Blamed for Speaking Up

I’ve known for a long time that victims of abuse or bullying are often not believed. I was a victim of both myself. When my mother learned that her second husband had sexually abused me and one of my brothers, not only did she believe us, she reassured us that it wasn’t our fault. For that, I will be forever grateful.

However, there were times in my life when I was the victim of bullying, but no one believed me when it was reported. The first incident was pretty minor. I was in the third grade. We’d gone outside for recess and at the end of it had lined up to wait for our teacher to lead us back to the classroom. As we were waiting, I saw a nice rock and picked it up. Another girl in my class, Nancy, saw the rock in my hand. She told me that we weren’t supposed to throw rocks. I told her that I wasn’t going to throw it; that I wanted to keep it. She then slapped my hand forcing me to drop the rock.  When we got back to class, both of us got a sheet of scrap paper and wrote down what happened for the teacher. She read both stories and then sent me to the principal’s office.  When I got there, I didn’t bother to defend myself. If my teacher didn’t believe me, why would I think he might?

The second incident happened when I was in the sixth grade. I was walking along a path in the schoolyard after school. It was later than usual, so it was just me. As I was walking down the path, I heard a noise and looked up. A couple of boys were up above me on the path. I didn’t think anything of it at first, until they started throwing rocks at me. I turned and ran. Unfortunately, one of the rocks hit me in the temple cutting me. I then turned and ran to the school office to get help. The secretary took care of me and then called my mother. At the time, I didn’t know either boy’s name, so was unable to tell her who had thrown the rocks. A few days later I was in the office for another reason when I saw a picture of one of the boys on the school secretary’s desk. I said, “Miss Letty, that’s one of the boys who chased me and threw rocks at me!”

She said, “Who Keith? He’s a nice boy. He wouldn’t do that.” I was so surprised and disappointed.

The worst one though was when a neighborhood boy threatened to beat me with a baseball bat if I talked to his mother about something else he'd done earlier in the day. When I finally did get to talk to her, she told me that "Boys would be boys." 

In other words, she didn't take his threat to me seriously. That really bothered me, but I couldn't do anything more. Years later that "boy" would be in and out of jail several times.

My point with all this is that when victims aren’t believed or taken seriously, the damage is multiplied. They’re taught that there’s no reason to speak as no one will believe them anyway. This also leaves the victim feeling like s/he must have done something wrong to bring this on. That somehow it’s the victim’s fault. This just makes it easier for someone else to victimize or hurt that person.

These incidents are minor compared to what a lot of women go through. It never ceases to amaze me the things men are allowed to get away with because they’re men and they "can’t control themselves." I call Bullshit on that idea. Men can be taught to respect women. Men can be taught that women are worthy of respect. That women are not simply sexual objects put here on earth to satisfy their every whim.

The worst part is and always has been to me, the fact that men can run around shirtless and no one says a thing. If a woman, on the other hand, so much as exposes a bit of cleavage, or nurses a baby in public, she’s considered a slut or an exhibitionist. If women wear clothing that could be considered the least bit provocative, she’s giving “permission” for any man to fondle her if he gets close enough. We as a society blame women for the way men behave. We don’t seem to realize that men have a responsibility to control their actions. That they don’t have the right to fondle any woman, regardless of how she’s dressed. 

In closing, I have included links to other blogs about victim blaming. One is simply a history of that woman’s encounters with violence and how it affected her. The other is about a young woman who was literally put into foster care for rebelling against her mother’s religion, after being called a liar for speaking up when an elder in that religion abused her. You may need to copy and paste the links into your browser.

http://bellejar.ca/2015/12/03/being-a-girl-a-brief-personal-history-of-violence/

https://www.yahoo.com/news/happened-mom-dumped-foster-care-160000998.html

Losing Your Passion

I’ve been a writer off and on since childhood. I remember writing a story when I was about 10 years old. I read it to my mother hoping for some encouragement. My timing was pretty poor as she was absorbed in some task of her own, so she didn’t pay much attention. What really started me writing though, was a notice in the local paper about a poetry contest they were holding. I immediately sat down and wrote a couple of poems in a steno pad. I never entered them and after reading the winning entry about a string of pearls, I was glad I hadn’t. I kept writing poetry, then someone gave me a tiny journal, with a lock on it. I wrote in that for a long time.  I remember writing about the young man I was dating. Eventually I read the entries in that journal then burned the whole thing in the fireplace. I didn’t want to be reminded about the cretin I’d dated.

Over the years I’ve come to realize that I write because I must. I’ve written poetry to express feelings that I often felt like I didn’t have any other outlet for. I’ve kept a journal off and on as a way to process and download whatever was bothering me. These days I still keep a journal, I’m trying to keep on top of this blog, and I’m working on several stories.

Several years ago, I realized that for me, writing is a passion. There are a lot of things I love to do, such as baking or blowing glass, but writing is a must do. If I don’t, I don’t sleep well then I get cranky.

Recently though, I felt myself losing my passion for writing. At first I thought it was just lack of space. My desk is always cluttered despite the fact that I do try to clear it off. Then I realized it was more than that.

It was also my roommate’s retirement. I had put a sign on my door that read, “Please Do Not Disturb.” He took it as a polite request. I tried, “Don’t Even Think of Disturbing Me.” That didn’t work either. Neither did a sign I found on Facebook that read, “WARNING! WRITER AT WORK! By Penalty Of Death Of Your Favorite Character Do Not Enter Except In Case Of Real Emergency. Things That Constitute A Real Emergency:

The House Is On Fire

The Zombie Apocalypse Has Begun

Lunch Is Ready”

My son took one look and said that I didn’t make lunch for anyone. I said that it was in case he made me lunch. That didn’t work either. Finally I made my own sign for the door that reads:

“IF THE DOOR IS CLOSED, DO NOT DISTURB IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM!! (DON’T SPEAK, TAP, KNOCK, OR IN ANY WAY DISTURB THE WRITER AT WORK). If the door is cracked open, then it’s okay to disturb me.”

This sign works for the most part. Only twice has it been violated. The first time my roommate found some cherry brandy in the cupboard that I bought for baking a long time ago. He tried it and a minute later was knocking on my door to tell me that it him hard. When he was done I made it clear that there were to be no more interruptions.

The second time it happened he couldn’t find some leftovers he wanted in the fridge. I pulled open the door like I wanted to yank it off the hinges. I gave him that look and showed him the leftovers while he apologized.

The other problem has been that with his retirement, I’m aware of his presence, even with the door closed. For a while I insisted that he get out of the house; daily if possible. Then I realized that wasn’t fair to him. I started looking at ways for me to go somewhere else to work for a couple of days a week. I looked at one place for writers. The problem was that it didn’t open till noon and riding the bus took at least an hour to get there. By the time I could get there, I’d be lucky to have three hours in which to work, before I had to come home. That’s when I realized that my local library had study rooms and a quiet area. Not only that, but it’s open by 10:00 a.m. and only half an hour by bus. So, that solved that problem.

That still didn’t solve my seeming lack of desire to write. That’s when I finally realized that I’m being inundated with information on how to make money as a freelance writer. I kept looking at the information and thinking, “I should try that. I could really use the money.” I finally realized that writing purely for money wasn’t for me.

Now that I’ve realized what’s really been bothering me, I’m ready to work on my stories again.