Marry him, Miriam!

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The Power of Communication

 I am taking a sexuality class.  I have been so hesitant to admit that for fear of stigmatism.  However, today in lecture my professor spoke very openly about the issues of power in sexuality.  In context to STD's, false accusation, rape, and sexual harassment her last statement was provokingly simple: how much would be prevented by good communication?  How different would it be if we simply acknowledged and addressed these "taboo topics"?

Last April I was sexually harassed.  It happened outside of work so nobody knew.  At first I was too shocked to do anything.  I waited a while before I told anyone, I kept telling myself that it wasn't a big deal.  I assured myself that my anxiety would fade away.  But instead of diminishing, those feelings of insecurity and self-doubt amplified.  Eventually I told my boss about it and then my family, boyfriend, and friends.  The deceiving part about any kind of violation is not the violation itself, it's the aftermath.  Perhaps you can imagine it but let me assure you that you do not understand violation until, God forbid, you have been violated.  It's like a flesh-eating bacteria of the soul. And this, I do not wish upon my worst enemies.

I sat at my desk a while after lecture ended wondering.  What if I had been more comfortable talking about sex and sexuality?  Perhaps I would not have been so naive and perhaps I might have prevented that entire experience.  What if I could have talked to my mom about it more openly?  She was my school's Sex Ed. teacher, ironically enough.  (Though in our household abstinence is the expectation.)  I do not blame my mother, she does the best she knows how to.  And I have long since learned to accept that there are question marks in my past that may never be resolved.  But, what if I could prevent someone else's violation simply by communicating?  Isn't that worth all the stigmatism in the world?  I wish someone had talked to me.

Second Thoughts

Sometimes I wonder if I took the easy way out.  I don't have that feeling that I will every amount to much as a writer.  My kindred, the Poet, words drip off her tongue and where they land those little bell flowers pop up.  They're perhaps a bit sad, being blue and all, but beautiful and inspiring none the less.  And my girlhood best, she has a cause.  Her heart bleeds for the little ones without and she is committed to love where others simply cannot.  My (other) Super Awesome significant other has a drive to seek out.  She's going places, she sees opportunities and grabs hold of them.  Writing is merely my voice, my langauge of fluency.  It does not challenge me or grab hold my heart.  Words do not seep slowly, but permanently into my mind.  Nor does the compulsion to write contaminate every vessel in my body until I bleed beautiful bits of prose.  I wish it to be, but it is not.

The only challenge I've been entranced with is this Japanese class which I am...inadept at best.  It's a challenge only because I've rushed through and arrogantly assumed that I might bypass all the introductory foundation.  Foundation, of what importance is that anyway?  As if there is something extrodinary about me.  "Arrogant little thing, what makes you think that you are exempt from the struggle, the hard work that is life?" Sometimes I wonder if I'm the child that needed a few more boundaries, a few more limits. 

What if I was supposed to be a nurse?  What if I dropped all that could have been in a moment of weakness, when things got just a bit harried?  What if I am slowly allowing myself to decay?  Happiness wears the facade of satisfaction, but it is not the same. 

Where do I go from here?

Urban Excrement

I ran into the same individual coming home tonite as I did about five months ago.  Then, he had asked me a loaded question and naively I had answered.  For the next fifteen minutes it took for the bus to arrive he barraged my ears with his continuous thinking out loud.  He thought himself to be conversing.  I nearly escaped on the bus blocking him by placing my bag on the seat next to mine.  However, much to my dismay he parked himself comfortably behind me, and for the following 20 blocks he analyzed my reaction to him.  He guessed that I had strategically placed my bag because I felt uncomfortable with him.  I felt embarrassed to be so transparent and tried to deny it.  He said if he were 20 years younger I might feel differently.  No, definitely not true.  It wasn't the 20 some odd years he had over me nor even the inappropriate content of his "thoughts" that deterred me from sharing a seat with him.

Today he began with, "Excuse me, Ma'am," (no I don't have any spare change) "are you Korean?"  The voice was familiar, but I couldn't quite place it until his mouth refused to shut.  Five months ago I would have felt awkward, sheepish even.  I would have tried to find some redeeming quality, reasoning that I had no right to pass judgement on him.  But instead, NO, you blabbering fool, I am not Korean.  Nor do I have any interest in the utterances spewing from your pie hole.  And NO, I do not want your half eaten, STD infested orange.  How dare you touch me, you presumptuous social idiot.  Remove your urine and sweat drenched bawdy fingers from my shoulder before my foot prevents you from having anything "inappropriate" to talk about again, you conceited pig. But I didn't vomit my thoughts into his ears.  I just walked away.  Five months ago I would've felt bad, might have thought I was the one who had done something wrong.  But no.  He's the one who is making a poor decision.  Not me.  I will not be addressed like that and I refuse to excuse that kind of behavior from any human being.