Me, Too: Extended

Me Too

I saw the Facebook statuses—my newsfeed was full of brave women coming forward, openly talking about personal experiences with sexual harassment… #metoo, and then some. And it made me—me the “healing out loud” girl—uncomfortable. What in the fuck? I couldn’t believe that this patriarchy-conditioned part of me that I thought was dead was suddenly awake for a feeding. In my upbringing, I was trained to hear “sexual harassment” and immediately follow the words with “always the woman’s fault.” That means I have blamed myself for countless horrifying interactions. I didn’t claim victim; I have seen myself as the perp. The 2016 election started to break down those old ideas I had; I started to see misogyny and sexual abuse more clearly and honestly, but I still sat in my self-made jail with a head full of regret and shame for all of the sexual harassment I thought I caused myself. But ALL of these women were writing #metoo with personal stories included, armed with the keys to my handcuffs, ready to show me the escape route if I wanted to be free. I did want to be free. I had been standing atop the cliff, peering over the edge for hours thinking, jump jump jump, it will feel good. And in a sudden burst of willingness, I went for it:

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What this Election Season Made Me See, and Why I’m With Her.

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I am a woman with a hard-hearted history towards women’s issues—I was quick to unite with sexist men in an effort to gain their attention and approval. I’m ashamed to say that I thought women were being over-dramatic and whiney about what I once also considered “locker room talk.” I didn’t understand why women found cat calling so annoying and disrespectful. I was all “free attention? what’s the problem?” I came from the “I’m asking for it” line of thinking. Yes, even around rape. My father and brother made it very clear that whatever came my way…I WAS asking for it, that I was a “whore”, and that if men ever had a bar fight it was the woman’s fault. Because women don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. And now we have a big-mouthed MAN named Donald Trump, and his words may kill millions of people. His slandering words directed at women have made me sick to my stomach—partially because it’s not my first time hearing them. His center stage presence has propelled me to ruminate about WHY I ever thought it was okay to speak about women like he does— why I once was the girl who preferred to be “one of the guys,” how it feels to be a girl who has been sexually degraded, mistreated, and abused. How it feels to be a terrified girl. And also how it feels to be an incredibly powerful and intelligent woman. His words have been like gasoline to my inner-fire for FEMALE.

I spent most of my life trying to be more masculine. I was brought up to believe that the only asset women had was their sexual power—their hotness. And if that’s really all we had to offer then we better be very very hot. It seemed like by my generation,  the expectation of aprons and dish gloves lifted and was replaced with an expectation for smoking hot sex, perfect vaginas, perfect faces and perfect bodies. I got “lucky” and happened to be a very pretty young woman. I didn’t need hair dye, diets, or proactiv to be considered attractive.  I strategized for my father’s love by leading with red-hot sexuality and supplementing with  “manly” qualities: a firm handshake, a foul mouth, drinking, being low maintenance, being a smoker, a wide strut, ego, confidence, drive, having a pair of “balls,” being drama free, being a go-getter, provider, money earner, heavy hitter, etc. Of course this definition of manly is what my upbringing showed me; these qualities do not represent manliness. My target was to be the sexiest girl in the room while also being “one of the guys.” When I was about seven, I told my father I wanted to be a football player. Trust me, I didn’t. I just wanted his attention. That’s the way it starts. That’s the innocent version of needing Daddy’s attention. The more grown up version is unsavory to say the least.

I wanted to make my crack smoking, cheating, lying father proud. He was the STRENGTH. He made the money. He drove the Porsche, and he used his money to control us. I wanted to be like him. Hard like him. Not soft and weak like my mom. I cheated, I lied, and I did drugs. I desperately sought love and affection from men. I took my clothes off in front of crowds, I danced on tables, and I made out with all of the girls FOR all of the boys, and precarious situations were the result. I was told that any trouble was my own fault because I was a “slut.” But really, I was a young teenager with minimal guidance, and I didn’t know how else to get “love.”

I was 16 and my father was leaving the house to go see his new mistress. I stood in the kitchen, watching him go, not knowing if I’d see him again. I begged him, pleaded with him, to come back to us when my eye caught something strange sticking out of his “briefcase.” It wasn’t really a briefcase anymore. It was an overflowing sack of dregs and crap, but there was this shiny photo sticking out that looked familiar. It was my headshot. “Dad, why do you have my headshots in that briefcase?” He laughed and twitched and spurted out from a thumping heart, “Oh! I carry them around and tell people you’re my wife.” I was confounded and silenced. And he left. What people? His drug dealers? And also, sadly, I felt loved. At least he wants me. Did he tell the creep he copped from the other day, I wondered. He had sat me down around that time to boast about how he saved some girls from drug-den torment. Apparently, his dealer had a couple of girls over and when my dad paid for the drugs, the dealer said, “watch this.” The dealer tossed the drugs and told the naked girls to get down on all fours and “fetch.” My father bragged to me, ” I kicked him down and told him that I have a daughter and how dare he treat women like that. I beat the shit out of him, Jack.” I stared at him baffled AND totally jealous. He was taking care of those girls and not me. Did I need to degrade myself that much to get his attention? And also I really hoped he didn’t show that guy my picture. Because dealers were coming to our house seeking out my dad and I was really scared that they had seen my picture. Because I am a woman and constantly afraid of being raped.

Where was my dad when I was 17 and ended up in an empty parking lot with a guy three times my age and three times my size. A guy who was supposed to be helping me “straighten out my life” took me somewhere private and told me to sit on his lap—that I needed a hug. I cringed as he pulled me over to him but I didn’t know how to stop him because I was afraid to use my voice and I didn’t know how. Because I didn’t want to excite him further. Besides, it seemed like I hadn’t been hugged in a while.

When Hillary and Trump took the stage, I  didn’t actively care so much about women’s issues —well, not beyond our right to choose. Initially, I was not a huge Hillary fan. You know why?

I was a pre adolescent when Bill Clinton was in office and what I remember about the Clintons is this: Chelsea Clinton was “ugly” and Hillary was laughable. Why? Chelsea was a bookish looking teenager and Hillary cared more about the state of affairs than her body or her dresses. For that, the pair were the butt of many jokes in my home. Because they weren’t sexy.

 

And as the 2016 election rolled on, I was getting more and more fired up for Hillary and more and more angry at Trump.  Here’s just a sliver of what Donald Trump has said about women:

He  has called women “bimbos,” “pigs,” “gold diggers,” and “FAT” He’s compared women’s faces to the faces of dogs.

He said, “If Hillary Clinton can’t satisy her husband, what makes her think she can satisfy America?” Ouch.

He tweeted, “While Bette Midler is an extremely unattractive woman. I refuse to say that because I always insist on being politically correct.” Unattractive? Bette Midler founded the New York Restoration Project in 1995. That’s your city, Donald. How about thank you?

His favorite part of Pulp Fiction is when Sam tells the guy to tell his girlfriend to be cool. He said, “‘Bitch be cool.’ I love those lines,” Donald said.

Donald Trump said women should be punished for having abortions. I was scared because my boyfriend was abusive and I didn’t want to live a life like my mother lived and I didn’t want my child to experience an upbringing like I had. I was with the guy because he was just like my father and I didn’t know better yet. You want to punish me?

Donald Trump joked that he would date his daughter. “If Ivanka wasn’t my daughter perhaps I’d be dating her.” Yeah, my dad thought that was funny, too. It fucked me up. Ivanka, my heart goes out to you and to your mother who accused your father of rape. 

He said this about Katarina Witt,  the gold-winnning olympic athlete: “Wonderful looking while on the ice but up close and personal, she could only be described as attractive if you like a woman with a bad complexion who is built like a linebacker”.

He mocked Rosie O’Donnells weight. Multiple times. Rosie started the Rosie’s For All Kids Foundation for disadvantaged children.  What has Donald done? No, really—WHAT has he done?

Oh, he ran beauty pageants and you know how he ran them… He had pageant girls parade in front of him so he could separate who he found attractive and who he didn’t. Before the pageant even began, he sent girls home. Thank you for contributing more image issues, humiliation and insecurity in women world-wide.

He tweeted: “26,000 unreported sexual assaults in the military- only 238 convictions. What did these geniuses expect when they put men and women together?” THEY EXPECTED MEN NOT TO RAPE. 

Maybe that’s confusing for Donald Trump considering he has had three rape allegations against him.

And then there was the— now infamous— tape of him bragging about all of his “pussy-grabbing” and his ability to kiss whoever he wants because he’s famous. That’s terribly bothersome, but what bothered me more about the video was the woman who greeted him immediately after his comments with a big smile and a great dress. The way he kissed her. The sly and creepy way he put his arm around her, and the way she seemed to not care. The way she hung her sex up on his arm and the way he carried it with pride and said “Melania said it’s ok.”  I’ve been that pretty girl.  It’s not rewarding. And I can’t stomach that being a woman’s role in society anymore.

After that video, a new tweet surfaced: #repealthe19thamendment . And that’s when my heart broke and I got really scared. This is the man my country elected to run for President? And, he’s not even far behind. Oh my god. How many people feel this way about women?

I do not need any more time in my life dictated by an ego maniacal sexist. By the way, my father destroyed his life and ours in the process. I have direct experience with what an ego like that can do. There’s no money—only debt. There’s no love, only psych wards, and hospitals, and heartbreak. That’s all. I will do everything I can to negate this crazy belief that what we have to offer as women is sex, attractiveness, “a pleasing aesthetic.” I will be part of making a woman president. Not because she’s a woman and not because she fits some bullshit standard but because she is smarter. She has more experience. She has self-control. She is stronger. She has self-restraint. She has WORKED HARDER. She is wiser. She has compassion. She cares. Her fortitude is admirable. Her policies are logical. She HAS policies.  She deserves to be the next President of the United States. And I’ve never been so proud to be FEMALE.

 

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