Inspired Trump Who Will Return Us to Open Season on Women Again
Consider yourself lucky. If you’re one of the women who can hear Trump speak, particularly regarding anything about women, and you get a warm feeling of security from him—you’re one of those lucky women who has never been assaulted. I applaud you. You’re so lucky. It’s amazing, in fact. I know so many who have been assaulted, abused, verbally diminished, intellectually denied. (Secretly, I do wonder how you managed to avoid it. I envy it.)
This strain of diminishment in our culture is very old. Consciously and unconsciously throughout my own life I've wondered, is it just me? Until I grew older and had listened to far more women who were increasingly willing to share their own stories of what can simply be described as it is felt and experienced as predation, assault, intimidation.
The other possibility is that some of you Trump admirers have been assaulted, insulted generically because you're female. However you can't bring yourself to see it for what it is or was. It's normal, you think. It has to be normal because the abuser was a familiar, a friend, a family member or co-worker. It was your brother or your boss or your mother's friend. So it must be normal. These are your people. Your Tribe. They wouldn’t hurt you. If you’re hurt by it, you’re being too sensitive. Ignore those feelings.
They do respect you and you know because they say that they do, it's just the way guys talk and behave. They love you so it must mean something else. They can't help themselves. (Need I point out that this contradiction is one of the most fiercely used arguments against Muslim culture--that although they say they respect women, they do so by limiting their lives and their ability to defend themselves against aggression. )
It's the way guys are. They don't really mean it. It’s the testosterone. It’s inherent. Look at nature. You must have caused it to happen. It's your fault. Or, you're simply ashamed and don't want to be weak or to be ridiculed, or accused of lying. You're ashamed and wonder if you're hysterical, or imagining something. The cognitive dissonance regarding sexual predation has reinforcements in cultural habits that are nearly invisible because they're so woven into all of our cultural norms, contradictions be damned. Contradictions now can no longer be stated and if they are, they aren’t heard, they too are dismissed.
How you have escaped feeling the persistent, pervasive barrage of abuse and assault and insult does amaze me. It's everywhere. I can count the places or cities or communities where it was absent easier than I can count where I've witnessed it. Since the release of the Trump audio illustrating his lifelong predatory behaviors and his pride in this character trait I cannot stop the flow of remembrances of where it has happened. This behavior is within the professional, educational cultures, not just the working class. Some of the sleaziest stories I have are stories of educated, professional, community-respected men. It has been allowed to exist. Let's see it for what it is. Let's hear the stories. These are some of the stories that I know of personally. Just me. One woman. Some stories are mine. Some belong to the women I have known.
There were, of course, the early gropings, the early grade school, playground kind of gropings. It is learned behavior, reinforced behavior, permitted. Ignored. The waving hands directed at your genitals to provoke a fear or a giggle before they made their next move. Should you run? Be chased? Be caught? Should you laugh? Should you cry? Should you tell the teacher? This is where the pattern of confusion begins for many women. We are left alone as children to sort through the things that adults won't address, that the adults won't recognize because they too have been subject to these things and never had them clarified.
There was that house in your neighborhood where most of the children knew not to go in the basement with Mr. X. He had animals down there. He'd invite the kids to see them. Things happened down there. In one family, each elder sister told the next one younger when she reached the age of 9 or so. Hopefully she told her in time. They were afraid to tell their mother. They weren't sure who would get in trouble. For all they knew, they’d be in trouble if they told.
There were the boob grabs, the accidental nudges into a private part.
There were the looks of course, up your skirt. Down your shirt. Bennie S. rubbing the corner of the reading table at reading group, mimicking what he'd been threatening to do to you when no one was looking. He’d been eyeing your newly emerging breasts for months.
There were the forced make-out sessions where, clothes are being removed against your will. You find you have to pretend to vomit so he’ll let go of you before he’s forced himself into you. You feign nausea. He pats you on the back and says that’s how good girls feel. What is that message? It sounds like complete bull in the moment you're hearing it, as you're pretending to be sick so the creep whose got you isolated and has a definite physical advantage can't do what he wants. This is one source of female trickery. We have to use manipulation against the larger, more violent male animal to survive. We have to use psychological warfare otherwise we will be used and thrown away later. Implication is that he just can't control himself. Fact is that he hasn't been required to. We’re human, animal nature, but we’re supposed to have a culture that is evolved. We have what is called conscious choice.
There is the neighbor up the street. Mr. G. We babysat for that family, many of us. He was known to walk the girls home after babysitting. He was known to 'touch' them. It was whispered that you may want to avoid him and walk home alone in the dark. It wasn't explained exactly. There were guarded whispers, hints. No implication whatsoever that there was anything that could be done to stop it.
There is the out and out wrestling match as you’re saying no to the big guy pretending he’s seducing you when he’s actually raping you, pulling your clothes as he bites and licks and sucks any part of you he can hoping to fire your sexual response, get past your conscious, social, personal objections and into your animal response. Where’s his mother? He said he lived with her, implied she was home when he invited you over. You bite his thigh which happens to be the closest thing to your mouth. He jumps and screams, you quickly leave the room, run through the halls and out to the parking lot to your car. As you leave his apartment he screams to you, "Chicken!"
There’s the neighbor, friend of your parents who have told you to respectfully kiss Mr. O good night. "Go give Mr. O a hug goodnight." He positions himself behind a big chair you realize years later so that what he does next cannot be seen by your complacent, confident parents across the room. You are 7 years old. You dutifully go to hug and kiss Mr. O good night and he reaches down and pats your genitals in plain sight, but unseen by your parents. You freeze, stiffen, don't know what to do and as
you look up, he's smiling broadly, happily, like a grandfather or Santa Claus. Innocence incarnate.
The images, the stories keep coming. Every Broadcast of the Showman Trump brings up yet more of these stories. There is sitting in the lunch room. It is somewhere around 9th grade. She hears her name announced on the speaker. Her name is spoken, it is one of the math teachers. Mr. D. He’a smiling, informing the entire room that she should return the basketballs to the gym. He says it several times before she realizes he's referring to her breasts. She is 15. All of her classmates and friends are seated around her, next to her, across the room. She has big breasts. Mr. D. is chuckling to himself, grinning broadly at the joke. There is absolutely nothing to do about this in 1970--nothing that she knows about. This was considered fun. She was considered a good sport. Encouraged to be a good sport. Don't take offense. It's just a joke.
We wonder now if this early abuse is a form of grooming, preparing the female for more and more and worse and worse as she comes 'of age.' It is somewhat like a farm system, as they have in baseball. There are the leagues that provide the players for the B league and they send players to the A league. We are all being prepared for the A league if we make the cut. We are being prepared to be 'a good sport.'
There’s the man that pulls up in a car near your house as you're walking down the suburban street. He leans across the seat to ask directions. You glance up the street wondering where that could be because you’ve never heard of that street. In your peripheral vision you see something move. You turn back only to see his hand jerking in his lap, a flash of white penis before you panic and begin fast walking away from him as he turns the car and races back up the street. You actually report this to the police when you arrive at work because even though you’re no longer a virgin, you’re old enough, considered adult, you’re shaken, scared, unnerved because you just walked through your neighborhood past many, many smaller children and you realize they’re all vulnerable. You give the cops half of the plate number you remember. Jersey plates indicate a pattern they’ve seen. Guys drive over the bridge to do perverted things and drive back over the state line where they can’t easily pursue him. You couldn’t remember the entire number
There's the owner of the restaurant who for 2 years, three or four nights a week he greets you as you enter the restaurant to prepare for opening. He sings to you. The lyrics are from what he says is a Rugby song: "Does, your, pussy loose its flavor on the bedpost over night?" It took another 15 to 20 years to realize for yourself that now it’s called sexual harassment. It wasn’t considered sexual harassment then. We were expected to smile, dismiss, accept, ignore, forget, laugh. And we did. For generations. For a long time.
We were done with this. Now there is a resurgence. The abusers want recognition. They want parity. They want to have their control given back to them. They want to be seen as regular guys. This isn’t a TV network where we should be parsed into special interest groups, targeted consumers. This is our life.
There’s the husband of your friend. They’ve let you stay in their guest house because you’re sick. Early, before dawn the next morning you hear the door open. You have a fever. He’s saying something. His penis is in his hand, he’s ejaculating in the half light of morning. His wife and children asleep across the patio, you scream for him to get the hell out. Can this be real? You've got to be kidding. Your kids are inside.
There’s the friend of a friend who agrees to let you stay in his guest house while you’re on a job in a nearby city. You’ve never met him. A colleague has arranged it. Key is left under the mat. In the morning you wake, go to kitchen, introduce yourself and thank the friend’s friend, a man, for allowing you to sleep in his guest room while you’re there working for the next few days. He nods and casually says he doesn’t see any reason to really let you sleep there unless you fuck him. Says it in those very direct terms. You’re in shock. You stutter, try to maintain some dignity. You leave. Find a phone. This is before cell phones. Call to see where else you can stay. This is a friend of a friend. You're embarrassed. You're stranded.
There is the Breather. For months you get calls where a person is breathing on the phone. No words are spoken. It must be someone whose voice you would recognize. It’s creepy to say the list. Sometimes it’s twice a week. Sometimes weeks go buy. It goes on through 2 different moves so someone is getting your unlisted number. With each move it's taken shorter amounts of time for this Breather to get the unlisted number. It’s been over a year. This new place, you have my phone number listed under your cat’s name. There’s a beeping coming through the phone, the breathing. You recognize it then. It's been months. There's a truck backing up. You pull the phone away and hear the same beeping. You panic. This sick sonovabitch is at the pay phone around the corner. You start screaming at him to stop calling you. You report it to the police. Nothing they can do.
There’s another guy. You work with him on occasion. You walk into his workplace one day and you hear a strange soundtrack playing. It’s a woman groaning. You can’t place where the sound is coming from. It’s loud. You were expected. You’ve arrived on time. He’s standing over his desk and then you see the tape player in front of him. The cassette is running. The sound of a woman groaning during sex is coming from the tape player. He looks at you and grins lasciviously. He smirks. He identifies it as his wife—your friend. Then he says, “ I put the tape player under the bed at night.” How are you supposed to react to this?
There's the recap of the Bachelors' Party all your closest male, married friends have gone to. The conversation begins with the guys telling each other that it's OK to share the story with you because you're known to be a good sport. You overhear them talking and ask what’s up? They begin by saying, 'It was all good clean fun." They say this repeatedly. Ok, you say. What's good, clean fun at a bachelor party? No one touched her, they declare. You listen, waiting. Not sure at all what's going to be revealed. They repeat numerous times, it's all good clean fun. They describe the name woman squatting over the men's faces, using her genitals to grab the $20 bills they were holding in their teeth. They all participated. You guess. They didn't elaborate. Said it was a good way for her to pick up a few hundred bucks extra for the night. Good clean fun. You then suggest that if it's a good clean way to earn a few extra bucks on a weekend, maybe you and their wives could take this up as a part time job. Their faces are then crestfallen. Well, you say? Why not? It's just good clean fun. You wouldn't mind, apparently. But none of them wants their own wives, sisters, friends to do it. You've fallen in their estimation. They won't call you a good sport again ever.
There are the flat tires. They're dangerous. If you've survived the flat and are at the side of the rode you are in grave danger. If it is nighttime, you're at greater risk. A car stops. The man is a gentleman. He changes your tire. He's friendly, works quickly, gets the tire off and on again. You relax. He’s nice, casual, well-spoken. You don’t feel alarmed anymore or unsure. A few cars have driven by, but not many. He finishes, he puts the tools and tire in the trunk and asks if you have water or a rag so he can wash his hands. You reach into the glove box and he comes up behind you and pushes you into the front seat. His zipper is open. His hand is over your mouth. The dirt and rubber smell of the tires is in your nose because he holds your face. When he finishes he apologizes and walks to his car and drives away. You lie on the seat numb with not understanding, anger, sadness. You cry. Hard.
There's the fact that your father took you outside when you were 16 and made you change a tire on all 4 of the family cars. It took hours. When you finished he wiped his hands, told you to clean up the tools and as he walked away he said, "Now no sonuvabitch is ever gonna bother you on the side of the rode." He knew full well what the risks of being a woman are. You are grateful that he taught you some means to protect yourself. You happen to be one of the few women you know who know how to change their own tires and has always done it yourself.
Knowing how to change the tires wasn't enough. There are so many more 'stories' I could relate, dozens.
These things had been changing up until now, until recently, in this life. Things were improving. There are now laws about assault and sexual harassment and they are occasionally implemented. This year, however, we are in the midst of an unabashed backlash. The coarse and crude, the Neanderthals, the dominants, the 'white men in boxer shorts' crowd has had enough of this thing called cultural progress. First we take control of the women. That's half the population. If we own and control that, we've got the rest. Controlling women’s bodies is the first step. It’s been out of hand. It’s the one consistent issue for decades now that has gone on relentlessly.
Are the women in denial of this reality in past and current times suffering from Stockholm Syndrome? Are they identifying with their captors in order to survive? To be part of the winning team? To avoid more abuse themselves?
Are they asleep? Are they in denial? Or are they simply so very lucky?
