The hardest part of writing is telling the truth. –Sue Monk Kidd
I have not written lately, and perhaps I have lost you, my reader. I have been painfully following the latest news commentary on the confirmation hearings for Supreme Court justice and the chaos that has ensued from the appearance of one and now two women who are accusing a potential Justice of sexual assault. It has been disturbing and upsetting to me as it triggers memories I don’t want to remember.
The memories are not new. But I had buried them after each of them happened — not even realizing what they were and not naming them sexual assault or sexual misconduct because I felt ashamed and responsible for not preventing them or knowing they might happen if I were in a certain situation. As though I should have had a bit of God’s omnipotence to know what was about to happen.
The first I remember was when I was 16 and working a few hours a week as a cub reporter at our small town daily newspaper. My editor assigned me to cover a Veterans Day Parade and I was to ride in a car with a 60-ish VFW member. I climbed in the front seat, dressed in a modest Sunday dress and with my wooden pencil and lined notebook in hand. As we drove the parade route, windows up because of the November chill, my “host” asked my name and grade in school and how our football team was doing. I thought we were having a normal conversation and answered his questions. In the same tone of voice, he said he had always wondered what color pubic hair a blonde and a red head had, did I know? I could feel myself blush scarlet. I felt stunned. Was this ok? Is this how older men talk? What should I do or say? I stared at my lap and squiggled a doodle on the tablet. “Well?” he said.
I had never been on a date. I was very shy. Writing was my outlet — I was much more comfortable with writing than with conversation. I was a pastor’s daughter whose upbringing taught me that I was to make others comfortable and always try to understand things from other people’s point of view rather than challenge or disagree with them. And I had learned those lessons well.
“You’re awful quiet over there,” he chided. “And awful pretty.”
I had never felt pretty. I just wanted to get out of the car and run. But “try to understand and don’t challenge him” were what came naturally at that point.
“I don’t know the answer to your question, Sir,” I said without looking at him.
He continued asking lewd questions. I sat with my head down and tears coming and praying for the end of the ride. We finally arrived at the VFW where the parade ended. He invited me to go in to the bar with him. Without looking at him, I opened the car door, jumped out, and ran and walked a block toward Teti’s pharmacy where there was a pay phone to call my Dad to pick me up as promised.
Until now, I never told this story except to my sister and husband. And the awful thing is that it lay buried deeply in me until #MeToo burst on the scene. Only then did I recognize it as the first of many boundary violations that have happened to me. I was lucky, I know, that this was only words and not a rape attempt. But the feeling of being trapped in that car, with a man whom I was supposed to trust as a benign helper in my cub reporter job while he enjoyed my discomfort with sexual innuendoes stays with me today. It was the beginning of not trusting men, avoiding being alone with them, and feeling like a 16 year old when I have to be.
Why is it so hard for so many men to understand the impact of the much more serious traumas that Dr. Ford and Ms. Ramirez are telling them? Why must so many people minimize their stories as “just horsing around” — or worse yet, made up? I know some of you who read this will figure that it is just “politics as usual.” I want to know: what does it take to listen to someone with compassion and allow yourself to resonate with the feelings that come from such horrid events, however “insignificant” they may seem?
Jane+
Pilgrimages and Paths 