mind body mama: Holding You Up

Small's facility with language is such that she rarely makes those adorable kid mistakes with usage. When she does, she usually corrects herself quickly. But one we've managed to hold onto as a family is the phrase "hold me up" where you might normally hear the colloquialism "tide me over."

As in, "Since dinner's going to be a little late, I'll have an apple to hold me up."

A perfect storm of power failure, family tragedy, and holiday traffic conspired to keep me from the blog this weekend. While I'm working on a post to convey the sadness and silliness of our Thanksgiving, I offer you this essay to hold you up. It's a companion to my post of a few weeks back, Nothing Lucky About It.

Not Unlucky Neither

So we’re clear on the concept that luck is not what gets most women through an attack situation.

More like grit, determination, survival instinct, fighting skills, strategy and courage.

But what about how they found themselves in those situations to begin with? Absent the ever popular victim blaming—she shouldn’t have been there/worn that/ fill in the blank—is it just bad luck?

“She was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

I say no. I say that when we ascribe the cause of an attack to bad luck we miss a crucial piece of accountability. In that place, at that time, somebody chose to attack her.

It’s bad luck to walk down the hall and stumble over your own shoelace. It’s someone else’s crappy, mean-spirited, effed-up choice if he sticks his foot out and trips you.

I am not a researcher, not a social worker, not an expert in the psychology of violent perpetrators. I know it could be argued that some attackers are not fully in their right minds. Perhaps some are actually unable to make a better choice than to assault someone.

And I do understand that those who witness or experience violence are considered more likely to become perpetrators themselves.

But if you think about the statistics on violence, such as these that I borrowed from Erin Weed:

• For every 1,000 persons age 12 or older, there occurs: 1 rape or sexual assault, 1 assault with injury, 3 robberies. (US Department of Justice, 2005)

• Up to 47% of women report that their first sexual intercourse was forced. (WHO 2002)

and these that I borrowed from The National Coaliton Against Domestic Violence:

• An estimated 1.3 million women are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year (CDC 2003).

• One in 6 women and 1 in 33 men have experienced an attempted or completed rape (US Department of Justice, 1998).

you very rapidly come to the conclusion that there are an awful lot of attackers out there.

And I have to think that some of them are people who who could do better.

Men who could refrain from hitting their intimate partners.

Men who could recognize that inability to explictly refuse sexual contact— due to inebriation, for example— is not the same as actually granting consent.

Men who could take responsibility for their own anger and not visit it upon their families.

Men who could refuse the culture’s definition of masculinity as inherently violent.

Men who could refuse the culture’s definition of the female body as their object.

Men who could take control of themselves—instead of the women around them.

My National Women’s Martial Arts Federation colleague Deborah Schipper asks, “What’s the difference between going somewhere and getting raped and going to the same place and not getting raped?”

“It’s the RAPIST in the room!” is her answer.

It’s natural to ponder the trials that come at us in this life, to wonder how our lives are fated or directed. But I’m giving credit where credit is due. It’s not lucky when a woman fights back successfully, it’s a triumphant of spirit. And it’s not unlucky when an asshole assaults, it’s a criminal choice.

mind body mama: spa treatment

Winter is entering slowly but it’s clearly on its way. One way I know for sure is the condition of my legs, which are so dry and itchy I could scarcely keep my hands out of my pants—for scratching purposes, people—all day today. I have heard women of color describe this condition of dust-dry extremities, especially around the joints, as ashy dryness. I’ve heard white women describe it—never. I’ve never heard another white woman admit to this phenomenon. Can it be true that I am the only pale person shedding leg dandruff inside her black trousers all winter? Or leaving snow white fingernail tracks up and down her calves as she scratches for dear life? I think not.

I got desperate this afternoon and started to run a tepid bath. The plan was to add something soothing and then follow up with an extreme application of Extra Dry Formula lotion. My first few scans of the linen closet for a pampering product only yielded Woolite. I’m fairly certain I don’t qualify as a “delicate” so I kept looking. Finally I found a tin of Mother Me Bath left over from my baby shower. Because I got it at the same time I got an infant there was still a little bit of oatmeal and dried lavender after seven years.

In the midst of the searching, itching and bath drawing Small ran into the bathroom with the ringing spy phone.

“Answer this!” she screeched. “It’s BirthPie!”

“NO!” I yelled. I was trying to keep Small from hitting the “talk” button. This stemmed not from any specific desire to avoid BirthPie but rather a passionate hatred of being followed around with a ringing phone. Small likes to do this when I am trying to do something brief and private— such as use the toilet or bathe—or dangerous and consuming—like deep fry pumpkin fritters.

As I yelled, “Don’t answer the phone! I don’t want to talk to her now!” it did occur to me that Small might have already hit “talk.” BirthPie might be hearing me vehemently screen her call. But I didn’t really worry.

Because BirthPie is that friend. The one who knows exactly how crazy I am and loves me anyway. The one who could think of ten plausible reasons why I might hysterically refuse to talk to her—none nearly as benign as being half in the bathtub and half in the linen closet—and not hold it against me.

As the tub filled I ran up and down between the bathroom and kitchen looking for the tiny linen bag that is supposed to hold the oats and buds as they infuse. Small had settled back in the dining room with her math homework.

“Mama,” she said as I ran through on my second search mission to the kitchen, “I need help. I don’t think ‘optional’ is the right word. I want to be sure I’m using the right word.”

I looked over her page. “You’re right.” I said. “I think you are trying to say ‘more options’ not ‘optional.’” I gave up on finding the sack for my tisane and settled on a coffee filter.

This is the sentence seven year old Small wrote in her notebook:

“At the beggining of the game, I find there is more options to what numbers I get. but later in the game, sometimes i need specific numbers.”

“Good usage,” I yelled as I ran up the stairs.

This is not the first incident that has given me an opportunity to wonder how one child can simultaneously be so brilliant (math homework) and such a dork (phone etiquette.) Although we do say, in our family, “Everyone has things they are good at and things they are working on.”

And working, and working, and working.

In the end the coffee filter was not a good solution. It broke open immediately and a disgusting porridge sifted out which now sits in lumps at the bottom of my tub. I did salvage the paper to assist with exfoliation in lieu of a washcloth which I neglected to collect in any of my linen closet forays.

But it turned out to be a good thing that Small brought the phone. I hadn’t heard it ringing over the bath. Only because I knew there had been a call did I hear the message from BirthPie, in which she referenced a message she left yesterday that I never received.

That’s when I realized that my answering machine has been turned off all week and my calls have been going to the back-up voice mail. I have been ignoring all the people I thought were ignoring me.

I am working on things. I am a giant dork. But I am a lot less itchy.

mind body mama: Nothing Lucky About It

A few years ago I taught the Arthritis Foundation’s exercise program at my town’s Senior Center. My students in that cold basement room were ladies in their seventies and eighties. When I let slip that I also taught self defense classes they were riveted. One student was nearly bursting to tell me something.

I can’t remember the details, but I still see the urgency on her face as she told her story of survival. It was something that happened during the war, something that involved a long walk to get a treat of fresh peaches during that time of rationing and patriotic deprivation. The assault was unexpected and her response was equally swift and surprising. Did she rip off his eyeglasses or does my memory confuse her own thick lenses with her attacker?

What I know is that she fought back and lived to tell the tale.

But this survivor did not just tell me how she met an attack with courage and pluck and self determination. She also told me the story she’s been telling herself about that incident for sixty years.

“I was lucky,” she said.

I have been practicing and teaching self defense for twenty-one years. I can’t count the number of self defense stories I have heard. Women tell me their stories in self defense class, as expected. But they also tell me in karate class, in fitness class and over the backyard fence. They tell me in the supermarket and they tell me over lunch. They tell me between classes at karate camp and at the community college.

All too often they sum up the story the same way. “I was lucky,” they say.

There is nothing “lucky” about turning around in the moment just before someone grabs you from behind. There’s nothing “lucky” about telling someone to STOP and having them listen. There is nothing “lucky” about jumping up, running away, yelling before a menacing group can set upon you. There is nothing “lucky” about grabbing something close at hand and using it as a weapon. There is nothing “lucky” about crying out to a passerby for help and receiving it. There is nothing “lucky” about blocking your head during a brutal beating and avoiding permanent brain damage. There’s nothing “lucky” about learning a batterer’s cues so well that you can navigate his dark evil moods and keep yourself and your kids alive. There is nothing “lucky” about hitting out with your arms and legs and elbows even if you’ve never fought before and making contact with soft spots on the attacker’s body. There’s nothing “lucky” about strategically yielding to a demand—for property or for sexual contact—in order to protect your life or buy some time until you can make your next move.

In the self defense movement we are often frustrated by the way success stories get reported. Erin Weed documented one such case on her blog earlier this year: a woman was running when a man tried to attack her. She yelled and fought back and he ran away. The headline: “Woman Jogger Attacked in Broad Daylight.”

But our sexist socialization is glaringly obvious in women’s collective willingness to downplay the headlines we give our own stories.

We are socialized to believe that women can’t fight, to believe that we can’t possibly be successful against a male attacker, to believe that must wait to be saved because we don’t have what it takes to save ourselves.

“I was lucky,” we say. Instead of saying, “That motherfucker tried to rape me and I fought back with everything I had. I hurt him and he gave up.”

Or: “I told him to stop coming on to me and he stopped. He never did it again.”

Or: “I knew something bad was about to jump off and I got out of there. I ran faster and yelled louder than I ever thought I could.”

Or: “I had a feeling that all he wanted was money. So I gave him my wallet and he left. I was right.”

When you hear a woman telling a self defense success story—especially if that woman is you—please correct her gently if she tells you she was “lucky.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” I tell them. “You trusted your instincts. You were brave. You valued yourself. You were strong. You used your mind, you made good choices. You were fierce. You are a survivor.”

mind body mama: Out of Control

Right on schedule, I pulled out the Holiday Control Notebook—that bible of all things winter holiday related for my family—last night. The Halloween candy is almost gone so it’s time to get a move on with our Thanksgiving, Hannukah (a very fancy way of saying “latke-eating”), Christmas and New Year’s Plans.

I found this signed affidavit (lightly redacted) on the first page of the binder:

[Insert embarrassing pet name for Lynne Marie here] was right. Wrapping is better before Christmas eve. – especially with something good on TV or DVD and SNACKS.

Signed,

[Insert embarrassing pet name for Sweetiebabyhoneylicious here]

P.S. When I go shopping, I will bring cold hard cash. No credit or debit, dammit.

Control This

Get Tape!!!

What could it mean?

mind body mama: More on Maine

I am so very tired of the argument that my marriage somehow cheapens or invalidates or affects in any way the hetero marriages of gay hating bigots that I wanted to start this post with something like my current Facebook status:

“Seriously people, if you can think of a way that my marriage affects your marriage please let me know. I just don't see it.”

I thought that would be a good way to lead into a rant about how other people’s marriages don’t affect me either. You there living in your house loving your wife really have no impact on me here loving mine.

But as I went through my day I realized that it’s not true. I am very affected by the marriages of the people I know and love. And the biggest effect upon me is that I am inspired by them and I learn to be a better partner to my one and only Sweetiebabyhoneylicious.

From my parents, now and forever known as Bobbi and Grampy I learned that the race of marriage is sometimes more of the relay than the three-legged variety. That is to say, your partner might not always be right at your side. Like if he’s working two jobs to make ends meet and you’re home raising two little kids. Or if he’s reading on the porch and you’re pulling a Madame DeFarge down the beach with your girlfriends. But the important thing is that you keep running in the same direction.

From BirthPie and Dr. Frisbee I learned that it’s a good idea to plan on your partner changing. Because one day you’re a couple of hippies playing Ultimate and the next day you’re a doctor papa and a stay at home mama and you own a house and some cars and some cats and a boat. And that’s just how you change on the outside. Pledging to love the person your partner becomes as they change and grow and become more deeply and beautifully themselves is a more exciting—and more realistic—troth than thinking you’ll grow old with the same person with whom you fell in love.

From Janet Superhero and her beloved I learned that when you take quiet and steady delight in your partner your love shines on everyone around you.

From Auntie Ollie and her stories of Uncle Runaway I learned that the heat of new passion can warm a heart seventy years later.

From the Life Coach and her new betrothed I learned that there is no more extreme sport than risking one’s heart in mid-life. And perhaps no sweeter thrill.

From Lida and Bill I learned that “cherish” is something you can see in someone’s eyes and hear in someone’s voice when they talk about their beloved. Even, or maybe especially, when the beloved isn’t listening.

And from these friends and these before them I learned that love endures all things, even the cruelest loss.

In her mama blog this week Sarah Buttenweiser claimed the mantra more love is more love as her motto for open adoption. I think it’s applicable to gay marriage too. More love is more love! Me and Sweetiebabylicious living in our house loving each other, raising our Small—that does affect other people. It affects you in a good way. We add our small ripple of love to the sum total of joy and love in this universe. We reflect a bigger love—some might say a divine love—in our effort to walk this mortal path together.

And the only thing that can keep someone from basking in the light of our love, the only thing that can harbor them from compassion and inspiration for and from us, the only thing that can limit the positive influence of our love on the world is if someone puts up walls of hate in his own heart.

That is the saddest story about what happened on Tuesday in Maine.

Mind Body Mama: Never Give Up

I'm needing some solace after the defeat in Maine, so I turned to the Bible verse Small read to light the chalice before the worship service I lead in June:

"Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs; love is not happy with evil, but is happy with the truth. Love never gives up; and its faith, hope and patience never fail."

I Corinthians 13:4-7

What power do the opponents of gay marriage really wield? They cannot keep us from loving each other.

Hell, they cannot even keep us from loving them if we can stretch our breaking hearts that far.

If you missed the original sermon, you can read it here: Love Will Guide Us.

Soldier on.