you and you and you and us: five

"This is the beFOUR, I say," tucking you into bed. 

You look at each other, like, whut?

"Get it. Because you're about to turn five? Befour. Be four. You be four NOW but not four long?"

"Um. Okay, mama."

"Silly mama." 

I stretch out my fingers and you place your hands in mine. One in the left and one in the right. We've been doing kissing hand before school starts and now before bed, I kiss your palms and you kiss my palms and I kiss your palms and you kiss mine. 

We lie down in a pile, your bodies stretched out like cats against my chest, hangnails scratching at my knees, and I think, "this is perfect, this is magic, this is... 

Suddenly a fist whirls by my face and then an elbow coming from the other direction and soon enough I'm the mat and you're the wrestling match. You scream and you cry and then you are both screaming and crying and she kicked me first no you did no you did no you. 

... life."

You wake up like a shot and come barreling down the hallway. You're not dressed yet because you don't want to get dressed yet. Because getting dressed yet is what everyone else does and you want to do things differently. You want to go right when everyone else goes left.  You want to crack eggs before the sun fills the house with light.

I look for you, half asleep. The trim of my sweat pants dragging through a puddle you don't even know you made.

"Bo? Are you drinking La Croix at 6am?"

You take a swig of Pamplemousse and shrug.

You are making your own breakfast in your underwear. You stand on a chair and crack the eggs against the burning pot. You're singing as you scrape the sides of the pan with the spatula.

"I'm making eggs," you say, when I ask what you're doing. "I'm making a momelette."

You offer me a sip of your soda water and I drink it -- because, okay, sure, why not. For five years, I've happened upon scenes just like this one. It feels perfectly normal to drink fizzy water and watch you flip eggs before I'm even fully awake. Being your mother is like living LIFE WITH THE VOLUME ALL THE WAY UP. ALARM CLOCK ON HIGH. BEEP BEEP BEEP.

I'm up! I'm here! I'm alive!

You make me feel alive, you know that? 

"Can I help you?" I ask, watching you fish an eggshell out of the pan.

"That's okay," you smile. "I got this under control."

You always say that to me. You say that to me while attempting to carry an entire table by yourself. You say that to me when I try to hold your hand in the sea, the ocean waves swirling around your waist. You say that to me when you're loading the dishwasher, carrying cups of water outside, bombing a hill on a skateboard, unfurling the garden hose to fill a bucket by yourself.

And yet. Somehow...

- even when you fall down face first into the surf
- even when you drop the table
- break a glass
- spill the water
- skin your knee
- break the hose on accident

... I know that you do.

I know that you have it under control. 

So I clean up the mess in the hallway as you sing ROW ROW ROW YOUR BOAT at the top of your lungs. I throw away your egg shells. I ask you to please get dressed after breakfast.

And even though you throw your shoulders back and roll your eyes to the ceiling, I know you hear me. I know you get it. I know, eventually, when you realize I'm not going to press you on it again... you'll go get dressed. In mismatched socks and hot pink cowboy boots. And a dress that is either too small, or four sizes too big.

... And when I call your name from outside, your sisters echoing your name LIKE COME ON WE'LL BE LATE, I know that you'll come bounding through the front door, twisting and twirling and dancing and karate chopping the air.

Exactly as you always do.

Every morning.

***

You tip toe to my bedside and ask if you can cuddle. You say please, even though you are already under the covers by the time I say, "of course." You've had a bad dream and you want to be close. Your body is sweaty like it was when you were a baby and you smell of powder even though we've skipped baths the last two nights. You play with my hair as you drift asleep -- a reflex you have had since infancy -- a need to take care of others, even when you're the one who's scared.

You burrow into my arm, your hair matted to your forehead with sweat. You tell me "I love you" over and over and I tell you I love you back until our words overlap and fade into each other. Until we are both asleep, belly to belly. Until a loud noise rattles me out of bed the next morning and you roll over onto your back, open your eyes and say, "good morning. I love you. Good morning."

You say good morning to your father. Your brother. Your sister. You hug everyone with both arms, make sure everyone knows they are loved before they head into the kitchen for breakfast.

You examine your clothes, delicately placed in piles by the foot of your bed, socks folded in shoes, everything carefully selected from your closet the night before.

You take your time getting dressed, decide on a different pair of socks -- a twirlier skirt. I call for you from the kitchen and you think long and hard about what you're going to eat.

"Avocado toast," you finally say. You hug your sister and tell her she looks beautiful as I put the bread in the toaster and wait for it to ding.

And then, out of nowhere, as everyone is eating their breakfast, you say, "Wouldn't it be so weird if a baby had huge boobs? Like a really small baby with boobs like a mama? Wouldn't that be hilarious."

I'm crying I'm laughing so hard. Archer is choking on his cereal and Fable has fallen out of her chair. You laugh, too. Bo is slapping her knee like an old man at a hoedown and we all can't believe we've lived this long as people without imagining a baby with boobs.

A baby with boobs!!!

Later on, as I'm driving you to school, you'll give me unsolicited advice when I tell you I'm the worst with names.

"If you don't know someone's name just call them 'hey you' and they'll turn around," you'll say.

And then you'll flash me a thumbs up and an "I love you so much."

And I will thank you and tell you that every time you say that it feels amazing. It never gets old. And you'll smile and kiss my cheek before getting out of the car after your sisters...  turning toward me as I drive away, the only one who looks back.

***

Underneath your flailing bodies, I'm yelling at you to stop.

"You love each other, REMEMBER? THIRTY SECONDS AGO WE WERE ALL KISSING EACH OTHER'S HANDS!"

"You're not coming to my party," you say.

"Well, you're not coming to MY party," you say back.

"Fine!"

"FINE!"

"YOU JUST UNINVITED EACH OTHER TO YOUR OWN DUAL-PARTY."

Dual party. Duel party. Dual party. 

You look at each other and start to laugh, like can you believe this shit? IF WE UNINVITE EACH OTHER TO OUR OWN PARTY THERE WILL BE NO PARTY. BEING TWINS IS THE WORST... 

"I don't want to be twin sisters with you anymore," you say, forcing a pout.

"Well I don't want to be twin sisters with YOU anymore," you say, sputtering to keep from smiling.

And then something happens, as it so often does -- your push-apart becomes a pull-together and everything is suddenly forgiven -- like a balloon you must fully inflate in order to let go.

And then...

You take your kissing hand and stretch your fingers out in front of your sister and you hold your hand up against hers , palm to palm and it takes you a minute to line up your fingers just right. Your fingers are longer and your palm sticks out under your sister's hand. You shift your hands trying to get your five fingers to touch in a way that suits you, your giggles on medium, then high, then super XXXL -- until, finally, hands clasped, you fall over laughing.

Happy Birthday to you.
(And you.)
And you --my glorious, laborious girls. You are my heart and I love you with everything.

nothing (but time) can be done to stop the wind

Three weeks ago there was a windstorm. It started in the evening, as we made lunches in silence, undressed in silence, brushed our teeth against different mirrors... in silence.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside, we whispered. Mumbling words to smooth the edges of our voids. And as we slept with spines like question marks, our backs repelled like magnets, resigned, withheld. The wind blew on... went from sigh to scream without our knowing. We must have been too asleep to hear it. Too asleep to feel the bed split in half as we slept like boulders through.

And in the morning, there was no bed. No bedroom. Just secret doors on either side of the house and behind them, rooms we didn't know we had.

And the wind kept blowing... It blew so hard it broke glass, knocked pots over, uprooted two trees. It blew the kitchen windows open as we surveyed the damage in our pajamas.

Bam. Bam. Bam... went the window against the wall. Bam. Bam. Bam... 

But there was nothing we could do so we did nothing.

Because nothing (but time) can be done to stop the wind. So we pressed our faces to the window. Watched the furniture float away like balloons. Held onto the ankles of our favorite memories. Untied our scarves.

We prepared breakfast side by side for our children who felt the wind but didn't see the damage it had done.

Substituted words for breath.

Turned our backs on each other's faces, smiling boldly at the children we made together out of discontinued parts.

"Latch the windows, mama," she said.

So I latched the windows.

"What makes the wind so loud, Daddy?"

You didn't know.

I didn't know either. So I let the windows blow open again.

"Latch the windows, ma--"

"Shhhhh," I said. "Just let it be."

We let it be.

Bam. Bam. Bam... went the windows as the kids ate breakfast.

As you poured your coffee and forgot about it.

As I left my milk in the microwave.

When it was time to go to school, we ran to our cars, clutching hands with backpacks to our chests as the palm fronds slammed against our shins. With wind so strong, everything had already fallen to the ground.  Everything was trying to get back up to where it was.... empty nests clutching broken branches on the sides of busy roads as we climbed into our separate cars.

Divide and conquer.

Bam bam bam. 

So we drove our separate ways, our children fighting in the back seats of our cars. Holding hands, singing over each other, kicking the seats like nothing was wrong. Like windstorms were normal. Broken glass and uprooted trees and broken beds -- normal.

Meanwhile I steered left as the wind pushed my car sideways.

And you steered right.

And we drove as far as we possibly could to either end of town. You were the west and I was the east so that is where we went. Because north felt like the wrong way and going south would have taken too long and nothing but time can be done to stop the wind.

We didn't see each other for days after that. It felt like days. Like Dorothy was dreaming all this color as she slept in a room of black and white.

Bam bam bam, the windows went. Until I realized they were all closed and you were nowhere to be found. I turned around looking. Turned away from the wind but it turned with me. East and then west and then north and then south.

And that's when I realized it was coming out of my hands and my mouth and my nostrils. That's when I felt the wind shoot out of my pores, through my hair.

I was the wind that had broken the glass and knocked the terra cotta pots off their bottoms.

And I was the wind who uprooted the trees and broke the fence and two telephone lines.

I was the wind that capsized the boat and split the bed -- and blew the windows clear open... I was the BAM BAM BAM...

I was the wind and nothing (but time) could stop me.

So I looked for a watch. A clock. I searched the sky for the sun's position. And that's when I found you. There, behind the house, crouched amongst the wreckage, eyes parting the same clouds in search of the sun.

That was when you told me it was you who uprooted the trees.

And broke the glass. And knocked over the pots. That was when you took the wind out of my breath like venom and swore it was yours.

That was when we realized we were both right. And wrong. Two tornadoes touching down.

But one cannot do damage to damage, we soon realized. The trees were already gone. The fence broken in half. The power lines dead.

Everything gone.

Except us.

Except you.

Except me.

Accept me. 

We surveyed the damage. Our hands touching as we hung them by our sides.

Dead trees can live again. Not as trees but as something else.

A new bed, perhaps. One with four posts this time...

Firewood to keep us warm.

Paper on which to draw a new direction.

A new design. 

Pencils to write our truths...

Or erase them. 

***

Three weeks ago there was a windstorm. It started in the evening, as we made lunches in silence, undressed in silence, brushed our teeth against different mirrors... in silence.

The wind broke everything that night and didn't stop until we were standing in the wreckage.

Bam, bam, bam goes the hammer, as we lose track of time. As we lie down and face each other on the floor. Our backs hurt but not as bad as the crooked of the question marks.

And now we have the materials to rebuild.

Nothing but time can be done to stop the wind and it's still howling. So we count to three, blow the kitchen windows open and howl back...

faces pressed against the window, I showed him the staircase

It's just the two of us tonight. His Hebrew teacher is producing a collection of one-act plays for adults--but he can come, she told us. Children should be in more audiences of plays, I think. Archer thinks so, too. 

We share an arm rest during the show, pass back and forth the water bottle. When I drop my program he picks it up for me. I don't even have to ask.

During intermission, we stand outside next to the smokers and watch the stray cats wrap their tails around the fences on the other side of the parking lot.

"Wanna go back inside?" I ask him.

"Nah. I like it out here," he says, adjusting his lapel. "The time change makes it feel so much earlier..."

I agree.

I don't remember the last time we were alone -- just the two of us, without friends, without school, without guitar practice...

"When was the last time you and I were alone?"

He shrugs as we link arms and take a seat on the curb.

He's almost as tall as I am these days. We're one shoe size apart. He's going to be eleven in May. Start middle school this summer. We got him a phone as an early birthday present. He was the last of his friends to get one and was such a good sport about it that I surprised him one day after school, and now he texts me from sleepovers.

"What's up, Mom?"

It's getting cold outside so we make our way back into the theatre. We take our seats and unwrap our tootsie pops. Our theatre tickets came with them and we both agreed we weren't in the mood for candy but we've both changed our mind.

There's a star on my wrapper and the "Indian chief" with a bow and arrow, and later on, after the play, I will tell him that it's good luck. That when we were kids, we'd always check to see if we got the star, the bow and arrow... the Archer shooting his luck across our treat.

Some of the plays go over his head but not the ones I assumed would. We both have our favorites and they're the same...

It's already after bedtime when we get into the car to go home, but I suddenly feel hungry and Archer reads my mind when he says, "A Gardenburger sounds GOOD right now."

I make a U-turn a few blocks from home and head back up Fairfax towards Santa Monica to the Astro Burger on the corner of Gardner street -- a block south of my old apartment on Lexington.

***

"Two Gardenburgers," I tell the cashier, as Archer finds us a table. There are juke boxes on every one and he asks me if I have any change.

I pull out three quarters and he chooses his selections carefully... And then our burgers come and I tell him the story about the time I jump-started a stranger's car and how the stranger ended up being someone who worked at Astro Burger -- and for years I got free burgers because I was the girl who helped him when he needed help. I must have been nineteen at the time. And I ended up being super late to work because it took forever to jumpstart his car, but good karma is real and whenever I eat a Gardenburger, I think of him -- the man -- and how helping others will always pay off in strange and unexpected ways.

"But wasn't that stealing...?" Archer asks.

I say nothing as my moral compass blinks at me from across the table.

"It's kind of like stealing..." Archer says, biting into his burger. "You weren't paying for them, so..."

I shrug like I'm the one at the table who has much to learn and we go on eating to the sound of Bohemian Rhapsody.

Everywhere the wind blows.... 

***

"You wanna see something cool?" I ask him, passing our car in the parking lot.

It must be 11 now. Or even close to midnight. I don't care or want to know and neither does he. We're time traveling now.

We link arms and retrace my steps towards my old apartment on the corner of Gardner and Lexington. It still looks the same as it did... new coat of paint, trimmed tree--updated fixtures, but other than that, still the same.

"See that window up there?" I ask him. "That was my old bedroom."

"And see that window in the middle? That was my old bathroom. You could only get there through the closet, and there was a built-in bunk bed above an office next to the shower where friends from out of town used to sleep. That was where I found out I was pregnant with you. It was late summer in 2004 and I was wearing a long white skirt..."

We peer through the downstairs window and I give Archer a tour through what appears to be a dark and empty apartment. Either that, or the tenants are... minimal with their decor.

I tell him everything -- the whole story about the night I found myself pregnant with him. How my roommate had to hold me up because I couldn't stand. How I cried and wondered what I would do now. How I prayed even though I wasn't a pray-er...

"I wasn't ready to be a mom," I explain to him. "But I knew I was ready for you. I knew someday I would look back on that moment and it would feel like a beginning instead of an end."

He has a lot of questions -- questions he wasn't old enough for me to answer last time we talked about my pregnancy. He's always known the story. That his dad and I weren't married -- not even close -- when we decided to have a baby together. But this time, I explain to him how hard it was for me in those early weeks and months... the doubt... the fear... the love... the excitement... the fear... the doubt... the doubt.

We talk about CHOICE and why it's so important that women are given the freedom and support to recognize and act on their own instincts... that I don't know what I would have done had I felt forced...  Because FORCING choice turns it into something else entirely. And one cannot possibly know that she has made the right decision if it has been decided for her.

"You are here because of love. You are here because I KNEW."

I KNEW.

He understands.

We press our hands against a window that used to be mine and it becomes ours.

Déjà Vu

I have been here before--eleven and a half years ago when I first picked myself off the bathroom floor --before I could even THINK of how I would handle my very unplanned pregnancy.  I pictured this exact moment...  standing here... in this very spot with my son--on the outside looking in at my old life with its old staircase and blue couch.

And that's when I knew...

That I would be here one day.
With him.
Like this.

Like now.

I knew. 

I watch his eyes scan the apartment as we stand in the quiet darkness for a few moments before a dog starts sniffing my ankle and we fall back down to earth.

On the way home, Archer sits up front with me. I ask him if he's tired and he says no.

Cool 'cause neither am I.

"Time travel does that to a person," I say.

I thank him for humoring me tonight -- for listening to my stories and sharing his own. We agree that we need to get out more often, just the two of us, that we never do that and it feels... important. Like revisiting those early years when it was just us two.

Archer pauses, and then recalling how our night began, says, "You're pretty lucky you got the shooting star, you know."

He plucks the wrapper from my bag and flattens it, holding it out for us both to see.

"I know," I say.

None of them were "bad" guys. They usually aren't.

1. My first sexual experience with a boy happened while I was sleeping at a girl friend's house. We were young and he was curious and I, like most young girls in similar situations, didn't have a clue how to react or respond. And so? I did nothing. Pretended to be sleeping. Told no one. Moved on.

2. Years later, I woke up to a boy having sex with me at a party. But because I had been "passed out" when it started, I never "woke up."

"If I don't wake up, this won't count," I thought. 

And besides, this was my friend. I didn't want it to be weird between us. I didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable if I woke up. Wouldn't it make him feel uncomfortable if I woke up? Probably.

Over the years, it became almost expected. Boys would touch me when they wanted to touch me. Sometimes that meant when I was sleeping. Or passed out. Or in a mosh pit where "being groped" was part of the deal. Or just, you know, sitting on my couch.

3. One night, when I was living alone, I invited a friend to come over and watch a movie with me in my apartment, when out of nowhere, he pinned me down and assaulted me. When I told him to stop he reminded me that we had "had sex before" so "why are you fighting me this time?"

And he was right. We HAD had sex before. But THIS was different.

He was one of my best friends at the time so I didn't know how to react. He was a good guy. A wonderful friend, which is probably why, when it was all over, he burst into tears.

"I'm so sorry," he said.

See? He was sorry. He was so sorry. He was a good friend and he was sorry and I had to forgive him. Didn't I have to forgive him?

I forgave him.

4. That same year, I had a boss who thought it was funny to lock me in his office during conference calls and put on porn. He thought it was hilarious to watch me try to deliver pitches to various companies while porn played on mute in front of my face. He would laugh until tears came. One day, while we were alone he asked me to pull up my shirt and show him my breasts. And then I let him feel me up in the middle of the hallway. Because he was my boss and... what was I going to say, NO?

I didn't know how to say no. What if I got fired? What if he got angry? Violent? He had thrown things at me before, after all. A coffee cup. A stack of papers. A book...  

These examples are important to share because for many years, I didn't think they affected me. I didn't think they were wrong. I mean, yes, I knew they weren't RIGHT but I also just assumed it was par for the course.

I didn't disassociate myself from these guys. Not even close. I kept working for them... kept hanging out with them... kept calling them friends... because what was I going to do? Quit my job? NOT be friends with someone anymore? What would I tell people? What would they think about me?

Sometimes doing nothing is the only thing that feels safe. 

Sometimes "saying nothing" is the only way for it to go away.

Except it doesn't go away, does it? It just shapeshifts. Makes you angry in new places. Scared in others. Sad behind closed doors. 

5. It didn't end there. I lost count over the years, mainly because I had found, in therapy, that I had buried so much of what had happened in my youth and early twenties ... that it all became obscure, almost surreal. Perhaps the gaps in my memory was a defense mechanism. Or maybe it was denial. Or an understanding that this was just the way shit was when you were a girl, keep your mouth shut and keep walking... I had memories of certain instances -- one in particular that perhaps, someday, I will feel comfortable sharing. But I'm not ready yet. And even if I was, I still don't believe it ACTUALLY happened. Could I have just made the whole thing up? 

Over the years I have gone from feeling shame at what happened to feeling shame that I couldn't fight back. I'm a "tough girl," so what was I so afraid of?

And that's the thing about sexual violence, it fucks your head up nice and good. Makes you feel ashamed for having experienced it -- for being paralyzed by the fear of wanting to stand up but being FOR A THOUSAND different reasons, unable to.

I don't want to get anyone in trouble. 

I don't want people to think less of me. 

I don't want to be perceived as a victim. 

People won't believe me, anyway.

It was probably my fault. I probably gave him the wrong idea... I must have. 

It's not a big deal. I'm fine. I'm fine. I'm fine... 

My four short stories are deeply personal and yet not at all particular to my experience. I know that now. I've read enough and heard enough and recognized the patterns -- the way women speak up, usually much later... and the way the men and the media try to brush it off, make excuses, call women liars, strip them of their autonomy, punish them yet again for daring to speak up...

The truth is, for every woman willing to speak up, THOUSANDS will say nothing. And yet? They are listening. WE ARE ALL LISTENING. I know you're listening. 

In my experience, I never realized what damage was done until recently when I wrote a draft of a script that, in a roundabout way, excused a rape because the boy didn't know any better.

In my script, he was sorry. He was a good kid with a fucked up past and he was sorry.

That script has since been rewritten and with it my POV on speaking up. On creating something that combats destructive behavior. Which, in today's case, I guess, is this post.

Because I am a parent. Because I have a son. Because I have three daughters. Because -- and here's where I lose some of you -- I don't think it is ALWAYS their fault.

Shhhhh. Hold on and hear me out. I have spent A LOT OF TIME thinking about this. Years of time. Time on top of time on top of time. And in a roundabout way, I've written about it before, but this time I ask that you humor me for a moment -- and open your mind to what I am going to say.

I used to think it was my fault for falling asleep at a sleepover, for drinking too much at a party that one time or, THINKING I could watch a movie with a friend I had also slept with or... you know, working alone with a male boss. I used to think it was a friend's fault for waking up at stranger's house with no recollection of how she got there.

"If you hadn't have been there... this wouldn't have happened," I heard myself say.

Boys can't help it, I'd think.

Boys will be boys, I'd think.

Boys only want one thing, so, naturally.... I'd think.

Those THOUGHTS didn't come from nowhere. They came from everywhere. They came from parents of friends and teachers and school yards. They came from music and movies and television shows and and and and.... they came from BEING.

And in the same way those thoughts helped me and MANY other girls and women justify bad behavior, so did they enable MANY boys and men to do the same.

They still do. 

And while many years in therapy helped me recognize that I DID NOTHING WRONG, I also came to the realization, through time and age that we live in a world and a culture that praises, supports and enables the treatment of women as objects and that fucks men up royally as well.

"Rape Culture is an environment in which rape is prevalent and in which sexual violence against women is normalized and excused in the media and popular culture.  Rape culture is perpetuated through the use of misogynistic language, the objectification of women’s bodies, and the glamorization of sexual violence, thereby creating a society that disregards women’s rights and safety."

A perfect example? See Urban Dictionary's definition of Rape Culture which claims it doesn't exist.

See, also, the GOP candidates and the platforms on which they are running. Stripping rights. Closing health clinics. Punishing single mothers against their will.  These are MEN DECIDING with their laws what is RIGHT for women. These are men DOMINATING the female demographic with aggressive legislature and dangerous ideas, insights and measures that would HURT women. And? IT'S LEGAL.

What message does that send to women? What message does that send to other men?

Earlier this week I read the following post written by Emma Gray in response to the Dr. Luke's tweets about his friendship with Kesha. And his three sisters and daughter. And his feminist mom. Gray writes:

• Having a feminist mom doesn't mean you can't rape.
• Having a daughter doesn't mean you can't rape.
• Having a sister doesn't mean you can't rape. 
• Having a consensual sexual relationship with someone doesn't mean you can't rape them later on.
• Having a friendship with someone doesn't mean you can't rape them.
• Seeing someone as your "little sister" doesn't mean you can't rape them. 
• Being an all-around "nice guy" does not disqualify you from the ability to commit rape.

I thought of my own experience, and the experiences of friends who have also been victimized by men who were also friends, boyfriends, co-workers...  Who had sisters. And daughters. And, yes, even feminist mothers... and I thought, well, THIS, we can talk about.

THIS, WE HAVE TO TALK ABOUT.

It's so simple and yet so impossible for us to dialogue in a healthy way that doesn't vilify. Especially when so many of us refuse to tangle with the nuance of power structure, sexuality and the seldom discussed sexual urges that many men -- and some women --  have that cannot be controlled. Sexual predators are SELDOM lurking in the shadows.

"It isn't uncommon for men with wholesome reputations to be accused of rape. Daniel Holtzclaw was "a nice kid." Bill Cosby was a "father figure." R. Kelly was "in love" with Aaliyah. James Deen seemed like a "really nice dude." (To date, only Holtzclaw has been convicted.)

...In reality, it's the "nice guys" -- the acquaintances, friends, lovers and partners -- who are most likely to commit rape. According to RAINN, 4 out of 5 rapes are perpetrated by someone the victim knows. Forty-seven percent of rapists are friends or acquaintances of the person they assault, and another 25 percent of sexual assaults occur in the context of an intimate relationship. Half of assaults occur within a mile of the victim's home."

The truth is, some boys and men have impulses they THINK ARE OKAY to act on.

Even when a girl is sleeping. Especially when a girl is sleeping. 

Even when a girl is passed out drunk. Especially when a girl is passed out drunk. 

Even when a girl says NO. Especially when a girl says no. 

This is not APOLOGIZING for the behavior of rapists or those who sexually assault. But it is ALLOWING them to be judged, not as monsters, but as people, who, I believe, are capable of knowing better. Who are capable of learning. Of listening. Of talking out in the open about their urges and worskshopping where they come from while recognizing WHY they cannot act on them.

I believe we aren'y doing NEARLY enough to protect our children, our sisters and each other while ALSO recognizing that sexuality is nuanced and in many instances, violent in urge. (50 Shades of Grey is a great example.

In The Atlantic, Emma Green writes:

"As several experienced BDSM practitioners emphasized to me, there are healthy, ethical ways to consensually combine sex and pain. All of them require self-knowledge, communication skills, and emotional maturity in order to make the sex safe and mutually gratifying. The problem is that Fifty Shades casually associates hot sex with violence, but without any of this context. Sometimes, Ana says yes to sex she’s uncomfortable with because she’s too shy to speak her mind, or because she’s afraid of losing Christian; she gives consent when he wants to inflict pain, yet that doesn’t prevent her from being harmed."

Women can be turned on by men tying them up, even hurting them. This can be extremely confusing to men who SEE and HEAR and KNOW women who LIKE to be "taken."  (As of June, 2015, 50 Shades has sold 125 million copies worldwide.)

***

When I think of how I can make any REAL change in this world, I look to my children -- to ALL children and I look to myself -- to ALL parents. I, like most mothers, believe my son is near-perfect. A model student and sensitive musician with three little sisters. And yet, I would be doing a disservice to him and everyone else by recognizing that HE IS JUST AS CAPABLE OF DOING THE SAME THINGS THAT WERE DONE TO ME.

BECAUSE EVERYONE IS. 

Everyone is capable. 

EVERYONE IS CAPABLE. 

"Statistics show that ONE IN THREE MEN would rape if they thought they could get away with it and that 1-16 men have raped. (Some studies show as many as 1 in 7 men have raped.) One in five white women have been raped. One in four black women have been raped. One in three native american women in the United States has been raped. One in four women will be raped in college..."

... By men who will grow up and become model citizens, husbands and fathers. 

Statistics also show that most women who have experienced sexual assault are like me:  "Only 27% whose assault met the legal definition of rape consider themselves rape victims, so great is the minimization and normalization of sexual assault in our society."

It's SO prevalent -- so completely and unbearably systematic, it overwhelms. Perhaps it's just too hard for us to wrap our heads and hearts around the idea that a good boy, raised by a feminist mother, is also capable of pinning a girl down in her apartment and saying "YES, YOU DO!" when she says, "NO, I DON'T."

In Gray's piece she writes:

"It's terrifying to think sexual assaults occur in our communities, our schools and our homes. It's much easier to separate ourselves from the men (and a few women) who rape, imagining them as bogeymen in the shadows. But when we do that, we avoid reckoning with the rape culture we live in."

And fighting that culture? Starts at home. It starts with talking to our children about sex, about what is and isn't appropriate touching... It starts with talking to our children about consent and the nuance of sexual urges that, in some cases, can be dark and damaging to others. It starts with YOU and ME and all of us -- the parents -- the sisters -- the women with stories we are afraid to share because we don't want to be perceived as victims. 

Because here's the thing: good mothers raise rapists. Good fathers raise rapists. WONDERFUL people raise WONDERFUL children who...  will go on to rape. Molest. Assault. Harass....

Rapists are not always monsters. In many cases they are ALSO victims themselves. Of assault. Of toxic masculinity. Of peer pressure. Of NOT KNOWING ANY BETTER BUT TO THINK IT'S OKAY. 

Which is why CONSENT is something that desperately needs to be taught --  introduced at an early age, talked about in a way that empathizes and recognizes all parties. And this list right here (CLICK ON ME! CLICK ON ME!) is a GREAT place to start.

ESPECIALLY for fathers. TALK TO YOUR SONS, DADS! UNCLES! GRANDPAS! Guide them to make healthy choices. TEACH them about the importance of consent. That a real man doesn't FORCE himself on a woman. Or wait until a girl is passed out drunk to "get his piece."

"Rapists are human beings, not monsters. The sooner we can wrap our collective minds around that fact, the sooner we can get down to the business of fighting the culture that creates and protects them."

Because a girl's first sexual experience shouldn't happen when she's pretending to be asleep. Just like a boy's first sexual experience shouldn't be with a girl who is "sleeping." And we NEED to talk about what we're doing, collectively as men and women, parents and guardians to fight, to guide, to LISTEN, to empower, to MAKE LASTING CHANGE...  (Thank you.)

A Mom and Somebody Else

The last time I colored my hair I was newly pregnant with Archer, trying to convert my blue-black bob to a natural-brown... non-bob. My plan was to grow it long and keep it natural for a while. I wouldn't have the time nor the money to drop hundreds in the salon every two months, and besides, my hair was WRECKED from years of bleaching and blacking and blacking and bleaching.

(My hair was actually naturally blonde until my early-twenties when I started dying it black. When I decided to let it go natural, the blonde had been replaced with brown, as though my hair said, "oh, you don't want to be blonde anymore? Copy.")

Anyway. My poor hair had been through the ringer and after reading up on "hair chemicals and pregnancy," I decided to go au natural for a while. My hair grew in its newly natural shade of brown and I trimmed my own bangs every few weeks. And that’s how I kept it, relatively the same, for eleven years.

And then last summer, in the throes of an existential crisis (which I am still riding out, let's be clear) I cut a foot off my hair. I had wanted to cut my hair short for months but was dragging my feet until one night I lost it and cut my hair whilst sobbing uncontrollably in a locked bathroom. Nothing to see here, kids! Nothing to see here...

"Change your hair, change your life," is what everyone always says, myself included, and while I spent my formative years changing my hair (and my life) every few months, my hair, since becoming a mother, felt like my identity in this weird way. Maybe because I grew out the fake... maintained the real... let it go gray in places... owned it... looked the same for all of my children... as a mother, as a wife...

For someone who spends much of her life exposed, I sure love a good hiding place, and bangs, for many years, served as mine.

Weeks after I chopped my hair, I regretted it -- frustrated that it was too short to put it back --couldn't put my hair up—that I had to pin it all back to work out. Bobby pins for days... 

And so. A month after chopping it all off, I decided to grow my hair out again. Bangs, too, and FOR REAL this time. In the past, every time I have tried to grow my bangs out, I have given up during the awkward stage and cut them short again. EVERY. TIME.  Not this time, though. This time? I would COMMIT!

This time I had a plan and it looked a little like this. 

I HAVE DECIDED TO GROW MY HAIR LONG AGAIN! AND THIS TIME I WILL GROW MY BANGS, TOO! AND THEN I WILL DYE MY HAIR BLONDE AND IT WILL BE LIKE GOING BACK TO MY ROOTS IN THIS WEIRD WAY EVEN THOUGH MY ROOTS WILL BE BROWN.

The thing is, I never stopped being blonde. I mean, I did. Clearly my hair color changed and yet, for most of my life I was blonde.  So in this weird way, blonde feels like... home?

And while accepting its natural change felt, for many years, an important statement… not just for my children but myself, 2015 skewed my view a little bit. My babies were no longer babies. My nights were no longer sleepless. I was no longer in parental survival mode but in… a new and unfamiliar state of MY KIDS ARE BECOMING THEIR OWN PEOPLE AND IT’S TIME FOR ME TO FOCUS ON BECOMING MY OWN ME. Not that I wasn’t MYSELF before, because I was, but I couldn’t help being MOTHER above all else. Prioritizing self-care and impulse salon marathons was not a thing I was doing, let alone considering. There were too many people who needed me more than I needed myself.

There is an unspoken obligation when it comes to maintaining status quo when one has children. 

Keep it stable.

Put down roots.

Keep a schedule.

Power through...

Spontaneity is NOT FOR US, MOTHER DEARESTS. We are to plan very far in advance and wean our children in and out of stages. Come up with incentives for potty training and sleep training. Start with one food group and go from there.

Same goes with our work. And our looks and our lives. I told my kids last year that I wanted to go blonde like I was once upon a time and they all said NO! YOU CAN’T DO THAT! YOU WON’T LOOK LIKE MOM ANYMORE.

So I didn’t. And I felt terrible for wanting to.

It wasn’t until I sat down for lunch with a friend  and had a heart spill-open-soul-discussion-about-life-and-love-and-creative-lady-life-change-y-things, that I realized WAIT. WAIIIIIIIIT. 

Or, rather... it was Clem who made me realize... 

We were talking about hair and changes and changing hair change-y change, when I told her that I REALLY wanted to do something drastic but my kids didn't want me to. And it made me feel guilty for wanting to change something that my family didn’t want me to change. And, yes. My hair was a larger metaphor for wanting to commit to being someone else – to doing new things in new directions and and and...

"But YOU'RE the mother. AND you're a woman who is not just the mother...  You need to make decisions for yourself..."

Her words made me cry because, duh. And also... duh. 

I mean, don't get me wrong. I love being a mom. But for the last ten and a half years my personal and professional life has been MOTHER. MOM. MOMMY. ARCHER'S MOM. FABLE'S MOM. BO AND REVI'S MOM. THAT MOM WITH ALL THE KIDS. THE MOM WHO WRITES A BLOG ABOUT BEING A MOM MOM MOTHER MOMMA MOM MOMMY MOM DOT MOM. 

Moments after leaving the restaurant, with Clem's voice in my head singing GO, WOMAN, GO, I made an appointment at a salon in Venice for the following Thursday. 

I immediately felt like a new woman after hanging up the phone. I was COMMITTING to change. 

I told the kids, of course.

Fable cried.

"Please don't change, Mama. This is what you've always looked like..."

And then I cried.

"Exactly," I said.

I explained to all four of them that sometimes change is GOOD and IMPORTANT and sometimes mamas need to shake things up in order to feel like they can keep moving. I told them I would still be the same person and that they would be used to it within a day and forget I ever looked like anything else.

"Will you make it brown again?"

"Maybe. I don’t know yet... I don’t know what’s going to happen right now, I just know that something needs to. I feel very strongly that something(s) needs to change."

"I hope you make it brown again."

"That's fair," I said. "I understand."

It took eight hours.

It felt like a baptism. The layers and levels of foils. Again and again. Rinse wash... re-foil. Repeat. The change would be dramatic, but contrary to last summer in the bathroom, I was at peace. It all felt poetic. To me. Like I was doing something revolutionary. For me.

And I was. It sounds crazy, maybe, but in the chair of the salon with my eyeballs pressed against the pages of INTERVIEW magazine, I was taking care of myself in a way that had nothing to do with my family. On the contrary, it was AGAINST their very wishes.

It was for me and me alone. IT WAS FOR ME AND ME ALONE.

Sometimes one must break the hearts of the people she loves in order to repair her own. And, yes, it's just hair. But it was so much more than that for me. It was and it is and it will continue to be... a time stamp of something else...

Later that night, when I came home, all four of the kids were in the hallway, still awake, their hands over their eyes "afraid to look."

"It's okay! You can look! Open your eyes!"

They didn't want to. They scurried into the twins' room and huddled together in Revi's bed in a massive heap.

"You guys..."

Slowly... one by one... they looked up. Uncovered their eyes. Spoke words.

Bo immediately started cracking up. "YOU LOOK… DIFFERENT."

Revi loved it and kept clapping her hands. 

Fable wasn’t sure. She hugged me without looking at my face and then pulled away, opened her eyes and then closed them, went back to hugging, her arms tight around my waist.

"You still look like Mom," Archer said. "You just also look like someone else."

"That's because I am."

For the next several days, I felt invincible. Hell, I still do. I feel like I've been reborn in this seemingly petty way that for whatever reason feels SO INCREDIBLY LIFE-CHANGINGLY large. I feel autonomous and badass and NEW. I feel like a mom and somebody else.