Intermammary sulcus

My Girl Scout troop has been discussing women's issues almost exclusively over the past couple of years when we're not doing the regular scouting things like planning outings, encampments, raising money for field trips, etc. There has been no end to the bad news for our gender of late. From the Hobby Lobby case, the falling of the protective buffer around abortion clinics, the NFL scandals -- both the lack of remuneration for their cheerleaders and the light handling of domestic abuse by the organization, and on and on and on. But none of these issues really caught their hearts and passions. I think they thought it didn't pertain to them. They're not getting birth control, seeking abortions, in an abusive relationship with their pro-footballer or cheering for his team.

I've felt like our gender was under attack.

But then the incident from the other week happened to me and I actively participated in rape culture despite my long held belief that I was above it. I thought that I could rise above and place the blame exactly where it belonged, at my attacker's feet. Only he had responsibility for what he did to me -- kissed me and slapped my bottom without permission or welcome. But no, I realized that I hadn't risen above. I thought exactly those thoughts that our culture impresses upon us. I questioned what I was wearing, what I might have said to make him think that his treatment of me was welcome.

I hate myself for thinking those thoughts.

But it really made me really consider how deeply entrenched this thought process is in me. Where the hell did it come from and what can I do to exorcise it? The power of Gloria Steinem compels you!  The power of Gloria Steinem compels you! 

How lucky for me that the case of the yoga pants has made national headlines. Across the country, well meaning school administrators have been banning yoga pants. These are comfortable pants that cover a person's body on their bottom half. Sometimes they can be formfitting and give evidence that a person has a body. The argument is that they're distracting and... I've just sat here for the past five minutes trying to finish that previous sentence. I don't have a handle on why yoga pants would be considered bad.

In Illinois, there are some middle school aged girls protesting the yoga pants ban by wearing them and holding signs, "Are my pants lowering your test scores?" In Billings, MT, there is a similar ban being instituted by a public high school. In an opinion piece by Ashley Crtalic, she  dissects a very common experience for young girls, the shame of being "dress coded," and how it affects their schooling. This is the moment in which girls are told that their bodies are dangerous and need to be covered, and that boys are incapable of controlling themselves around girls. It also gives girls the ridiculous belief that violence can be prevented by their style of dress. As if a lower hemline could ever induce a person bent on rape to stop.

At this point I decided to look at my girls' dress code for the 7th & 8th grades. The very first word is in bold and it is "Cleavage."

Cleavage.

That's the thing about words, I love them. Because you can say one word and come up with nuances that are implied.

Cleavage.

It is a word that describes the area between the breasts. But more than that it implies sexual maturity because a young girl who has not yet gone through puberty will not have cleavage.

Cleavage.

Of all the words they could have chosen to describe the chest, they chose the one that is only for young women. We all have chests -- part of being humans.   As humans, we all have breasts -- part of being mammals. Why not use the gender neutral term chest? Why not use the term that could apply to boys, girls who are in the throes of puberty, and those girls who have not gotten there yet?

Cleavage.

On this point, I think the administration and I agree. "Cleavage," does not belong in the middle school. Especially not in the handbook for all of the kids.

So, the dress code at the middle school is finally the women's issue that the girls are on fire about. Not only because it affects them directly, but also because it is the first volley; the first seed of institutionalized rape culture in our society. It is the start of the self doubting, slut shaming, and victim blaming that occurs. It is the start of believing men have no control over themselves; they must be protected from womanly wiles. It is the audacious belief that women's breasts can exonerate men of responsibility for their own actions.

Enough.

Karaoke gone bad

Last week I was mildly sexually assaulted.

That's a strange sentence to write.

I'm not exaggerating nor am I equivocating on the word, "assault," by saying that it was mild. It was. I'm not bruised or beaten. I did not suffer from a violent rape. But I was sexually assaulted.

I love to sing karaoke. I have a decent voice. People who have heard me sing have told me that I have the voice of an angel; that I should be singing professionally.

Drunk people are people.

A few Fridays of the month (who am I kidding, most Fridays) I'll go to the local cantina and sing. It's been getting weirder just because it feels like the populace that shows up there are more likely to be young kids in their early twenties. There are regulars -- guys who show up for heavy handed pours and the pool table. These guys look more like my age -- in their 40's or 50's.

One of those guys is named Conner. He proclaims himself my best fan. When I show up and sing, he showers me with compliments. Sometimes he likes to sing with me. No big deal. Karaoke is a crowd sourced entertainment.

This last Friday, after singing with me -- getting a little too close while we were sharing a mic, he came over to my friends and my table and chatted with us. Told me that he was going off on a trip. Told him to enjoy himself. He said he'd be gone for a long time. At some point he wandered away.

I went up to sing a song with a guy friend. While I was actively singing, my eyes looking up at the screen for the lyrics, Connor came up to me grabbed me around the waist and aggressively kissed me on the cheek. I had fleetingly thought he was getting in close to share the mic. I was turning my face to look at him when he kissed me. He caught a bit of my lips because I had moved. Ewww. I didn't even see it coming. As if that weren't bad enough, he quickly let go of me, walked around me, and slapped me on the butt.

No joke.

I was flabbergasted. He practically ran out the back door. It took me a moment to process. I think the look on my face was utter shock because the guy I was singing with looked at me and asked what had just happened.

When our song was over, I answered, "I think I was just sexually assaulted."

What comes next shows how wrong and terribly ingrained our cultural beliefs around assault are.

I immediately thought, "What did I do to encourage that?" I share the mic with tons of people, men and women alike. I'm not terribly discriminating about that because I love to sing. I love karaoke. I don't think it is a bad thing for me to do. And since there are only 2 mics, sometimes I do get in close to the other person. There isn't anything sexually implied by that.

Next, I did an inventory of what I was wearing. For the curious, I was wearing a mom uniform -- denim capris, a green wrap around shirt, my Seahawks hoodie, and brown wedge sandals. It was Blue Friday after all. For make up, I had powdered my face, put on some eyeliner, and nude colored lipstick. Also, not particularly suggestive.

Lastly, I wondered if the violation I felt was worthy of being classified as an assault. I never welcomed this kind of touching. He kissed me and touched my ass without my permission. But we were fully clothed. We were surrounded by people. What had happened was witnessed by a bunch of folks. What did they think just happened? Was it assault?

Take it from me, I'm angry with myself. Not because I put myself in that situation. (Eff that.) Not because I was dressed suggestively. (I wasn't.) Not because I wasn't fast enough to clock this guy as he deserved. (Okay, maybe a little bit on that one.)

I'm angry with myself because of the three things I immediately considered when I was assaulted. What did I do to encourage that? What was I wearing; what did I say? Does this rise to the word assault?

That crap has got to change.

At least, I know that it exists.

Pop quiz

My mom usually visits me twice a year. Sometimes it is once. If I've been to visit her house, she doesn't come.

I really like that. I like that she makes these trips. She's not just a tinny voice on the phone to my kids. She's the fun grandma who visits and showers them with presents. She's also got the clout to nag them into submission in a way that I just don't have. They'll give me a hard time, but my mother's well honed evil eye is far too biting.

This last time she visited though, she insisted that I cook. A lot. Cook the things that are her signature dishes. And much of it, unassisted by her.

In the past, she's made us stuff. Now it is as if she wants the food but she doesn't want to cook it herself. I get it. That's why we go out to eat in general, isn't it? Who wants to cook all that food? We just want to have it made for us.

So she had me make pancit, lumpia, pinakbet, guinitaan, and atcharra. The lumpia and the guinitaan are her signature dishes. People will ask her to make these for their gatherings. I imagine, I'm going to be called upon to make these.

When I was a little girl, lumpia was always cooked on Sundays. Mom would get up early in the morning and prepare the vegetable filling. She has a couple of rules on the filling -- raisins have no business being in lumpia. It's disgusting. I agree. Potatoes are only put in the filling by people who have no class. Such an obvious filler. (On this, I've had to give some because my haole husband loves potato in lumpia. It's been a source of great conflict.) Get good sized shrimp because the cocktail ones don't taste as good. She'd have the filling sit in colanders on the kitchen counter so that it would drain completely and cool so we could handle it without burning our hands. After mass, we'd be rolling them. If we were lucky and this wasn't for a party, we'd get fresh lumpia with that slightly spicy brown sauce and crispy lettuce leaves. Ah man, now I wanna make some.

The guinitaan is more of a recent signature dish for my mother. Her friends and my Aunty Junette love my mother's version of the coconut pudding filled with sweet potatoes and fragrant jackfruit. For me, this hot dessert was only served at novenas for the elders we had lost. There would be nine nights of prayers and rosaries for those who had passed. The big payoff was a banquet of Filipino pastries and desserts. On the ninth night, there would be a feast. Some people would hold a novena every year for the dearly departed. A full novena -- proving that their grief and love never truly faded. More typical would be one day of rosaries and prayers on the anniversary. But even still, there would be kankanen and this wonderful soupy pudding. When I was little, it was my grandmother's sister who would cook it, Apo Merced. She was arguably the prettiest of the sisters, though they all looked very much the same. Beautiful women, my Grandma and her sisters.

So on this last visit, my mother put in her orders. Told me we were going to Asian market and getting all the ingredients for everything.  She only stayed with us two weeks this time, so time was short. This time, though she did some of the cooking, much of the prep and cooking she left to me. Checking over my shoulder from time to time. Sitting at my kitchen table, close enough to give me direction but not hovering. It was good.

I kind of think it might have been a kind of quiz. Making sure that this kitchen knowledge was passed on. That my mother's lumpia and guinitaan would make it to the next generation and in turn become my signature dishes. That my brothers, if missing my mother when she's gone, can come to my house and have her cooking again.

Noella

A few weeks ago, one of my best friends from grade school died. She'd had a year long battle with cancer. We rarely saw each other. Of late, our conversations were all over text messages or the occasional comment on Facebook. I'd purchased a condolence card for her widow pretty quick. I had intended to send it with a similar speed. But it has taken me this long to think of words to say to put a button on this -- one of the longest friendships I've ever maintained. Here is what I wrote.

Dear Edie,

When I think of Noelle, there are images from all over my lifespan. From when we were children together, teens, college students, and when real life started -- newlyweds, home ownership. I remember her visiting my first house and my infant son.

As a kid, she always made me feel like a cooler person than I deserved to be. I was the class nerd and she was the rough and tumble kid -- I think from the outside, nobody understood our friendship. But for me, her choosing to be my friend was so life affirming and gave me confidence. Many of my growing up memories include her -- pushing my limits, challenging all the rules. We stole a pack of gum to hide the fact that we were drinking out back of the high school dance. I think she liked challenging me. She is so much of the person I have become. Maybe she revelled in what she could dare me to do -- surprising both herself and me with my willingness to press the boundaries.

Even now, when I the stay-home-mom, take a long hard look in the mirror, I can imagine Noelle daring me to flout the social norms. Her ready smile and that smirk while she formulated the perfect one liner to slay me and challenge me. I read through our last long texting exchange -- even then she challenged me to look at my life, look at my goals. She never stopped daring me to live bigger and fuller -- to grow.

I am so grateful for her being part of my life. She stuck it out despite considerable pressure from my mom. When we were kids, my mother was pretty terrible to Noelle. I suppose she could see all the careful groundwork to turn me into a compliant good Catholic girl jeopardized by my friendship with Noelle. Silly now, isn't it? My mother attending the services were perhaps her way of apologizing -- albeit belatedly.

For me, it is easy to pretend that Noelle is still here on this earth. That we are just slogging through another extended period of silence between us. Any minute, she'll text me out of the blue.

You had asked for stories. One of the oldest inside jokes between us was this:

I had the reputation of the super goodie goodie straight laced girl in school -- a fairly well placed reputation. Noelle's by comparison was that of the worldly well versed in street culture kid. Remember, these were the days before Google and Urban Dictionary.

One of our classmates in 8th grade had wanted to demonstrate my lack of street cred. She had a word steeped in drug culture of which she was certain I'd be ignorant -- "roach." I found out later that was the term for the butt of a joint. In front of a group of classmates I asked Noelle what a roach was. She looked at me, that knowing smirk on her face.

"You don't know what a roach is?" She shook her head in disbelief and laughed. The classmates around her laughed as well. I begged her just to tell me what it was already. She refused. Ultimately, I kinda shrugged my shoulders and walked off. I figured I'd ask my teenaged brothers who enlightened me of the definition right quick.

Years later, I recalled the incident to her.

"Oh yeah, I remember."
"Why wouldn't you just tell me what it was?"
"Because I didn't know either."

Seriously.

Perhaps we weren't as different as I had thought. Perhaps why we were such good friends was because we recognized ourselves in the other. She might not have been one of my Sacred Hearts Academy friends -- all about lipstick, perms, and the boys down the street. But she was a kindred spirit in her love of word craft and humor.

She always has and always will make me want to be a better human being.

Love, Tess