Trigger warning, obviously, for physical intimidation, implied threats, an adult terrorizing children, being "tickled" too hard (non-consensually) so that it hurts, not being listened to about very strong feelings, inappropriate (non-consensual) touching by other children, and general, all-around shittiness. It's also about an empowering experience, too, so it's not all dark, and it ends on a good note. If you wish to proceed, enjoy.
Christmas with the Christian side of the family, I anticipated, would be extremely unpleasant. The year before a couple of uncles had been delighted with Duck Dynasty's Phil Robertson and had eagerly expressed their glee to one another. "Even if you don't agree, you've got to admire him for standing up for his beliefs," one of them had smiled.
I had not said anything that year, being shocked at what they had said (since it was relatively old news even then), and not knowing what to say.
This time, for weeks beforehand, I had practiced saying that I actually don't admire the publicity stunts of reality stars, that I didn't think a loving god would tell someone that an act of love was an abomination, even that no one can judge another's salvation (because, once again, my grandfather was asking us to come to his church, even though he thinks that we are believers like him).
Surprisingly, though, it was not an unpleasant Christmas; my great stand was not about religion or politics at all, and I stood up to someone that I wasn't expecting to.
My cousin was asking an uncle about a gun he was thinking of buying.
"Why do you want it?" his older brother (whom I think of as Blue-Butt because of a Smurf rape joke that I got in trouble for years ago) asked.
"Because it has more firepower," answered my youngest cousin. (I will call him Red-Butt, because when he was very little, after his bath he used to run through the house naked. We older kids would grab towels and try to capture him and cover him up, everyone laughing all the while, and my mother would yell, "There goes the Red-Butted Boobie!" (not an actual bird))
"He wants to make a bigger hole," his dad commented.
Blue shook his head. "Poor child," he said sarcastically.
The words flew out of my mouth and I was pointing deliberately at him before I realized what was going on. "That's how I feel about you!" I retorted.
"I am twice your size," he said, contemptuously emphasizing every word.
"So?" I asked, spreading my hands and giving him a purposefully confused look. I was thankful that my mouth had responded so quickly.
He rolled his eyes, gave a little scoff and looked away, ignoring me. He had not answered my question, which made me think that I had won somehow.
After a few seconds, I mumbled, "I'm just teasing you, Blue. I'm just kidding... sort of," but I don't think he heard me, and my heart wasn't in it. It felt bad to say, and so I stopped saying it.
I couldn't get this little exchange out of my mind for hours afterwards. I cannot imagine how physical size would have anything to do with being nice to people, or even with acting childish. Did he think physical size made him more adult than me? Or that he could subtly put people down because of his size? Or even that I couldn't feel a certain way about him? (Red is as big as he is, so he can't really put Red down as being child-sized compared to him.)
There are at least three things I believe happened here: 1) I probably have made an enemy, whether I was right or wrong to say it, 2) I told him that I was not intimidated by his physical size or strength, and, 3) I was more of a loudmouth than I ever remember. I told him what I thought of him, and I love that that happened.
I am surprised that he would resort to physical intimidation to shut me up, that that was apparently okay with him, and equally surprised at my response. I have always thought of myself as timid and scared, and I once told my mom that on some level I was physically afraid of all men. That is still true somewhat, but here I was, unafraid of him.
As a child I had been terrified of an uncle who physically bullied me (and my cousins), "tickling" us until it hurt, grabbing us against our wills and hanging us upside down in spite of our terrified screams (the other adults did not take our protests seriously, and did not want to make waves).
As an adult, I had bought a can of mace and decided that even in my family, there would also be legal repercussions if someone tried to physically intimidate me. "Get out of my face!" I would say, and if they persisted, I would mace them and later say, truthfully, that I was afraid for my physical safety. They would know not to mess with me, and that I did not take implied threats lightly. If they were to invade my physical space, after all, what's to stop them from hitting me? Perhaps I was being paranoid, but it made me feel a lot better.
That attitude, about an uncle, now applied to my cousin as well. Worst case scenario, if I ate my own teeth, didn't get a chance to mace him, and he beat the crap out of me, he would still be a felon. He would either be in prison or on the lam, and it would ruin his life. I didn't care how many people I pissed off, I would have gladly sent a bully to prison.
His threat was deflated; obviously, he would not have gone through with it. I was surrounded by my father, other male relatives, and my mother, who brawled quite a bit in high school, when other girls picked on her, and was strong enough to have had several very physical jobs. I also have taken two years of taekwondo, and apparently I was less cowed and intimidated by him than he expected (maybe even than I have been before). He was also sitting across the room from me; if he had been invading my personal space, looking down on me, I might have reacted differently; I really don't know.
I can either assume that he wouldn't have gone through with it, and thus was making idle threats (I don't know why else he would refer to physical size), or that he would have gone ahead and beaten up a person half his size for calling him childish.
He is three years younger than me, and this is not the first time that he made a point of boasting that he could take me on. When he was going through puberty and the subsequent growth spurts, he once told me, very arrogantly, "I'm stronger than you." (I forget the context of this situation; I was probably disagreeing with him.)
So what? I thought. You're still an asshole. I had not said it at the time, but I think I might if it happened now.
And I have punched him before. When I was twelve and he was nine, I often played male characters in our games, such as Woody and Robin. He started finding excuses to push me or touch me in the chest, all in the context of "play." It got to be such a problem, and bothered me so much, that (at my mother's suggestion, no less), I punched him when we were playing in my grandparents' pool one day with some of his friends. I thought that his touching me was in this case an accident, and I didn't feel very good about doing it in front of his friends, explaining what he did in front of them. But I was so desperate to have it stop that I did it anyway.
The blow had landed on his throat. I had thought that I would have a weak punch, but he was in tears, his voice hoarse. He was mad at me because he said it was an accident, and it abruptly put a stop to our game, but I was relieved. I had finally done it! I had finally physically hurt him, for using me as a sex object--not even taking my feelings into consideration when using my body to satisfy his sexual urges or curiosity. I hoped he would never do it again.
I was right; he never touched me again. He may have remembered it, and was looking for an opportunity to "put me in my place" or get back at me ever since.
Whatever the case, it doesn't look like he can or will make such threats anymore, and I don't have to let him put his brother down (as I saw it) in my presence.
It feels good to be mean.
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Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
The Kitten, Part Two: He Wanted To Live
Basically, his body was broken, his pelvis shattered, and the vet encouraged us to have him euthanized. He was presumably in a lot of pain, but we couldn't do it. The pain would be temporary, if he lived, and if he didn't, then we felt he at least deserved a fighting chance, a slightly longer life.
I still don't know to this day whether his swollen belly was FIP (a fatal feline disease), internal bleeding, or the air from a punctured lung, but we fed him full of herbs and supplements, and he lived. I get emotional daily over the simple fact that he lived!
I truly believe that he chose to live. He seemed determined, I was determined, and my mother was determined. He was going to live, if at all possible. We would not accept defeat until he was dead, cold and stiff. And now it appears that he won't be that way for a very long time yet.
This is, more or less, my mother's philosophy on living, and mine. "I just wonder, if people thought that there would be no afterlife, if they would fight harder," she said to me once.
She recalls often the time that she called a cousin of hers, offering to send supplements for her dying father. "These might help him and prolong his life," she reasoned.
"Oh, no, he said he just wants to go home," was the answer she got. "He's ready to go to heaven."
My mother does not call herself an atheist. I don't think she really calls herself anything, anymore. But she and I think the same way on a lot of matters, especially important ones like this. We both went through years of trying desperately to get close to God, shared our struggles with each other, tried very hard to be good Christians, to serve everyone around us.
And we both came to the conclusion that we just wanted to know the truth, even if it was painful. We don't want to believe anything that may not be true, and I believe that trusting the wrong people or ideologies is a good way to get hurt, be taken advantage of, or make the wrong choices.
My dad often teases us about our dedication to animal health. "He's going to be loved, dammit!" he laughed one day, when my mom wouldn't let Marshmallow out of the house because it was cold.
"That's right!" she agreed, animated.
"Good thing I'm not on my deathbed," he rolled his eyes, grinning. He turned to me. "Don't let her do that to me, Little One," he instructed.
"No, I will," she said, adamantly, "because guess what? When you're gone, you're gone!"
"Make them pull the plug," he informed me.
"Not me! You keep me alive as long as they'll let you!"
This fight was good-natured, but she was loud, passionate. I was happy to know that I would have my mother with me for as long as humanly possible.
I am very proud of her, and of my kitten.
We had determined to do everything we possibly could for him, that would not run the risk of hurting him. Though I could not truly bring myself to pray for his condition, at least not "properly," I remember holding him and trying to send "healing love vibes," from my heart, to him. I whispered things to him, like, "Let my love heal you." I tried to make my love give him strength. I sang the "I Love You Forever" song to him over and over again. I had the bluegrass song, "Carry Me Across The Mountain," about a mother who refuses to accept her sick child's death as inevitable, constantly in my head.
I believe that love can heal, and can strengthen. I have no idea whether the New Age, hippie-type stuff mentioned above actually works or not, but I would have tried anything, and I would do it all over again. I would try anything, and it at least is something to try. One benefit of these things, that I know to be true, is that it made me less negative and discouraged around him. Negativity was replaced with a grim, desperate determination.
I tell him often, "You'll get as much care as you need, Baby," though he hardly needs any care at all now, and I tell my other animals the same thing when they get sick or injured. I don't know how much animals understand, but I tell them anyway, just in case they do.
During Thanksgiving, I told Marshmallow's story to some relatives of mine. They seemed impressed.
"Yeah, but what kind of life does he have?" an uncle asked me.
If I had answered honestly, I would have told him, "The life of a little shit, that's what kind."
He climbs onto our roof with the other cats, in spite of our wishes. He occasionally jumps from heights much too high for a cat with a once-broken pelvis, as much as seven feet (again, in spite of our wishes), and doesn't seem hurt by the landing. He is an aggressive wrestler, attacking his siblings. He has caught (or probably stolen) several mice. When I have tried to rescue the mice (because life is precious), he grabs them and runs away to hide.
He was rebellious to the laws of nature, and now he is rebellious to us. And I wouldn't have it any other way.
Still, what my uncle had said bothered me. I hoped it was not a cover for the sentiment that animals don't count. (There is nothing that makes me more murderous than hearing the phrase, "It's just an animal!" Imagine God or an alien life form saying that about us!)
I believe that life is precious, all life, except perhaps some humans. If some people don't care about their fellow creatures, or fellow humans, I would actually prefer that those people did not live. My one consolation is that I am not alone in my sentiments towards animals (and most of our species), and that at least the laws of nature don't apply at my house.
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Saturday, December 6, 2014
Left For A Loaf, Or Waiting For The "Next" Man
When I was in third grade, the cutest boy in my class left my Christian school to start homeschooling. I had liked him, or so I thought, and now he was leaving, so I picked the second-cutest boy in my class to like. My reasoning was, "Well, Aidan is leaving, so I guess I'll like Billy now."
The thing is, Billy was not my first choice, or even should have been a choice at all. He teased my best friend, drawing pictures of her desk as a pigsty (she was not very organized, but I thought she was nice). He was full of himself, and claimed to have a popular toy line named after him. He made it obvious that he didn't like me back (or at least, it's obvious to me now).
But I saw this boy as filling a role in my life, the role of latest crush, one that I apparently thought needed to be filled at all times. I didn't really like him, I realize now; I didn't really like anybody. He was just what I saw as the most desirable pick from among the boys I knew, which I guess wasn't saying much. He wasn't Mr. Right; he was Mr. Right Now, as the cliche goes.
When the guy I liked most recently, Mark, acted as if he enjoyed my company, but failed to call me, it certainly affected my feelings for him, but something else bothered me about him. I couldn't place it at first, but then I realized what it was: Why was he the most "desirable" young man I knew? Why was there no one "better" than him (that I knew of, assuming I might have misjudged someone else)?
What truly bothered me was the question of why there were such slim pickings.
I have read The Rules, the best-selling dating book of the '90s, and its suggestion for when a man does not call is to say, "Next!" and look for someone else. But what if there is no one else? What if you are too lazy, or too busy with your life, to sign up for online dating or go to singles mixers? If for some reason these aren't an option for you (for example, you're an introvert, don't have time, or you're eight), do you then "pick" the "second-best" guy in your social group? Or for that matter, do you just "pick" someone online, who doesn't quite measure up to your standards, just because he comes the closest?
Of course, I think that getting to know someone better, that you may not know that well or may have previously misjudged, is a very healthy thing. But in third grade, I wasn't "getting to know him better." I was "picking" him to like, no matter what he did, not deciding whether or not I liked him. And I have seen grown women who apparently have the same kind of attitude towards men.
A couple weeks after I gave Mark my phone number, another student was playing a video with guitar music on his phone, before class. Mark bragged that he had found a loaf of bread for sale in the cafeteria, explained how much he loved bread, then started happily doing the fox-trot with the half-eaten loaf of bread, to the tune of the guitar music.
Well, I thought, that's either very weird or very adorable. I was leaning towards the former.
He spun around in circles. "I feel very twirly today," he smiled.
Perhaps that was why he didn't call me, I thought smugly, because he's "twirly." I never had a chance with him anyway.
I have to admit, when I saw him dancing with a loaf of bread, I felt a little bit better about myself. Apparently I had dodged a very bizarre bullet. I wasn't unlikeable; he was the weird guy who dances with bread, instead of making a connection with another human being (a little cruel, perhaps, but sometimes I guess I just don't care). What a wonderful gift from the universe this was.
So now, I am not in third grade anymore. I don't have a slot to fill in my life (not a dirty joke). I had thought that a worthwhile man had presented himself, but apparently he proved a dud. And I don't think I'll look around for the "Next" one, either, or pick my second choice. I think I would rather focus more on loving myself.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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The thing is, Billy was not my first choice, or even should have been a choice at all. He teased my best friend, drawing pictures of her desk as a pigsty (she was not very organized, but I thought she was nice). He was full of himself, and claimed to have a popular toy line named after him. He made it obvious that he didn't like me back (or at least, it's obvious to me now).
But I saw this boy as filling a role in my life, the role of latest crush, one that I apparently thought needed to be filled at all times. I didn't really like him, I realize now; I didn't really like anybody. He was just what I saw as the most desirable pick from among the boys I knew, which I guess wasn't saying much. He wasn't Mr. Right; he was Mr. Right Now, as the cliche goes.
When the guy I liked most recently, Mark, acted as if he enjoyed my company, but failed to call me, it certainly affected my feelings for him, but something else bothered me about him. I couldn't place it at first, but then I realized what it was: Why was he the most "desirable" young man I knew? Why was there no one "better" than him (that I knew of, assuming I might have misjudged someone else)?
What truly bothered me was the question of why there were such slim pickings.
I have read The Rules, the best-selling dating book of the '90s, and its suggestion for when a man does not call is to say, "Next!" and look for someone else. But what if there is no one else? What if you are too lazy, or too busy with your life, to sign up for online dating or go to singles mixers? If for some reason these aren't an option for you (for example, you're an introvert, don't have time, or you're eight), do you then "pick" the "second-best" guy in your social group? Or for that matter, do you just "pick" someone online, who doesn't quite measure up to your standards, just because he comes the closest?
Of course, I think that getting to know someone better, that you may not know that well or may have previously misjudged, is a very healthy thing. But in third grade, I wasn't "getting to know him better." I was "picking" him to like, no matter what he did, not deciding whether or not I liked him. And I have seen grown women who apparently have the same kind of attitude towards men.
A couple weeks after I gave Mark my phone number, another student was playing a video with guitar music on his phone, before class. Mark bragged that he had found a loaf of bread for sale in the cafeteria, explained how much he loved bread, then started happily doing the fox-trot with the half-eaten loaf of bread, to the tune of the guitar music.
Well, I thought, that's either very weird or very adorable. I was leaning towards the former.
He spun around in circles. "I feel very twirly today," he smiled.
Perhaps that was why he didn't call me, I thought smugly, because he's "twirly." I never had a chance with him anyway.
I have to admit, when I saw him dancing with a loaf of bread, I felt a little bit better about myself. Apparently I had dodged a very bizarre bullet. I wasn't unlikeable; he was the weird guy who dances with bread, instead of making a connection with another human being (a little cruel, perhaps, but sometimes I guess I just don't care). What a wonderful gift from the universe this was.
So now, I am not in third grade anymore. I don't have a slot to fill in my life (not a dirty joke). I had thought that a worthwhile man had presented himself, but apparently he proved a dud. And I don't think I'll look around for the "Next" one, either, or pick my second choice. I think I would rather focus more on loving myself.
What do you think of this? Leave a comment below, or send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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Friday, December 5, 2014
"You're Acting Like A Dillweed:" Shit Gay People Say, Part Two
(Click here for Part One)
My first day of acting class, we were all told to introduce ourselves, then tell two truths and a lie about ourselves. My lie was that I was one of seven sisters. A young man whom I will call John informed me, "When you're making up a number of siblings, you don't say seven!"
Another guy, Harrison, said that he loved movies. Every single one of us fell for that lie, though for the most part the class was very good at spotting the lies. Here is the reason we fell for it, if others' reasoning is anything like mine:
Harrison spoke in a softer, higher-pitched voice than is normally typical for a man.
I reasoned that a straight man would probably speak in a lower-pitched voice, even if he had to artificially deepen his voice, because of the fear of being mistaken for a gay man, especially by the opposite sex.
Since Harrison was probably an openly gay man, in theater, it would make sense that he would love old movies, since so many are musicals, and theater people sometimes love musicals. Also, some plays are based on old movies, and vice-versa.
I really wasn't sure whether my reasoning was offensive or inaccurate stereotyping, or not, but I was taken by surprise when he shook his head, saying, "I actually don't really like movies."
He's a genius, I thought. Did he do that on purpose? He had played the entire room, based on stereotypes and the ability to keep a straight face. I wondered if he had had any other experience keeping a "straight" face to the world. (In the next class, he would manage to play one half of a straight married couple in a barely-rehearsed skit, and with a Russian accent.)
A few weeks later, one night after class, a girl named Debbi mentioned in passing that she was bisexual, in a conversation in which I confided that I was an atheist. The next day, we struck up a conversation before class about foreign languages and genealogy. Apparently she had had a great-uncle who refused to speak anything but German, unless talking to authorities. I had a great-grandfather who fled his home state and changed his name, the reason of which my family has no idea.
After the class, as I stood talking to some other students, I felt someone standing close behind me, whispering in a creepy voice. I thought I knew what the voice was saying, but wasn't precisely sure. About one second later, Debbi joined our little group, an overly innocent look on her face.
"I think I just heard a ghost," I said.
Debbi shrugged. "No, that was just me, whispering, 'I will eat you.'"
"Oh, no!" I melodramatically acted horrified, offering her food. I imitated my little brother, Cody's, wide-eyed, shocked facial expression, from the time that he was three and trying to convince me that he had cut his leg off with a pair of scissors ("Ow! I cut my weg off!").
I wondered then if she had thought I was talking to her expressively because she was bi. I had to admit that I was a relatively safe bet on her part, since she knew I was an atheist and unlikely to be morally opposed to a mutual lesbian feast.
Last week, as my mom was picking me up from class, I apologized for taking so long. "Sorry I'm late. Harrison and John were arguing over whether 'Why' or 'How' was a better question, philosophically."
"Oh, you think he likes John?" she grinned mischievously.
"He called him a dillweed," I answered. She started laughing as I imitated him. "Why are we having this discussion? Maybe it's because you're acting like a dillweed right now..."
"That John is good-looking," she said. "You should talk to him."
"He said he could manipulate conversations and make people smell walls," I pleaded.
"Walls?"
"Yes, walls. 'You smell that? That smells so weird. Sniff that...And they do!' he said. He does it just for fun!"
Later, as I recounted this bit of fascinating information to my father, Mom added, "But I don't think he said 'walls.'"
"He said 'balls?'" my dad grinned.
"I think it was 'balls!'" she declared.
I had to admit that John was looking at me at the time. I really had thought he had said "walls."
"He wants you to sniff his balls," she laughed.
If this is true, I thought, then maybe he really is a dillweed.
For some reason, though, that didn't stop my mother from wanting me to go out with him...
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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My first day of acting class, we were all told to introduce ourselves, then tell two truths and a lie about ourselves. My lie was that I was one of seven sisters. A young man whom I will call John informed me, "When you're making up a number of siblings, you don't say seven!"
Another guy, Harrison, said that he loved movies. Every single one of us fell for that lie, though for the most part the class was very good at spotting the lies. Here is the reason we fell for it, if others' reasoning is anything like mine:
Harrison spoke in a softer, higher-pitched voice than is normally typical for a man.
I reasoned that a straight man would probably speak in a lower-pitched voice, even if he had to artificially deepen his voice, because of the fear of being mistaken for a gay man, especially by the opposite sex.
Since Harrison was probably an openly gay man, in theater, it would make sense that he would love old movies, since so many are musicals, and theater people sometimes love musicals. Also, some plays are based on old movies, and vice-versa.
I really wasn't sure whether my reasoning was offensive or inaccurate stereotyping, or not, but I was taken by surprise when he shook his head, saying, "I actually don't really like movies."
He's a genius, I thought. Did he do that on purpose? He had played the entire room, based on stereotypes and the ability to keep a straight face. I wondered if he had had any other experience keeping a "straight" face to the world. (In the next class, he would manage to play one half of a straight married couple in a barely-rehearsed skit, and with a Russian accent.)
A few weeks later, one night after class, a girl named Debbi mentioned in passing that she was bisexual, in a conversation in which I confided that I was an atheist. The next day, we struck up a conversation before class about foreign languages and genealogy. Apparently she had had a great-uncle who refused to speak anything but German, unless talking to authorities. I had a great-grandfather who fled his home state and changed his name, the reason of which my family has no idea.
After the class, as I stood talking to some other students, I felt someone standing close behind me, whispering in a creepy voice. I thought I knew what the voice was saying, but wasn't precisely sure. About one second later, Debbi joined our little group, an overly innocent look on her face.
"I think I just heard a ghost," I said.
Debbi shrugged. "No, that was just me, whispering, 'I will eat you.'"
"Oh, no!" I melodramatically acted horrified, offering her food. I imitated my little brother, Cody's, wide-eyed, shocked facial expression, from the time that he was three and trying to convince me that he had cut his leg off with a pair of scissors ("Ow! I cut my weg off!").
I wondered then if she had thought I was talking to her expressively because she was bi. I had to admit that I was a relatively safe bet on her part, since she knew I was an atheist and unlikely to be morally opposed to a mutual lesbian feast.
Last week, as my mom was picking me up from class, I apologized for taking so long. "Sorry I'm late. Harrison and John were arguing over whether 'Why' or 'How' was a better question, philosophically."
"Oh, you think he likes John?" she grinned mischievously.
"He called him a dillweed," I answered. She started laughing as I imitated him. "Why are we having this discussion? Maybe it's because you're acting like a dillweed right now..."
"That John is good-looking," she said. "You should talk to him."
"He said he could manipulate conversations and make people smell walls," I pleaded.
"Walls?"
"Yes, walls. 'You smell that? That smells so weird. Sniff that...And they do!' he said. He does it just for fun!"
Later, as I recounted this bit of fascinating information to my father, Mom added, "But I don't think he said 'walls.'"
"He said 'balls?'" my dad grinned.
"I think it was 'balls!'" she declared.
I had to admit that John was looking at me at the time. I really had thought he had said "walls."
"He wants you to sniff his balls," she laughed.
If this is true, I thought, then maybe he really is a dillweed.
For some reason, though, that didn't stop my mother from wanting me to go out with him...
Send me an email at: atheistjourneysblog@gmail.com
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