A Fight Back Woman Blog

A quick note to tell you all I am stunned – STUNNED – it has been a full year since my French excursion, the one where I boldly set out for Provencal pastures in a sort of reclamation of my willingness and excitement to do so since Rome. Though I encountered an amorous Frenchman, I was able to overlook it due to my being near comatose from over indulging on brie – creamy, buttery brie – in my adorable Avignon apartment.

As the yearly May trip beckons, I am answering it with a girlfriend getaway to parts unknown (a.k.a Alabama) so I can decompress and step out of the sports world for a little while. Yes, there is such a thing as too much sports! This weekend, I get to be lazy, beach girl Keri in a floppy hat and all manner of sundresses. And if I can manage to apply sunscreen properly and avoid sunburn that often looks like interpretive art across my shoulders and back, I’ll consider it a huge success.

Speaking of success, I wrote this post at the start of 2013. I’m so glad I reread it. As I’m almost to the half-way mark of the year, it’s a good reminder that I am doing exactly as I set out to do. I am making trips, concocting plans and being true to myself. I can only hope the coast of Alabama has a margarita big enough to handle the self-toast I make when I get there.

On December 22, 2008, I purchased my first home. A long, lean five-room condo just outside Manhattan. As it was more than 100 years old, I recall clearly the way it captured my heart the first time I saw it with its uneven, wide-plank pine floors, its stately trim and its creaky, 9-foot high original pocket doors.

I remember pulling those doors shut for the first time and falling HARD for their squeaky, heavy splendor. I imagined the beautiful chandelier I’d hang in my bedroom so that I’d see it twinkling through those doors every night I came home. For my modest wallet at that time, those doors were the closest I’d get to my dream New York brownstone.

But just a month earlier, I was attacked in Rome. And my life flipped over on itself; it turned inside out. All the saving I had done, the prudence I had exercised in my purchases, was for naught because suddenly I was staring down unknown legal fees in a potentially protracted court case after having just placed my life’s savings in 650 square feet of home. The day I closed on it, I felt numb. The joy I should have possessed was impossible to find; worry had already sank its claws in deep and sure.

In many ways, and how I truly feel, this was a marriage gone wrong almost as soon as we said “I do.” I am not trying to make light of marriage by any means. But a home purchase is one in so many ways, especially when you are single. I fell in love. I made a committment at risk to my future and I intertwined my finances for what I hoped would be stability, roots and great memories to make. I gave it my name. And none of that was enough. From the minute I signed the mortgage papers, I had a pit in my stomach which only grew every day thereafter and for good reason.

I will spare you the horrors of home ownership, condo boards, a batshit crazy neighbor and her low-class daughter, corrupt – and I mean CORRUPT and ARRESTED – town officials, and what aggressive squirrels will do inside your walls especially when they feel frisky. But I will tell you this:  I gave it every last effort I had to love it and make it love me back. But it just never did. And still, I treated it like gold. I Swiffered the floors several times per day, I built bookshelves, restored woodwork, put in crown molding…

I re-did the kitchen…

And when no amount of dinners with friends to create good memories, lazy glasses of wine by candlelight or whimsical decorations could fix my feelings … when I had finally had enough of its “issues”… I packed up and moved out-of-state to clear my head. Of course, my court case and all the awful shit that goes with it shares the blame, but such was my mindset that not a day I entered the doorway was I without worry. It was like Pavlov’s dog where my stomach would instantly drop upon entering my living room. And that was such a shame because she was beautiful and fine. So, I rented it out and finally, this past winter, I decided to unshackle my great burden.

I am fortunate for the friends and family that I have. They took the journey with me and their fingerprints are all over that house. And the memories are mine for safekeeping. They helped me paint its walls, assemble shelves, hang artwork, and carry through its doors each new piece of grownup furniture I had purchased. So, I am grateful for that and the growth I experienced as an owner. But it was time to say goodbye and admit defeat on this one. Ugh, it’s such a bitter pill to swallow. Part of me will always love it or maybe just the idea of it. And part of me knows that something better awaits me – a better fit for who I am now – that will love me back. See? Just like marriage, my future home is out there; I just need to go find it.

As I rest my vocal chords from the newfound zest I have for chanting anti-rape slogans into the misty night, I wanted to let you know I spoke at and participated in the Take Back the Night event at the University of New Haven tonight. The speaker they had scheduled had dropped out, and I got the call yesterday to see if I could make it. Of course I said yes, and then scrambled to pull some notes together. I like to speak to students whenever I can as they are the most at-risk age group for sexual assault, and also, the biggest opportunity I see in ending this crime.

My brief words led off the Speak Out portion of the event where survivors took the stage to talk about their experiences and learnings. I most definitely was the most animated in my time on stage and that’s because I am so passionate about this topic and particularly about conveying to any victims in the room the assurance and strength I feel when I tell them it is not their fault. Once finished, I took my seat and became witness to a solemn procession of victims sharing their stories – some for the first time – on stage in a garish, inescapable spotlight.

I am not seasoned enough in this subject matter yet that I am unaffected by disclosures. I might never be. Tonight’s stories gnawed at me both from the depravity of some of the crimes and the shock waves all victims experience no matter the violation. But there was one speaker in particular who broke my heart wide open. Whether it was the too-big clothes she wore as if to express a desire to be hidden or the way her hair seemed to crowd around her face when she spoke with lowered eyes, or the halting way she voiced vague details that nod to a shame she clearly still feels about what happened to her, she moved me very much. But the double whammy was what happened when she finished. Her friend or boyfriend took the microphone as she exited the stage. He stood there in the white light, gangly and awkward. He appeared… uncomfortable and uncertain about speaking. And for a moment, I thought he had a clear-cut case of stage fright. But then he uttered some of the most poignant, simple words that captured what the night was about.

As I was reaching for the tissues, he explained how hard it has been for him to watch her suffer. In both his intonation and his mannerisms, it was evident that he suffers too. And it was obvious he loved her. His was a perspective that until then had been missing. I wish there had been dozens more men there speaking out for their friends and how they see them suffer from this insidious offense. But tonight, he was enough. He was more than enough. And everyone there was amazing. It was a privilege to share this important night with them. Many thanks to the Victimology Club and all the great students, faculty and staff who attended.

As I mentioned in a post yesterday, today was the annual Walk a Mile in Her Shoes event in town. Though the sun made intermittent appearances, the wind was constant, and I basically froze for three hours while volunteering my time. Of course, it was all worth it so that I could capture these sweet photos for all of you.

I am always struck by the age range of the participants. But this year, we had perhaps our youngest walker:

As usual, some of the men truly embraced their foray into feminine footwear:

Hands down, this was my favorite participant to watch during the walk. These contraptions made him walk like he had a hot potato in his shorts. Bless him.

Not even going to ask where this guy found these. But I hope he buried them deep within the earth’s crust.

Sometimes, just getting into one’s shoes is a victory.

While all of the above images are no doubt entertaining, let me be clear: There is NOTHING sexier than men who set aside masculine bravado for one f’ing hour of one day in the entire calendar year to say “It’s more important that I show women that I stand with them, that I am willing to experience discomfort and some embarrassment for one hour, than do nothing.”

And it’s touching when those men also help along the next generation such as this father and his boys:

And when male friends support their female friends:

And when even man’s best friend puts her best paw forward for the cause:

The walkers took off en masse with a police escort around the town green. One team had 53 members and they led the march.

After they returned, the good people of the Milford Rape Crisis Center gave out fabulous prizes to individuals and teams who earned the most money or wore the best shoes.

And wouldn’t you know it, I actually won for Most Money Raised by an Individual!!

Now, truth be told, whereas last year, I had a team to collect donations on my behalf, this year, I parted with some of my tax return never thinking I would win such a glorious prize! I’ve decided I could get used to this.

Next year, I am going for the team trophy. If you are male, and I know you even a little bit, get out your checkbooks. I won’t be denied.

Quick note in the midst of a hefty workload at the office to mention the most awesome of events: Walk a Mile in Her Shoes. The event occurs nationwide during April (Sexual Assault Awareness Month) and is a beautiful expression by men to show their support for victims by literally walking a mile in women’s shoes. Last year was my first year participating and I drafted my friends’ husbands and former boss to walk for Team Afightbackwoman.com. I made t-shirts and dressed them in sassy feather boas and clip-on flowers. Alas, this year, all of them are away and I chickened out on asking others. Don’t want to wear out my welcome, and besides, I don’t know too many people here well enough to ask them to wear stilettos for me and parade in them around the town green.

Tomorrow, I will volunteer with the good people of the Milford Rape Crisis Center where I am a crisis counselor. We are hoping for sunny skies and I think we are going to get them. I will post some images tomorrow night. Always lots of laughs to see what the men come up with.

“The standard U.S. military approach to sexual assault is designed “to help women get raped better,” Army criminal investigator Sgt. Myla Haider says in the movie.” Washington Post, June 21, 2012

Though I had escaped it for the better part of a year, time ran out last night on my active efforts to avoid having to see The Invisible War about the epidemic of rape and sexual assault in the US military. As an avid fan of documentaries and having spent years publicizing them for work, I had followed the film’s rapid ascension in the social conscious of the film festival circuit, right up to its 2012 Oscar Nomination. I knew it was the kind of film that leaves you feeling outraged and helpless and defeated. I try to avoid those feelings most days.

If I hadn’t already been entrenched – most intensely – in the anti-sexual violence movement, perhaps I’d have sought the chance to see the film. But so much of my learnings on this crime and in my training cause warring feelings within me. Some days I feel like my efforts count for something. That they possibly make a dent in the crime and all the millions of people who don’t even understand the nature of it and why victims deserve their support. Many days, I feel overwhelmed by the attempt by so many of us to UNWIND the twisted beliefs surrounding sexual assault and the resistance we encounter doing it.

But last night, my luck ran out and I watched The Invisible War. Let me preface this by saying I love my country. I love our armed forces and what they do for us every day. I am so, so proud to be an American. I know the MAJORITY of military personnel are good, honorable people. And that’s why it pains me to say I would never encourage a female to join its ranks until the system is OVERHAULED in a way that ensures rapists have no place to hide inside of it. My takeaways:

1. Rent the film. If you’ll watch Supersize Me, An Inconvenient Truth and other films that make you feel socially aware, then watch this film.
2. The key takeaway: Rape and sexual assault is rampant in the military and all our elected officials can do is posture, make statements that they “have zero tolerance” and promise to improve the system in the smallest of microsteps.
3. Servicewomen who are raped by their fellow servicemen – if those servicemen are married – wind up being charged with adultery (!!!!). Yes, the military is that insulting to victims.
4. Worse yet, rapists in the military move unfettered through the ranks, from base to base, and with little to no consequence whatsoever. Let me type that again: Rapists thrive in the military environment because the system of military justice lets them. Victims are expected to report being raped within the chain of command often times to commanders who either raped them, know and are friends with their rapists or who don’t want to look bad to their commanders that a rape took place on their watch. Victims have nowhere else to go (until very, very recently, and only because Department of Defense honcho Leon Panetta saw this film). The commander is judge, jury, prosecutor and investigator. And the numbers show they cannot be trusted with doing right by victims.
5. The treatment of our servicewomen who are raped is terrifying in its implications for what the US Government/DoD will allow to happen to our daughters, sisters and mothers – to our fellow citizens - we ask to protect us. I guarantee it will appaul you.
6. I find it IRONIC that the common theme of violence and grave physical assault that accompanies rape in the military – at least for the film’s featured victims who suffered injuries such as a dislocated jaw, dislocated hips and other impact injuries – is the kind of rape that is statistically rare and yet so many juries in the CIVILIAN world prefer to see in order to be convinced a rape took place. And what I mean by that is if these victims were trying their cases in the civilian courts, they’d stand a better (albeit not great) chance of conviction than in the US Military Judicial System. As it has stood for decades and still stands now, the military is where rapists can brutalize their victims leave marks, break their bodies – and walk scott free. In fact, they get promoted to other ranks and posts.
7. Fifteen percent of recruits entering the military have attempted or committed rape. That is twice the rate than in their non-military peer group. So, rapists seek out the closed system that is the military.
8. And here is more statistical revelation packaged in the awesomeness that is Congresswoman Gillibrand’s blistering takedown of a military official trying to justify why of almost 20,000 assaults, less than 250 perps received any kind of discipline.
9. Rapists are emboldened by successfully completing rapes; they rape dozens and dozens of people in their lifetime and never get caught. In the military, they grow more dangerous and more acute in their crime. And then, they complete their service and are released into civilian society.
10. Rent the film. Rent it because you need to hear from the victims. They deserve your attention and your outrage. And we all deserve to understand exactly what is taking place behind military walls when the military asks us to entrust them with our sons and daughters.

A quick note to say hello and that I have a few posts in the hopper. As you have seen from my Twitter feed @afbwoman, there seems no dearth of cases in the news, namely this one in Ft. Collins  and this one in Connecticut on the heels of the depressing discourse about Steubenville. We’ll get into all of that as well as some lighter fare. Have a good one, folks.

 

Someone once asked me what I thought would be an appropriate punishment for Marco Tamburro, the man who attacked me. I did not have an immediate answer. To me, Marco has a broken brain; he is a defective human. He seemed incapable of ever feeling remorse, regret or understanding of his crime. Just remembering his pack-of-lies witness statement hammers that home.

I have long felt that people such as Marco are best shipped to an island where only rapists, molesters and pedophiles live. Just separate them from society because they can never be fixed. And maybe while they are all hanging out together on that island, they’d realize how horrible they all are. Or maybe the island would just sink into the sea and we’d never hear from them again.

The reality is few convicted rapists, molesters, pedophiles, etc ever get locked up for very long. They go to prisons where any number of perversions take place, and then, they are released back out into society. They never entirely go away and they are never fixed. And that seems pretty dangerous to me and it should to you too.

A recent training session forced me to think about perpetrators on a deeper level than I ever wanted to. I mean, who wants to think about perpetrators as people? Demons, yes. Humans, no. The training was aimed at gaining insights into why perpetrators perpetrate. About attempting to understand the motivation. The expert who gave the training has the unsavory task (one that she actually enjoys) of trying to rehabilitate the offender. I am sure that sentence induces eye-rolling in most of you reading this. And I totally get it. But there were some valuable learnings here I wanted to pass along:

In most cases, perpetrators suffered some sort of abuse, neglect, difficult/damaging relationship in their youth. I don’t write that to gain your sympathy. But it would be more scary to me if most perps had healthy, stable and loving childhoods.
Perpetrators lack an ability to be empathetic to their victims because they themselves were not afforded empathy or the chance to develop close bonds to people who produce byproducts such as trust, security, love, boundaries and respect. So severe is the negative result of these dysfunctional upbringings, perpetrators commit the crime as an outward expression of their inner deficiencies and inability to cope. Whereas women most often turn their rage, sadness, etc., upon themselves (eating disorders, cutting, drugs), men express outwardly. What this means is, the selection of a victim is not about anything that person has “done to them.” It’s a matter of timing (when the overwhelming desire to act out occurs inside the perpetrator) and chance as to who is in the perp’s presence or who they have access to when they seek to act out in this most disgusting and violent of ways.

To answer the question victims often have about “why me?” … it is little comfort to realize most perpetrators do not “see” their victims. They are not thinking much of them or considering their lives as individuals when they decide to commit sexual assault. They just see the person as an outlet in the coldest, most detached sense of the word. Is it wrong that I see that as somewhat comforting? Stay with me here… I never felt that I had done anything to induce Marco’s assault on me. I never felt responsible for his behavior. Somehow, through it all, I never for a moment thought I was connected to him in any way other than happenstance. I took my grievances to God. THAT is who I was mad at for quite some time. But I always knew that Marco was rotten inside and trying to fill a bottomless hole. What that must be like, I will never know.

I won’t bore you with the process by which therapists work to rehab perps, but suffice it to say it is akin to taking one of those big balls of rubber bands, identifying each strand and then trying to undo each one, one at a time, in order to then neatly stack them. I’d like to believe there is some value in making the attempt. And I see why it is off-putting to know people try to help perps. Sexual assault victims still can’t get justice, proper care, resources or understanding, yet people are actually trying to help perpetrators. I get it. Not sure where I come out on this yet. But it was interesting and made me think.

I have been compiling a small list of issues I’d like to touch on as I continue to receive training as a rape crisis counselor. I find much of what I learn eye-opening and I work to find ways to convey these learnings succinctly to the people in my life – and those reading this blog – because I want them to be better informed. In a recent conversation with an educated male friend, I was frustrated to hear him raise the “Duke lacrosse” scenario as proof that lots of women false report being sexually assaulted and that claims should be met with suspicion. So, false reporting will be one (near) future post. And then there’s the topic of treating perpetrators of the crime. None of us really want to think about perpetrators as humans, right? But a recent training raised some interesting questions and challenged me. So, I’ll be writing about that next.

Yes, I am going to make as many references to Ricki in the headers for the forseeable future. Forgive me. It’s just been two very encouraging days over here at the blog with new comments posted, more than 7,000 page views and more than 3,000 visitors. I am sure that doesn’t sound like much in the grander scheme considering big, professional blogs, but for this gal, who tinkers away best she can (usually with wine in hand) late at night to create new content that won’t put you to sleep, it’s a big deal.

Better yet, I’ve received emails from all over the country from survivors, from victims who have never told anyone, from victims who have told but not been believed, from family members of victims and from women who live in fear every day that they will become victims. Why do I see this as a good thing? Because we are connecting and because it feels good to be trusted. Isolation is one of the more offending aspects of what victims and their loved ones go through. I created this site to connect with others, to meet them and to create a resource. The links alone in the sidebar of the homepage have had hundreds of clicks the past 48 hours, and believe me, I put a lot of thought into which ones I have posted there.

Also, I am truly touched by how many of my friends and coworkers – and even my tenants!! – watched or DVR’d the show. I mentioned it once or twice and they made the effort to follow up. That says a lot about the people in my life and why I should be grateful even on those low days when I feel like I might live alone for the rest of my life.

I am on call this weekend for the crisis center and it always gives me butterflies. But this time, it feels different. It feels more peaceful because I was able to use my training this week. And it feels good. Thanks to all of you for that.