and I hope you read to the end for some inspiring Instagram accounts
The other night my husband and I were discussing all the sexual harassment/assault charges coming out–Harvey Weinstein of course, but also, Al Franken, Garrison Keillor, Matt Lauer, etc.—and he could sense I was getting worked up.
“Why does this topic make you so angry?” he asked, not in a patronizing way, but in a probing way.
No, I’ve never endured some of the things the women have described in these articles. But I’ve been sexually harassed. I’ve been made to feel unsafe and small and ashamed. I’ve shrunk myself, prayed nobody would talk to me while I was walking, smiled when I didn’t want to smile, hurried to my car, carried my keys in my hand, looked over my shoulder over and over and over again.
In my interview with Abby Maslin, she said that we carry trauma in our bodies. I explained to my husband that, as women, we internalize so much, out of fear and out of habit, and for our own safety. We silence ourselves in order to survive. Now that all this stuff is coming out, it is not surprising or new. It is familiar. It is obvious. It is recognizable. When another woman talks about what’s happened to her, I can nod my head and know exactly what she’s talking about. And all that stuff that we’ve been carrying around, all those tiny traumas that we’ve internalized, the times we felt scared or ashamed or grossed out or just plain annoyed at yet another unwanted advance, those traumas are rising to the surface.
So when my husband asks why this topic makes me so visibly angry and shaken, as I can barely talk about it, it is because it feels like everything we’ve carried from the time we were little girls is being ripped from our bodies and presented to the world on one big, ugly platter. I am 36 years old, and I feel as if I have been carrying this weight for 30 years. I know for many women, it is a lot longer.
I’m also a stupidly naïve and optimistic person. I’ve been surrounded by kind, good men all my life, and so while none of these allegations should be surprising, somehow I continue to be disappointed.
My heart feels so fragile and vulnerable right now. I listen to the Moana soundtrack with my daughter and I cry. I see people waiting for the bus and I cry. I think about my kids’ teachers, how they take care of my kids all day, and are surely not paid enough, and go home to their own kids, and I wonder how they pay the bills, knowing how expensive this area is, and it makes me hurt. My heart aches for all the women reliving trauma day after day as what constitutes assault is litigated in the media.
Let us never forget that the #metoo movement did not start with Gwyneth Paltrow, but with Tarana Burke, who after hearing a 13 year-old describe being sexually abused, wished that she had responded, “Me, too.”
And yet, I love the holiday season. I love family time. I love Christmas lights. I feel slightly better this year than I did at this time last year. My children are healthy and happy and growing and here.
Part of me feels so hopeful when I think about the incredible things women are doing in this country. And I think about the long arc of history. Or the next generation.
The man across the street from me has Trump stickers on his truck. He’s also a surgeon, and has the prettiest Christmas lights on his house. And he has two dogs that he loves. A year ago, I would have hated him. This year, I am too tired, and I don’t want the State to divide us anymore. We are eggs, we are individuals, we are more than the sum of our check boxes.
But I think about Heather Heyer or the other victims of hate crimes this year, who will never see the fruits of their resistance. I think about the victims of gun violence, who we forget until the next shiny tragedy and whom politicians never seem to remember. I think about how my husband and I have good jobs, insurance, and food on the table and can still spare to buy our kids clothes and presents, but how we might be one health crisis away from financial ruin, and how so many families have already encountered that. How politicians have let the CHIP program expire, but are desperate to give their beloved corporations a tax break.
Forgive my scattered thoughts. These days our attentions are drawn in every which direction, it can be hard to know what to focus on. For now, at least for the next couple weeks, I’d like to focus on my kids’ laughter. Maybe I’ll even get to read a book (any suggestions?). And maybe, just maybe, I’ll stay awake long enough to watch Christmas Vacation. That would be a Christmas miracle.
Wishing you peace and love.
Here are some inspiring and fun Instagram Accounts:
You have to follow Special Books by Special Kids. What this guy is doing is so amazing and affirming. Please find them.
Mothers Before started by writer Edan Lepucki, in order to see women as they were before they became mothers.
I love, love, love Tara Booth’s art. Irreverent and funny and honest and universal.
I am obsessed with following rock climber’s accounts. It’s a lifestyle I can say with certainty I will never have, but I just love seeing people live a big, passionate life. The photos these rock climbers post provide such a unique perspective of nature and of the things worth protecting. Alex Hannold, Emily Harrington, and Tommy Caldwell are ones to follow.