilation. It is staggering, the number of people who suffer from these horrors. And what's even more amazing is the number of adults who have done this and still do, in times of great stress. The group encourages people considering suicide or self-mutilation to write "love" on their arms to remind them that no matter how bad it gets, you don't have to cut. Someone loves you.


Through Sunday, To Write Love on Her Arm is encouraging people to write the word "Love" on their arms to show support for these kids and adults to let them know they are not alone.


I was so moved by the title of this cause, that I wrote a poem based on it. I hesitated in sharing it because it is very emotionally charged. It has been written for several days. But, today, after my daughter spent last evening talking two of her friends off their own ledges (so to speak), I feel compelled to share it.


It is rather graphic, so please, if it disturbs you, forgive me. If you like it or you know someone who needs to hear it, please share it.


To Write Love on Her Arm



So many ways to write Love on her arm
But she chose a knife.
The cuts remind her that she is alive
Carefully she avoids killing,
but not the pain.
Pain makes her feel real
The grief, the frustration, the boredom, the ennui fade
Diluted in the blood.


But there are so many ways to write love on her arm.
I take her into my own arms,
For love is written on mine in the indelible marker of motherhood:
The grace that lasts longer than any marker you could buy.
Grieving for the pain that I cannot heal alone


I begin to write love on her arm.
A reminder that she does not have to hurt, to feel.
There is always someone to hear.
There is always someone who cares.I
hold my baby close and help her know
She does not have to grieve alone.


There is more than one way to write love on her arm.

Unravelling

Watching a mentally ill person fall apart must be one of the most dreadful experiences in the world. I sometimes think of it as finding that one little flaw in a skirt hem. That one thread that hangs down and brushes your leg and makes it itch. And when you discover the source of the annoyance, you fixate on it until finally, you pull the thread and it just keeps coming and coming until the entire hem is unravelled and the skirt is ruined.
Seeing a person’s life come unravelled like that is distressing. A person who is bright, talented, loving and wonderful, will find the flaw and then make that so much a part of who they are that they stop seeing all the wonderful things that they are. Focused only on that flaw, they begin to despair of being perfect (because, everyone wants to be perfect) and then they get angry with themselves for not being perfect. Then, they pull until all the other wonderful things that they are start unravelling. Suddenly, you are left with a person you don’t recognize. The anger and bitterness of being imperfect is just too much and they find that they have to destroy themselves completely.
BUT...
We all know that a hem can be put back into a skirt. That skirt doesn’t have to be thrown away. Sometimes it takes a skill that we don’t have to do it, but it can be done. A mentally ill person can be put back together, too. It takes patience and love and skill to help a person put themselves back together, but just like that skirt, they don’t need to be thrown away, nor do they need to throw away their own lives. They just need a needle and thread, some good light and maybe a more experienced hand to help them.
I am grateful for my family and friends’ support during our time of trial.