"Consensual" incest and other idiotic notions

I've recently deduced that there are many common words that we use every day which either render people retarded or I'm not as literate as I thought I was. Since I think quite highly of my own intelligence and seldom question it.....I've decided that it's the former. My dear friend recently uttered my own heart in regard to the sadistic pedophile who has been receiving support and endorsement from celebs I and many others previously respected and revered. The notion of what Roman Polanski did to a child not yet in high school being considered "not rape" caused me to reevaluate the meaning of the word. I thought that surely I had misunderstood. Or perhaps they were unaware of the details of the case.......but surely no one would deny that drugging a child and penetrating every orifice of her body with your penis is "rape". Or people are retarded.
Must be the latter.

So along this same line of reasoning, people who consider John Phillips forcibly raping and then developing a coerced relationship with his adult daughter Mackenzie Phillips are also clearly retarded. (please note: if you have already begun formulating your complaint letter to me indicting my use of the word "retarded", you can kindly remove yourself from my friend list right about............now.)

In the past two weeks, since her disclosure to the world about the incest, I have heard several people refer to the incest as "consensual sex with her father". Now despite the fact that there are instances where Mackenzie refers to it as a "sexual relationship", the fact of the matter is that anything that occurred was, by definition, wrought with coercion. John Phillips himself acknowledged prior to his passing that he had used drugs with his daughter Mackenzie, he was acutely aware of how his daughter idolized him, and probably the most coercive detail of all: other people have stated that she told them years ago about what her father had done to her....yet no one made any attempt to help her and no one so much as made a personal indictment against him, which was surely proof in her mind that even if people did believe her they would still side with him. The psychological dynamics that occur when any person is forced and then coerced into such acts with a parent, no matter what the age, are never ending. But this is not a professional assessment of the situation. It is my personal opinion, albeit affected by my professional knowledge, and a venting of sorts about the semantics that grate my ears when I hear the word consensual connected in any way shape or form to acts that followed the rape of an young adult by her father. If for no other reason than so that you will know why my head explodes the next time I hear it.

To Mackenzie I would say the following: You did what you felt was saving you at the time. You complied as a means of self preservation. The word consensual indicates an agreement of will that is not indicated by your reaction to the incest that you suffered. I wish that you had had an ally and I hope that you gain some peace in speaking.

thanks and good night.

you would think that I'm a sap

....if you were to glimpse my bawling face this morning when I learned that Laura Ling and Euna Lee had been released. Every time I saw their pictures while they were held captive, in fact, you could certainly have seen the sting that it brought to my heart and my eyes.
My older sister cries at long distance commercials and generally I am quite the opposite. Generally, I don't pay much attention to the news. Generally, only the tears of tangible individuals can cause my heart to ache. Generally, I'm a smart ass..........but this wasn't general.
I know without a doubt that my heart aches because of a person who is quite tangible to me, as the thought that came to mind immediately and repeatedly when I heard details of this story was my own sister. I couldn't help but make the parallel: how I would die inside and out if that were my sister. I raised her. She's more than my sister. I know that this bothers my older siblings at times. I can't help that any more than I can help the fact that they share bonds and experiences that are unique to them and don't include my sister and me. I have good relationships with them, just different.
Ultimately, I know that know one could be as happy for Laura as her own sister........but right now I'm running a close second.

peace

Behold! The Human Metronome!

I had to take CPR for the millionth time today. I don't know why employers routinely require that I take this. I have told every boss that I've ever had: if someone get's out of control, I'm your girl. if they pass out/have a heart attack/choke/etc......I am not the one! You really don't want my life to be in your hands. I will certainly pass out myself and then someone will have to help the both of us.

Despite this, I had to go. In my class was one of the nurses from my floor: a white guy. I like him. We disagree on religion and politics and simply agree not to speak of it. He has a sick sense of humor, which I appreciate. He also apparently has some rhythm, which I find endearing and hilarious given the fact that he looks a little like the kid from Napoleon Dynamite. I discovered this because the instructors of the course decided to use music to demonstrate how to give chest compressions. Now, I say "some rhythm" because they used the song "Stayin' Alive", which is not the most rhythmic theme I've ever heard, but whatever.

So anyway, Joel was in the row in front of me and I did notice that he was on beat to the music (I use both those terms loosely). I fully intended to tease him about it later, not just because he's a goofy white guy, but also because I'm mean. Well, the instructor's beat me to it and began calling him the "human metronome". Now the kicker was that Joel called them out! "You're just saying that because I'm white!", he shot at the leader of the exercise, who was as wide as she was tall short. She mumbled and stuttered for a moment and then vehemently denied that that was the case. Now this was obviously a lie since the class was about 25% black and of the folks who were sitting ahead of me (I can't vouch for those who were in the back row. I wasn't paying attention because I wasn't intending to write a blog about it at the time.) all but one was on beat.

With this ring, I thee wed my country

I honestly never thought that I would ever feel any sort of pride in my country. I know that is not a popular sentiment, but it's the truth. I have frequently thought that if it weren't so difficult to disentangle myself from this land, that I would find another to call home and I'll tell you why. My earliest teachings about this country's history were that it was founded by marauders and thieves. Now, my mother wasn't a history buff who taught me such notions, but she also didn't raise any fools. So when I sat in my elementary school classes and learned about "Indians", which is a subject heavily taught and skewed in the Great Lakes State of Michigan, I read between the lines. When my teacher spoke of "missionaries" and "explorers" I heard tyrants and thieves. When they spoke of pride and legacy all I heard were the cries of those before me. On the foundation of this history, I never felt proud of America in the nationalist sense that is prosthelitized to children K-12 every day of the week in this country. I always felt like it was based in a history of hatred, negativity, racism, and shame. I felt coerced to be an American. Like it was an arranged marriage, that I could have turned away from, at the cost of all who were dear to me. Indeed, I still feel like that. I'm not backtracking, mind you. However, I will say that recent events have caused me to feel that this spouse who I did not choose, might just be lovable after all.

Waiting for it.

People wait for it every day: the punchline...the other shoe to fall.....that which they know is coming. Working in a hospital is different from the type of social work that I am used to in that I meet new clients daily. Sometimes I meet three people a day and sometimes it's ten. As a result of numerous incidents in the past year, I have come to determine that the IT that I am frequently waiting for is the racial slur. Whether it is the 80 year old lady who mutters that she doesn't want to return to the nursing home that she came from because there are too many "blacks" there and "they scare [her] with their spiky hair" or the family member of a patient who thinks nothing of referring to one of my nurses as "chink", "spic", "darkie", or "nigger": somehow I can sense it coming 90% of the time.
So today, while I was was speaking to an 83 year old man, who was sailing last week and this week is unable to walk and was getting a blood transfusion as we spoke.....I waited for it. I waited for it while he spoke of the roommate that he had the night before, who happened to be a young black man. I waited for it when he mentioned his doctor from the ER, who happened to be hispanic. I continued to wait for it while we discussed rehab placements, some of which were in a predominantly black part of town and some of which were from an overwhelmingly white part of town. And IT never came. And the more I spoke to him, the more I thought he was decidedly one of the most jovial and inspiring human beings that I have ever seen hooked up to a blood bag.
He and his daughter told me of his many travels, all the sailing that he had done, several women he had loved--including his most beloved deceased wife in whose name he donated several thousand dollars to a local organization for children to attend wildlife camps. They laughed about the time that he participated in a pirate re-enactment just a few years ago and he boasted of the eye patch that he got to wear for the production. He spoke of the university that he attended and joked that his primary physician attended the same institution and surely made ten times the salary that he has made in his lifetime. His daughter blushed when he chuckled that the pirate ship replica that he sailed was later used in a porno. I only hope that I can make kids blush like that and still love me like she does when I am that age!
I have a lot of favorite patients, but right now room number 22 is at the top of the list. Not only because he has a great sense of humor, has all of his wits about him, and has all of the spunk of a teenager. But also because the IT that came was unexpected.

"You never had game, you were just a slut"

I'm perplexed.

Is it not 2008? Women DO still have the right to vote, right? tell me if I'm missing something here. seriously. We have jobs and lives, correct? so why did my co-worker comment that I looked nice today and then proceed to ask me if I had a new boyfriend? I literally did a Scooby impression and turned my head to the side looking at her like she was the creature from the Blue Lagoon. Since when does dressing up (I wasn't really dressed up any more than usual. I was just wearing open toed shoes.) equate to having a new boyfriend? I felt as if I had stepped in a worm hole and landed in 1950. I guess with my open toed shoes I should have been wearing a poodle skirt and tight sweater.

On the topic of dating: I've recently noted that I have not had nearly the number of suitable suitors since I moved to a large city as a did when I lived in a small one. I pondered this.........in a crappy little town in the mid west I was never in need of a date, yet now that I've moved to a bay side city where there are millions of young men-and Ricans at that!- my social life has been, well, lackluster. How could this be?! There certainly must be something wrong with the universe, right? a planet out of alignment? knocked off kilter? No? Really?! so, what gives?

And of course the answer came slower than it should have: networking. in a mid western city people are separated by two or three degrees. Therefor, when you meet someone, chances are, that you probably already know them........sort of. Your best girl friend used to date his cousin's step-brother. And there you have a jump off! But, it's not so in a large city. Every meeting is like starting fresh and I deduced that filling my calendar in this setting would require "game". The skill of picking up someone of the opposite sex. I commented to a friend from my home town about this phenomenon and that I needed to brush up on said skills. He replied, "You never had game! you were just a slut". A slut? really? slut sounds so old. Like someone who's hanging out in a shady bar, GnR t-shirt falling off her shoulder, hitting guys up for drinks. *insert sad face here*

So this is what I get from you people, huh? I'm nothing without a man (per my backward ass co-worker) and I'm an old sleazy bar fly in order to get one. wow.

Well, I say fuck you both. I have a date Saturday night :D

in a manic state he said I have "no social filter"

I find the irony of that to be the height of hilarity. The funniest part? simply that it happened. well, that and who said it.
I once worked with a guy who was bi-polar......... and of course briefly had a crush on him before I found out he got a blow job from my best (male) friend......who said that I had no social filter. He was oh-so-serious, too.

While this entry is not specifically about my mother, somehow things always lead back to her whether the issue is good, bad, or indifferent. And in this case, it goes back even further. My mother's mother is an odd bird to say the least. She's secretive and suspicious, often for no apparent reason......and somehow still remains energetic and endearing. everyone says so. Anyway, between my grandmother's secretive nature and my grandfather's alcoholism, their home was a house full of lies. My mother didn't want that for us and so as a child she always maintained that there was nothing that went on in our house that we weren't aloud to speak of to others. Sometimes following through with this appeared to cause her physical pain that was apparent in her expression.......but she was insistent that she would not do to us what was done to her.

The world according to Ms. Beth dictated that as long as you were not saying something for the express purpose of hurting someone (even if your opinion did hurt them. as long as it wasn't intended to), you had every right and even the responsibility to express it. I was honestly naive to the fact that the rest of the world did not abide by my mother's rules in regard to freedom of expression until I was in college. Throughout school, my teachers were most often enthralled with my intellect (which I'm certain has since been killed off by random drug use in my teens and twenties. lol) even when I disagreed with them. So much so that when I pushed Melissa L. down the stairs and skipped school in middle school, the vice principal gave me a coveted student assistant position instead of making me serve detention (the standard punishment for such behavior). Later, in high school my science teacher somehow averaged my grade out to a C when I had indeed earned myself a solid F.......since I had not turned in a single assignment the entire semester. He deduced from class discussions that I certainly deserved to at least pass since I was the only kid in the class who participated in discussion ("When is the test?" does not qualify as discussion.). Overall, they were more than tolerant of my opinions and often disrespectful behavior. With the exception of Ms. Schmaltz, who was not enthralled with me for the three years that I goofed off spent in choir. She loathed my penchant for cursing and often sent me to the office for it (where I would chat with the secretary for the rest of the hour).

So, the result of all of this: I have no social filter. My senior year I began referring to myself as Phineas Gage after hearing about his inability to refrain from blurting out whatever he was thinking after a freak accident that severed his frontal lobe from the rest of his brain. I felt like that. Like I was lacking a frontal lobe. I think that specific instance that Manic Mike was referring to in his annoyingly accurate assessment of me was when I commented that our friend Angie had a "cute bubble butt". Something that I had not even paused to ponder how she would receive...........she did not receive it well. The result of that conversation with a girl who had been raised in the very white, very rich suburbs of Indiana: an emotional week of starvation and rails of coke (her, not me!) as she took this to mean that she was "fat". I hope she's gotten over that. But I doubt it.