We can dress up these offenders, teach them how to write a story and convince the world that they are really good people. And externally they may appear so. But you can’t hire a pr-consultant to paint you as a respectable human being when inside you are not.
My father saw no ceilings for his daughters or sons. His wife who sat directly across the dinner table from him had a different trajectory. My mother’s choices post-highschool were limited to gender-specific roles: teacher, nun, nurse, secretary, or wife.
How I thought my day would play out, and how it played out were two different scenes. And I loved the latter. Especially the fantastic and unexpected Saturday surprise, from a kind and generous stranger no less. The compliment’s impact is real and lasting because it came from a place of authenticity, and not ego.
The truth is, February is a game changer. I felt good that a marriage, a friend’s birthday, moving to Springfield, and so many positive events offset what happened in 1990. That was when I went to my resident adviser at Marquette University and told her that I sexually was assaulted by another student.
The final scene ended with the women announcing their claim against the EEOC at a press conference where they faced a room packed wall to wall with all male reporters, then the screen turned to black. At which Bridget yelled, “That’s bull shit”.
I told her I don’t want her to live in a world where her vagina is a liability. How can a person who is essential to bringing life into the world be treated so poorly? This is a country where her gender means she makes 28-cents less than her male equivalent. A country where “equality” is a hollow word filled with adjectives like homophobic, racist, misogynistic, supremacist, narcissistic, ugly, evil, and wrong.
It’s Thursday. There’s plenty of time to find a babysitter, change a carpool, or cancel a lunch date. It is scary, to stand out and up for something you believe in. What’s scarier is what happens when we sit down.
“Momma you have to tell me why you’re crying!”
I waved her off in a futile attempt to silence her. Using the collar of my t-shirt, I wiped wipe my tears, mumbled and pleaded between sobs, “I will, I promise, please just listen, Bridget, just listen.”