If I Were Going to March Today – 21st January 2017

Listening to: P!nk  Dear Mr President

“…What kind of father would take his own daughter’s rights away? What kind of father would hate his own daughter if she were gay?..”

It would be really easy for me to be a man hater. I mean, based on my experiences in life, it would be really easy for me to “join” the marches today as an angry woman, railing against our new President, and to make my focus how much men in general, and white men in particular, have hurt me, have fucked me over, and irrevocably changed the course of my life. I could throw insults, or bricks, and feel very justified in doing so. On behalf of so many others I know, who have experienced hurt at the hands of men, or “the man” I could do these things too. ’cause I’m seeing a LOT of that online today, around the world. A lot of it.

The very first man in my life, the man who I am, genetically speaking, half of, my father, he wasn’t a good father. That’s not mean, that’s true. It’s said without anger. I don’t doubt for a minute he wanted to be a good father. But getting in the way of that was his lack of desire to be married to a woman, because, he was gay. Gay, and Catholic, except he had been Jewish, but then had to be Catholic. And it was the 60’s when he married my mom, and had his kids, and was gay. I can only make some assumptions about the things he did, and choices he made, because when he was here, he didn’t talk about it, and I didn’t really ask about it. For me, it was enough to know that he participated in the making of kids, 4 of them, and in his fucked-up-ness, and hurt, he bailed. Like, tipped out, for 17 years, only returning to my world at my request, when I was pregnant with his first grandchild, and had been having dreams about my “daddy.” Which was essentially for me dreaming about Circe or Pegasus. Just a mythological creature I’d heard stories about, but had no real life experience of. At least not that I could recall. He chose his shit, and his hurt, and his confusion, over being at least a dad, if not a daddy, which didn’t require marriage to mom. You absolutely don’t have to be married, or even in relationship with, the other parent, to be a parent to your children. So I tried to build bridges that were his to build, and then, because of his shit, and his hurt, and his confusion, he set explosives to those too. I’m not trying to speak poorly of him. Really, I’m not. He was a lot of good things too. He had his demons, and let them win.  Because of him, I could hate men.

The 2nd man in my life was my stepfather. I think I was 4 when he came into the picture. Maybe 3. When I was 7, he molested me. For maybe a few months, or maybe a year, or maybe I don’t really know. I know how it started, and I know how it ended, and I have more exact, horrifying, disgusting memories of things he did to me, and made me to do him, than I wish I did. This “man” stole my innocence in every way possible. He turned into ugly distorted shapes, my thoughts, and feelings, about sex, and love, and body image, before I understood what those things meant. From what I’ve been told, I had been a chipper, bubbly little kid, who bounced around, happily, in her own little world. Until I wasn’t. I remember my mom asking me why I was always so angry. Why I fought anytime I was supposed to do something alone with him. (Haven’t thought about the absolute terror that were those moments, in a long, long time. Weird.) I remember him “telling on me” to my mom, about what a brat I at times was, and her being upset with me for it. And for always referring to him as “HIM” with disdain she didn’t understand. I remember him buying me gifts to keep me quiet, and showing off the special piece of jewelry he bought for me with my initials on it, to my mom, so I had to wear it, even though it was like wearing a noose. When the truth finally came out, to everyone, he told people I was exaggerating. Or outright lying, depending on for whom he was spinning his tale. I have few other memories of him, the only father I, as a child, knew, outside of the molestation. As cruel as it sounds, I was relieved last year when he died. The world has enough monsters, one less is a good thing. Because of him, I could hate men. But instead, for a while, I chose to hate myself.

The 3rd man, he was my (1st) husband (which makes me feel nauseous every time I see or type it, because, I was only ever getting married once, in my romantic little girl’s head). And he is an alcoholic, and all which that entails. We should have never gotten married, or had more than a first date. But I was fucked up about love, and sex, and I was 19, and I’d just the year before told everyone about the molestation, and it didn’t go great. And he kept calling, so, I ignored the Everest sized, flashing neon signs of THIS IS NOT YOUR GUY, and got married, and had kids, almost in that order. For all that he was, and was not, and all that he did, or did not do, as a husband, it didn’t have that big an impact on me, past when it was happening. It was what he did after I left him, and by his own admission to hurt me, get back at me for leaving, which ended up hurting my daughters more than anyone, that more than anything else, changed the course of my life, and fucked me up, deeply. Because of him, I could hate men.

The 4th man, was my (2nd) (bleh) husband. The reason this blog in total was started. For all the deeply fucked up deceit, manipulation, emotional, and physical abuse at his hands, I could HATE men. But instead, for a while, I chose to hate myself.

There are of course other men sprinkled around in my past. Friends. Lovers. Loves (totaling 3 in life. Maybe 3 1/2). Some are absolutely beautiful souls for whom I will be forever grateful to have met, and experienced, to whatever degree I have done. They have shown me what fiercely loyal looks like, as friends, as fathers, boyfriends, and husbands. They have shown me what falling down, and getting back up, looks like. They have shown me that marriage not being forever doesn’t have to be construed as a bad thing, if ending a marriage happens because people change, and grow apart, and love is inexplicable, and weird. They have shown me that, few and far between, there does exist in this world, the mythical creature called “daddy.” They have shown me that drive, determination, persistence, hard-work, and heart, sometimes actually pay off. They have shown me that “real” men have hard, and soft sides.

I know that the marches that have happened, or are happening, today, are about women’s rights being human rights. And I SO firmly stand behind things like a woman’s right to choose, (stay THE FUCK out of MY uterus!) and I fully support gay marriage, “choosing” (which isn’t really a choice) to be your REAL gender, instead of what your outward appearance says your gender is. I absolutely support the ideals that we MUST help those whose situation makes it more difficult, if not impossible, for them to help themselves, wherever we CAN. Equal pay for equal work? Fuck yeah, that should always be a thing! I without question stand up for the rights of EVERYONE to practice their religion, whatever that religion is, even if a whacked out group of people who follow a hybrid of that same religion, are terrorist evil killers.

All that being said, and having said so much more than I intended to at the outset of this writing, there are some things that I simply do not vibe with, that are being thrown into the mix. This last part I will preface with, I have no answers. I’m just some chick, who currently lives in Jersey, who in a few months from now may be living in Arizona, or London, or in a van by the river (not really) who has been hopped up on various drugs for a cold, which turned out to be bronchitis, for a week. I’ve definitely, in the last few months, remembered that I’m kind of awesome. But I don’t have the answers to the problems of the U.S., or the world. I do, however, have some thoughts about what I vibe with, and that with which I do not vibe.

So, if I had been marching today, it would not be in protest of Donald Trump, or other men, as related to things like “locker room talk.” If I were going to get my panties in a twist about that kind of thing, I’d have to hold myself to that same standard. And not only do I have a potty mouth, I have been known to have conversations which can not just be construed as, but are 100% the equivalent of, locker room talk. I’ve spoken candidly with my girlfriends about men, in general and specifically, and things of a sexual nature that I’d like to do to or with them. (If my daughters or mom are reading this, that’s a lie. I’m sweet and innocent. Still a virgin. 2 immaculate conceptions. Never even kissed a boy. Would never indulge in conversations in which men are objectified by discussing their things like abs, biceps, or pert glutes, without even noticing the face attached to the body, much less specific sexual situations with specific men, because I’ve never even had sex.)

Don’t get me wrong, I think the whole “grab women by the pussy” thing, was stupid. And gross. Not for nothing, if Donald, didn’t have money, he (probably) wouldn’t be nailing many chicks, much less hot chicks. I don’t know his wife, but, she’s bangin’, as far as appearances go, so I don’t get it. Because his money wouldn’t be enough for me to do him. He could be a master of kama sutra, with the most perfect package in the history of ever, AND all that money, and still, nope, nope, nope. But I’m not remotely offended, or angered by what he said. And so many people in the world think that if anyone SHOULD be angered by it, it should be, the woman who has experienced less than stellar treatment by men, but I’m not. I’m sure Bill Clinton said things equally unsavory, if heard by people other than the intended audience. As have any number of the Kennedys. Or my girlfriends.

If I were marching, I would also not be protesting his inauguration as the President of the United States, or saying “he’s not my President.”  We have an allegedly democratic system (that is stupid, archaic, broken, fucked-up, corrupt, ridiculous, and just a steaming pile of poo), and we voted him in. Had Hilary won, it would be that same system which allowed that to happen. The same system, which I’m pretty convinced, prevented Bernie Sanders from being a real contender.So I’m more concerned with how we ended up with 2 shameful, ridiculous candidates, from which to choose? Why do we still have a 2 party system? Why aren’t we fighting back against special interest groups REALLY controlling elections? And likely, everything else. Trump having won the election is just the symptom. Wouldn’t our energy be more well spent trying to cure the disease?

Because this is the longest blog I’ve ever written, and cough medicine is starting to make words swirl in front of my eyes a little bit, if “we” are saying that women’s rights are human rights, we need to mean it. We need to as a race, the HUMAN race, stop with the divisiveness. All white men are NOT to blame for the plight of everyone else. Yeah, I understand that historically, they have gotten a pass on things because of their whiteness, and maleness. Guess what? I’ve gotten a pass because of my tits. I’ve gotten in places free, I’ve been given stuff, I’ve been moved to the head of lines, I’ve been picked from the audience at concerts, and taken back stage, because of how I look. And I am NOT some little skinny, Barbie Doll typical of what the American male finds attractive, woman. Nor did I seek those things out. I get the impact of me getting taken to the front of a line is much less than the true injustices that have come about due to a historically vanilla, and patriarchal society. I’m not stupid. But I’m not pissed at white guys, for their whiteness. Or their guyness. I’m taking each one as they come.I know white guys who have been molested, abused, abandoned, had their children unjustly taken from them, etc, too. I know white guys who have gotten the really shit end of any number of sticks.

And I actually kinda feel bad for them. I mean, men in general, in a lot of instances. How fucking confusing must it be, to be a man, in this day and age. Too masculine, and you’re a dick. Too emotional, and you’re a pussy. Good luck figuring out how you’re allowed to be, dudes, much less whether or not I’m gonna get pissed if you do, or don’t, open the door for me. And what if you have sex, and the chick gets pregnant, and she decides to keep the kid? That’s all her choice. But if she decides to abort, also all her choice. (And this I get, see above about stay the fuck out of my uterus) but what exactly do YOU, dude, do with that? What if you wanted that baby? Double-edge sword right there, isn’t it. And I feel that for you, I really do.

I think it’s beautiful, and amazing, that so many have come together today to rock the boat. I’m ALL about boat rocking! But let’s pay attention to how we are rocking boats, and why. Maybe the revolution is supposed to be about ALL OF IT. Maybe it’s time to, as lovingly as possible in the face of some really scary shit, give the status quo a kick in the (ass)? Maybe it’s time for us to stop seeing EVERYTHING as us VS them, if we really want to affect change? Maybe our anger is supposed to get us off of our couches, but our compassion, and love, is supposed to be that upon which we act? I do believe that women have tremendous amounts of power. I do believe that the Divine Feminine will create a brilliant shift, if we act genuinely from a place that is DIVINE. Which means from love.

It could be really easy for me to hate men. Or to be honest, people in general. And I could throw insults, or bricks. Or I can try and find a different way. The way that shows my sisters who have been hurt by men, that to raise themselves, to fix themselves, they don’t need to hate all men, or any men. For as much as I abhor politics, I can always seek to try a tiny way to make a positive change, and I don’t just mean writing this blog. The least of that which I can do at this moment is to NOT send a bunch of negative energy to Trump, and his presidency. If ever any situation, and person, needed love in enormous, overflowing, sloppy buckets-full, it’s this, and him.

So, Dear anyone who might be reading this, who might be a woman, who might have gotten really, really hurt by a man, or men, it’s to you I actually want to speak. It could be really easy for us to hate men, and send that hate out into the world in every single thing we do. Or we can choose a different path. We can choose to show our strength as love whenever possible. We can meet “their” ugly, with our beautiful. We can try to be the most dope souls the planet has ever seen. Damn, coulda just cut to the chase, and typed that part, right? Anyway, that’s for what I “marched” today.

Listening to: P!nk Slut Like You

“…You don’t win a prize with your googly eyes
I’m not a cracker jack
You can’t go inside
Unless I let you jack, or Sam?
Fuck what’s your name again ?
You, male, come, now
You, caveman, sit down
You shh don’t ruin it, wow!
Check please…”

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