#notokay

*inspired by the other women who have shared their stories over the past week*

*posted with great hesitation and anxiety*

I am 9.  My multi-age group private school class is at a park.  They are both 12.  They tell me the big dumpster is full of nothing but books, so I go over there with them.  When we are there, both boys start laughing and grabbing at me and tell me they are going to pull my shorts down.  They hold me back when I try to run away.  They pull my shorts down and leave big scratches down my hips and thighs.  When they are done looking and grabbing at me, they run away still laughing.  I curl on the ground, crying, and pull my pants back up.  The teacher wants to know why I'm crying.  She tells me I'm just trying to get attention.  I show her the scratches.  Both she and my parents demand to know why I thought it was a good idea to go somewhere that the adults couldn't see.  The boys say it was a game.  They go unpunished.  I am teased by adults and children because I cry.  I learn that I should not have been upset, and that the mistakes were mine, and that I am responsible for getting myself hurt.

I am 10.  I hate wearing pants.  The boys in my 5th grade class like to flip up skirts to see panties.  They chase us on the playground and the monitors think we are laughing when really, we are afraid.  They tell us "Oh, he likes you!"  and that when boys like you, they do things to hurt or scare you because that's the only way they know how to tell you that you're pretty.  When we complain to the teacher, the teacher and principal...both women...tell us that if we wore shorts under our skirts and dresses then the boys wouldn't do this to us.  They are wrong.  I learn that boys have a right to my body, and that I am responsible for what boys do to me.

I am 13.  I am walking home from school.  I think the man waving from a passing truck is someone I know, so I wave back.  I realize he's a stranger, so I stop waving and keep walking.  Several minutes later, after I have turned the corner down my street, his truck pulls up next to me.  He tries to talk to me and I ignore him.  He gets louder and wants to know my name.  He tells me to get in the truck and he will drive me home.  I turn away and walk into the house in front of me, a neighbor's house.  She calls my parents and the police.  Everyone is angry that I didn't memorize the business name and phone number painted on his truck door.  They tell me this is what happens when pretty girls wave at men they do not know.  I learn that I brought this on myself and that I'm responsible for what grown men choose to do.

I am 14.  My breasts have grown overnight.  They are the fathers of my friends, and they cannot look anywhere else.  In a moment of boldness, I take one by the chin one day and tell him, "My face is up here."  I get in trouble for being disrespectful and inappropriate.  I am told to wear baggier shirts.  I learn that my body is something to hide, and that men are allowed to look at whatever they want if they can see it.  I am responsible for how men treat me.

I am 14.  He is 16.  We are doing a group meditation in the dark at a summer camp.  When the lights go off, he kisses my neck, even when I try to move away. He takes my hand and rubs it over the erection in his pants.  I keep trying to pull away, but he is stronger than I am. He bruises my wrist.  The other girls call him my boyfriend.  The camp leaders tell my parents that I am forward with the boys. I am told that if I don't like him, I shouldn't participate in these things with him. I learn that it's okay for boys to be sexual, but not for girls.  I learn that my no isn't enough.

I am 16.  He is 16.  He is a classmate.  Every time he sees me alone in the hallways he grabs my breasts, pushes me against the lockers, and sticks his tongue down my throat.  He never says anything, he just does it.  I close my eyes, clench my fists, and wait until he pauses long enough for me to push him away.  I don't tell anyone, because this is what boys do when they like you: They hurt you and they scare you.  I know that his actions are my responsibility, but I don't understand why or how and so I don't tell anyone.  I try to never be alone in the halls.

I am 17.  He is 22.  He rapes me on his living room floor while my friend and her boyfriend are in the next room.  It is our first and only date.  When I go home, I get into the shower fully dressed and sit on the tub floor until there is no more hot water.  I scrub at my skin until it is raw and bleeding.  I don't know what to tell or how to tell because I wore a skirt and willingly kissed him, so that gave him permission to do everything else even though I fought back when he pushed me down and used his knee to force my legs apart and held his forearm across my throat so that I couldn't breathe enough to yell.  I'm not even sure that it qualifies as rape because of these things.  My no is not enough.  I am responsible for what men do. My mother has often said that it is only rape if he uses a gun or a knife, because otherwise you can stop it by fighting back. I should not have gone to his house.  I wanted him to think I was pretty, so the fault is mine.  It will be more than a year before I tell anyone. When I do, I am horrified and comforted at how many young women I know who have experienced the same. Not everyone I confide in takes it well. Some ask questions like, "Are you sure you said no?"  "Did he tie you up or something?  How can it be rape if he didn't?"  "Why did you go to his house?"  "What was he supposed to think?"  and "Why would you even tell me this?"  I learn that rape is not so clear cut for most people and that whether or not something IS rape can be very controversial. I learn that I need to be careful who I share my secret with.  I still don't understand why it was my fault, but I understand that on some level it must be.  I learn that if I don't want this to happen again, it is my responsibility to not be alone, not wear the wrong things, not say the wrong things, not be in the wrong places, not say yes to anything sexual ever.  Guys are guys.  They can't help themselves.  Girls have to do better. I will never tell my parents. 

I am 18.  He is a 19 year old football player at my college.  When he comes to pick me up for our date, he shoves me on my bed and tries to have sex with me.  I tell him no.  He says "Everyone will think we are, anyways."  He is angry, why would I say he could come pick me up in the dorm if I did not intend to have sex with him? I do not remember anything after that until I am standing in the hall of my dorm, crying, with my pants unbuttoned and unzipped.  He leaves, still angry.  My RA says I shouldn't ever let guys into my dorm room with the door closed if I don't want to have sex with them because inviting them in sends the wrong message.  How can I argue against that?  I fail the class he and I have together because I am too ashamed and too scared to go back.  Girls are supposed to have sex with boys so we aren't teases, but we aren't supposed to because that makes us sluts.  I don't know which one I am.  I don't want to be either.  To say yes or to say no, both can be terrifying.

I am 20.  He is in his 50s.  He is the national president for an organization I belong to.  At a party, in a room full of people, he says "I just have to kiss that mouth!"  He grabs me by the face and kisses me while people cheer.  I feel dirty and afraid, and sad for his wife.  People talk about how awesome that was for me, to be kissed by HIM.  I pretend to agree, because it is awkward and uncomfortable and shameful otherwise. For years, people talk about it as if it is a badge of honor.  I play along, but the badge I really wear is one of humiliation.

I am 21.  He is 20.  We are in the same university student organization.  It is St. Patrick's Day.  He says to me, "Erin go Bragh! What color is YOUR bra?" and rips my shirt down to see.  Everyone laughs.  When I shout at him, I am told that I'm too sensitive and that I need to lighten up.  It was just a joke.  I'm not allowed to get upset about "a joke." 

I am 20, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 32...pick an age.  I am out dancing at the bars with friends.  Men come up to us to dance while rubbing their bodies on ours.  I do not know them, but I know I am supposed to be flattered.  Sometimes they grab my breasts, my ass, my pussy.  I get mocked by them and called rude names every time I express disgust or move away, so most of the time I grit my teeth and wait for them to go away.  If I wear baggy shirts to hide my body, sometimes guys come up behind me to dance and shove their hands right up inside my shirt to pull at my bra and breasts.  I know I'm responsible for what they do, but I cannot figure out how to stop it.  I learn from my peers that this is something to laugh and joke about, that I'm not supposed to feel shame or taken advantage of. It's just what guys do. I learn to mask how I feel with jokes and false bravada. 

I am 39, he is in his 40s.  I am at a fundraiser.  My purse is behind him, and he holds it hostage until I hug him.  For the rest of the night, he finds excuses to press against me. He is married, and I'm not interested.  I can't avoid him because we are both there with mutual friends. He tells me I have food on my shirt and grabs my breasts.  On the dance floor, he keeps coming up to me to grind on me and whisper in my ear, "FELLATIO."  When I don't respond other than to try to move away, he licks my ear and says "I bet you could make me cum in 17 seconds."  When I shove him away, he is deeply offended and says I've assaulted him.  He was just being friendly, can't I take a joke?

I am 43.  A man running for president talks about how he doesn't ask women if he can kiss them...he just does it and he can get away with it because he's a celebrity.  He says he can just grab women by the pussy.  It is "just locker room talk" though.  Some people say that because a recent erotica novel was a best seller that we cannot complain about the things this man brags of doing...because really, what's the difference between real life non-consent and a fictional story about a consensual relationship.  I haven't read the book, but I'm angry.  I'm angry that the underlying message is "Well, if some women enjoy being aroused by erotic fiction, then they can't complain when a man brags about doing whatever he wants to other women."  I'm angry that anyone, anywhere, defends it.  I'm angry that when people in his party condemn his words, people from the opposing side are critical of that condemnation. 

And mostly, I'm angry when I see other women using social media to share their stories of sexual assault.  I'm angry that it happened to them.  I'm angry that it keeps happening. I'm ashamed that I am not brave enough to share my story publicly.  I'm ashamed that I am neither brave nor strong enough to deal with the fallout that I know will happen...that what I expect is people to question why I let any of these situations happen, to wonder why I didn't tell, to think that these assaults are proof that there is something wrong with ME, to accuse me of trying to cause trouble in my family or worse, to accuse me of lying. 

And I'm ashamed that when they ask those things, for just a moment I will wonder the same things even though I know NOW that these things were not my fault or wrongdoing.  I know that I didn't ask for these things to happen, that I did not deserve them, and that I am NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CHOICES OTHERS MAKE.  I know that I ought to be able to wear what I want, how I want, where I want, when I want and still have the right to give or withdraw consent as I please without being shamed or insulted or humiliated for it.  This should not even be a topic for debate, and yet, it still is.  This is not a concept that people should still struggle to grasp, and yet, some still do.

These stories are mine, but any or all of them could belong to you, to a woman you love, to anyone.  My experiences are common, mundane, the standard experiences of American women.  These aren't even all of my stories, just the highlights.

This is rape culture.  And it needs to end. 

A Fairy Tale to Save Kids

Once upon a time, a little boy north of Detroit was diagnosed with cancer.  His brave mom and dad shared their family's journey far and wide, and so did his nanny.

Once upon a time, a tiny baby in upstate New York added that little boy to her nightly prayers under the guidance of her mommy, who was friends with that little boy's nanny.

For a year, that little girl faithfully added the little boy to her nightly prayers, even though she, her mommy, and her daddy had never met him, his parents, or his nanny.  And then, one day, Emelia's mommy had very very sad news:  Ryan had passed away and had gone to heaven.  Emelia was still very little, and she knew this was very sad news even if she didn't fully understand all that it meant.  She had a very big heart inside her tiny little body and her heart had already decided to love Ryan.  And, because she loved him, Emelia insisted on still praying for Ryan every night before she drifted off to sleep.  Every year on Ryan's birthday and on Ryan's angelversary, Emelia and her mommy buy special balloons and send them off to Ryan.  And every Christmas, when they light candles in their window for the souls of loved ones lost, Emelia makes sure that there's a candle for Ryan.

Our story isn't over, though, because fairy tales have happy endings.  Emelia is almost 7 now.  She's asked her mommy and daddy a lot of questions about Ryan and about kids with cancer.  She's come to understand that there's a lot of work and research which needs to be done so that kids with cancer have happier outcomes than Ryan did.

Once upon a day last year, a radio station in Emelia's town was doing an on air fundraiser for St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.  Emelia's mommy explained to her that the money being raised would help kids like Ryan feel better.  Emelia's great big heart inside her still little body wanted to help, too.  That afternoon, Emelia's mommy took her to the radio station, where Emelia handed over all the money that was in her piggy bank.  She had saved $11.85  and she wanted every last penny to be spent helping kids like Ryan.

Emelia's mommy and daddy were so proud of their generous and compassionate little girl that they told some of their friends what Emelia had done.  Those friends were so inspired by Emelia's generosity that they decided to match Emelia's donation.  Those friends told their friends who told their friends.  Some people even multiplied Emelia's gift by 10, and by the next morning more than $1000 had been donated to St. Jude just because of Emelia and her beautiful, loving, generous heart.

Once upon a this morning, that same radio station in that same town started a radiothon fundraiser for that same St. Jude Children's Research Hospital.  And that same extraordinary little girl once again decided that all the money she'd saved in her piggy bank needed to be given away to help kids like her friend, Ryan. 

And so, once upon a today, each of us has the opportunity and challenge to write the happy ending for this tale.  We can match (or multiply) Emelia's gift of $13.73 to St. Jude.  In so doing, we write more than just a happy ending to this little tale...we help write happy endings for children who might not otherwise get them.  St. Jude is a leading research facility for pediatric cancer, and they freely share their research results with other researchers in order to further ALL research.  Families who come to St. Jude for treatment are NEVER billed.  Ever.  Our gifts to St. Jude write happy fairy tale endings for years to come.

If you'd like to help write a fairy tale ending with Emelia, please CLICK HERE to donate.  Select "Other" and enter the amount you'd like to give.  Emelia gave all she had, $13.73.   Once you've done that, leave a comment so we know...that's the only way we can roughly keep track of how Emelia's gift will multiply!

They Always Remember Love

Did you know I'm a dolphin?  I totally am. 

My nanny career has its roots in my early babysitting years.  I began babysitting at the age of 10 and never stopped.  I quickly built up regular client families, some of whom became like family to me. 

When I was 17, my neighbors had their second baby.  I held that tiny girl in my arms when she was less than 12 hours old and fell hard for her tiny wrinkled face.  I spent a great deal of time at their home that school year, helping mom get sleep and avoiding the drama and chaos in my own home across the street.  When I went away to college, she was not quite 10 months old.  I knew her older brother would remember me, but I was absolutely certain that she would quickly forget me.  About a month later, I came home for a weekend and had the opportunity to babysit for them again.  When I walked into their home, I expected her to be wary of me and unsure who I was.  This was not the case.  When I picked her up, instead of being her wiggly active little self, she snuggled in and laid her head on my shoulder, faced in towards my neck.  And then she stayed like that, cozy and melted in, one tiny hand patting my back.  I remarked about my surprise to her parents, and her dad said something which has guided my caregiving ever since:

 "Of course she remembers you. They always remember love." 

It was really the first time I realized that the way in which I cared for children, even if just occasionally, had an impact on the children.  I knew it mattered if I kept them safe, if I followed their parents' rules, if we had fun together.  But the longer term implications, the lasting impact I could have on their hearts, hadn't really sunk in for me until that moment.

Perhaps because I did not grow up feeling secure in the love of one of my parents, due largely in part to being told straight out that I was difficult to love, and that she wished I'd never been born, the words of that man on that night struck a deep chord inside me.  It has resonated ever since.

No matter what I may or may not teach them, no matter what they may learn under my care or in spite of my care, the guiding principle for me is this:  I want the children entrusted to my care to know that they are loved.  That they are loved by their parents, by their siblings, by their extended family, and by their nanny.  Unconditionally.  Not because they are funny or smart or athletic or artistic or cute or compassionate or talented or sweet...but loved simply because they are.  You exist, and thus you are loved.

It can be difficult to feel successful with that goal, especially when so much of my role involves correcting behaviour, setting boundaries for children to push against, and convincing little ones to complete tasks they are loathe to take on.  Eat your vegetables. Pick up your toys.  Wash your hands.  Keep your hands to yourself.  Stay where you can see me.  Do your homework. Be kind to each other.  Say please.  Say thank you.  Use your walking feet. Time for bed.  Buckle up.  No matter how sweet or patient or silly I am, I know that my little free spirits often chafe under authority.  And, thus, some days I am left wondering "Did they feel loved enough today?"  and, on the balance, "Are they secure in the knowledge that, no matter how easy or rough our day is, their nanny loves them?" 

Which brings me to the fact that I'm a dolphin.

On Christmas Eve I had the pleasure of a day with my previous nanny kids.  The Twincesses are nearly 9 now, and Little Litigator will be 11 soon after that.  They are bright, active, curious little chatterboxes and our conversations often venture far deeper than one would expect with 3rd and 5th graders. 

Over lunch at a nearby museum, Twincess A brought up the subject of Native Americans.  The girls are currently studying the subject in school and find it fascinating.  "Did you know?" she queried, "Did you know that Native Americans get their names from nature?  They get named for their personalities, not just like, names.  Part of their name is about their personality, and the other is something from nature that is like them.  Like, Running Rabbit or something." 

And so, of course, I asked her, "Well, if you were Native American, what would your name be do you think?"  That stumped her, and she turned it back around on me.  "I think you should name me, people don't name themselves!"   

Hmmm. How to name the observant, kind, gentle souled, socially savvy child who is sensitive to being smaller than her twin?  "Thoughtful Willow."  I'm not sure that's what she expected, and she asked for definition.  "Thoughtful, because you like to think before you talk about things.  And thoughtful because you pay attention to how other people feel, and you are very thoughtful and considerate of those feelings.  You notice what is important to others, and you are kind and respectful of that.  Many people aren't that insightful, and the people around you are happier because your love and kindness are a part of their lives. And Willow, because willow trees look very pretty and delicate, but they are actually very very strong because their branches are flexible and move with the wind even though the tree stands its ground.  You don't like to fight or argue, but you are very good at being strong and standing your ground when it is important to you."   She lit up, proud and slightly self conscious.  And, of course, her siblings clamored for the same. 

Twincess E, the direct, straightforward, confident, not-afraid-to-question-authority child with a deep deep sense of justice became "Speaking River."  Speaking, I told her, because she likes to talk things through and talk about all the different parts of topics, and because she is not afraid to speak up when she thinks something is unjust or unfair or unkind.  "Some people just stay quiet, and let things be wrong," I explained, "But you are brave and speak up, and that's how the world gets better for everyone."  And River, because rivers might twist and turn with the lay of the land, but they leave their mark.  Water is a strong force in nature, and over time can create great beauty just like the Colorado River created the Grand Canyon.  And, like a river, she is willing to go with the flow when she needs to, but she's not afraid to leave her mark to change the world.  

Little Litigator was harder to name. Not because I couldn't come up with descriptors, but because as an almost 11 year old boy, he is sensitive and aware of being seen more as an older kid than as a little kid, more aware to start defining himself as man instead of boy.  "Fighting Antelope"  Antelope, because it sounds (to him) more masculine than "gazelle" and gazelle (gazelles being a type of antelope) is what I think of when I see this boy run.  When he runs all out, for the pure joy of movement, his stride is longer than he is tall.  It is graceful, strong, breathtaking to see.  It's not just the power of his movement, but the joy that radiates.  And Fighting...a word which made him chuckle...because he likes to challenge everything, and that while his grown ups sometimes don't like it, it's also a sign of strong character.  He fights for what he thinks is fair, and what he thinks is right.  That takes bravery and strength, especially when it means challenging authority.  Nothing ever changes to make the world better without the occasional challenge to authority. 

All in all, they were pleased.  And then they decided they should return the favor and give *me* a new name. 

I won't lie.  I held my breath and died a little inside.  I was completely unsure what they would come up with.  Bossy Cow, maybe? 

"Well," Fighting Antelope put forth as his siblings nodded, "Definitely your name is Loving...something.  I don't know what from nature, but definitely Loving."  My heart skipped a bit.  Speaking River chimed in, "Yeah, Loving.  Or Caring, because you take care of us." 

I had to swallow a few tears to tell them, "That makes my heart so happy to hear you say that." 

And then they were stumped for the rest of it.  After several minutes, it was the insightful Thoughtful Willow who finished off my name.  "I know!  Loving Dolphin!  That's your name!  Because dolphins are smart and they help people and they like to play!" 

In a nutshell, that's what a good nanny is, right?  At least in the eyes of a child.  Smart, helpful, playful. 

Loving Dolphin. 

I haven't been their nanny in three years.  I do not see them nearly as often as my heart would like because of busy schedules and just...life. 

But of all the things they could have chosen... Loving Dolphin.

They always remember love.  

No success could be sweeter.