I could never fully express why, but I had always cringed when a man would talk about his partner or introduce her as his better half. It bothered me somehow. It seemed to put a lot of pressure on her to be a better person, perhaps more organized and capable, all the while letting him easily off the hook to be the typical hapless, clueless male.
But there was more to it, it turns out.
***
The process of healing from my divorce has been a long one. I hold marriage as sacred, and it was supposed to last forever. Period. So when it didn't, there was always a little hope lingering at the back of my mind - if not in my heart - that perhaps we would find our way back to one another. When I was finally able to let go, I found my life to be quite full and fulfilling. Or maybe I was able to let go because I was whole again.
Last fall, I remember thinking quite regularly that there really wasn't much room in my life or my house for a man. All bedrooms in my three-bedroom house are occupied. I'd started sleeping diagonally in my double bed (not even a queen sized bed!). My very large closet was full with my clothes and accessories. The weeks I didn't have the kids were occupied with friends, house projects, and hobbies. My life was pretty full. I was whole. I was happy, plain old happy.
And that's when it happened. I met someone, a whole person, whose life was rather full, too, with work and friends and family and volunteering. He was happy all on his own. So was I. That's where the magic happened: neither of us needed the other, but we sure liked each other's company.
***
I don't want someone who would tell me, à la Jerry Maguire, "you complete me." I want someone who is already complete, and who reminds me of all the amazing things I'm capable of, and who loves me for all of it. Someone I can support and encourage in his strengths and abilities, and to love him through his weaknesses - and he through mine. Neither of us is a half of anything; we are each our own whole person. And it is so very good.
Saturday, 2 May 2015
Thursday, 11 December 2014
our grace
At every meal we sit down to eat, my kids and I sing a grace. A grace that would surely make my mother bristle, for it is sung, and it is silly, and it is rote. But boy do we mean it every single time. You may know it, but I put a little spin on it, and it makes the girls smile every single time:
OooooOOh,
The Lord is good to me,
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need:
The Boo and The Bean
And the appleseed.
The Lord is good to me,
Johnny Appleseed,
Amen.
OooooOOh,
The Lord is good to me,
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need:
The Boo and The Bean
And the appleseed.
The Lord is good to me,
Johnny Appleseed,
Amen.
Tuesday, 9 December 2014
open heart
I've been struggling with whether or not I should write about this topic. It feels, in a sense, like an invasion of my ex-husband's privacy. On the other hand, our lives are still so bound up because of the children, that major milestones in his life are milestones in mine. And they affect me, whether I want them to or not.
***
Over a year ago, The Bean was heartbroken and crying; it was the divorce, again. I know that it was over a year ago because it was in our little rental house, that house that brought us through so much, that kept us warm in the coldest, darkest hours. It was in that house, on one of those cold, dark nights that she said to me: if your marriage was a mistake, then I was a mistake, too.
And I was knocked out, emotionally. How could I explain to her that at that point, she and her sister were the only things that made sense in my life anymore?
Oh, no. No, no. Sweetie, you ARE NOT a mistake.
But I know that how we had talked about her conception, that we'd loved each other so much that she was born, had set us up for this very moment. If that love was gone, or if it had been false all along (it wasn't), then her very raison d'être had vanished.
I was telling a wise friend of mine about this conversation a few days after it happened, and she flipped the situation on its head and suggested that perhaps The Bean and Boo were destined to exist, and that Dad and I had married precisely so that they could be conceived and born. I liked this version so much better.
The problem that I bump up against, almost constantly, is one of expectations. I grew up expecting to get married, have kids, and grow old with the father of my children. I would have a house with a backyard. My expectations were basic, so I never imagined that they couldn't be fulfilled. It's not like I was asking for a mansion and a private jet, after all.
So when my reality has not matched up with my expectations, I have had to adjust. I sometimes have the help of friends to turn things on their head, to make new sense of it all. The adjustments have still been painful, though. Unbearable at times, like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. But I am getting used to the incremental changes. I have come to accept that Dad was meant to be in my life as a co-parent. My best friend is someone else. And there are other people around me, to love me and support me.
I've adjusted to these realities, even though tears pour down my face as I write this. It is good; life continues to be good.
I hadn't prepared for the latest, however. He has met someone new. He was good enough to give me a heads up that he was going to tell the kids about her. They've been dating for a year. A year. His reasons for waiting so long to tell the kids are his own, and I am sure they come from a good place. It hit me harder than I expected, but because I am on a different path now, the looking back was short lived, and I continued on my road.
The girls, The Bean in particular, found the news to be a bit of a shock. There were tears. There were hugs. We talked through it, and I hope they got the clear message that Dad still loves them, and that nothing will change that.
The girls met her a couple of weeks ago. They told me the instant they saw me. It was over brunch, and she seemed nice, they said. I told you she'd be nice, I said. Have you met her? asked The Bean. No. So how could you know? The answer was simple: I know your Dad would pick someone good. I meant it, in my head, but my heart sunk a little. I am trying so very hard to make this good for them, healthy and happy for them.
The next milestone, I'm sure, will be a change in living arrangements, whether marriage is involved or not. This is hard. This will be another adjustment. I read this letter this morning and fell apart.
I fell apart because of the deepest conflict in my heart. I (selfishly, I know) want my girls to love me more than anything - until they move on and have their own grown up lives, of course. So when I imagine them loving another woman, turning to her for advice, talking to her in confidence, it tears me up inside. At the same time, I want this woman to be someone who loves my children and only wants the best for them. My girls deserve as much. And they deserve to be surrounded by good women they can trust.
I never pictured this. She was never part of the plan. All I can do is hope and pray that she is good to them, and they to her. Perhaps turning this on its head means realizing that my girls have so much love to give, and deserve so much love in return, that it couldn't be contained between two people. Maybe there needed to be three. Or four. And there are at least a half dozen more, from our church family, who play huge roles in their lives. Opening my heart to this is difficult, but perhaps it's exactly what needed to happen.
***
Over a year ago, The Bean was heartbroken and crying; it was the divorce, again. I know that it was over a year ago because it was in our little rental house, that house that brought us through so much, that kept us warm in the coldest, darkest hours. It was in that house, on one of those cold, dark nights that she said to me: if your marriage was a mistake, then I was a mistake, too.
And I was knocked out, emotionally. How could I explain to her that at that point, she and her sister were the only things that made sense in my life anymore?
Oh, no. No, no. Sweetie, you ARE NOT a mistake.
But I know that how we had talked about her conception, that we'd loved each other so much that she was born, had set us up for this very moment. If that love was gone, or if it had been false all along (it wasn't), then her very raison d'être had vanished.
I was telling a wise friend of mine about this conversation a few days after it happened, and she flipped the situation on its head and suggested that perhaps The Bean and Boo were destined to exist, and that Dad and I had married precisely so that they could be conceived and born. I liked this version so much better.
The problem that I bump up against, almost constantly, is one of expectations. I grew up expecting to get married, have kids, and grow old with the father of my children. I would have a house with a backyard. My expectations were basic, so I never imagined that they couldn't be fulfilled. It's not like I was asking for a mansion and a private jet, after all.
So when my reality has not matched up with my expectations, I have had to adjust. I sometimes have the help of friends to turn things on their head, to make new sense of it all. The adjustments have still been painful, though. Unbearable at times, like my heart has been ripped out of my chest. But I am getting used to the incremental changes. I have come to accept that Dad was meant to be in my life as a co-parent. My best friend is someone else. And there are other people around me, to love me and support me.
I've adjusted to these realities, even though tears pour down my face as I write this. It is good; life continues to be good.
I hadn't prepared for the latest, however. He has met someone new. He was good enough to give me a heads up that he was going to tell the kids about her. They've been dating for a year. A year. His reasons for waiting so long to tell the kids are his own, and I am sure they come from a good place. It hit me harder than I expected, but because I am on a different path now, the looking back was short lived, and I continued on my road.
The girls, The Bean in particular, found the news to be a bit of a shock. There were tears. There were hugs. We talked through it, and I hope they got the clear message that Dad still loves them, and that nothing will change that.
The girls met her a couple of weeks ago. They told me the instant they saw me. It was over brunch, and she seemed nice, they said. I told you she'd be nice, I said. Have you met her? asked The Bean. No. So how could you know? The answer was simple: I know your Dad would pick someone good. I meant it, in my head, but my heart sunk a little. I am trying so very hard to make this good for them, healthy and happy for them.
The next milestone, I'm sure, will be a change in living arrangements, whether marriage is involved or not. This is hard. This will be another adjustment. I read this letter this morning and fell apart.
I fell apart because of the deepest conflict in my heart. I (selfishly, I know) want my girls to love me more than anything - until they move on and have their own grown up lives, of course. So when I imagine them loving another woman, turning to her for advice, talking to her in confidence, it tears me up inside. At the same time, I want this woman to be someone who loves my children and only wants the best for them. My girls deserve as much. And they deserve to be surrounded by good women they can trust.
I never pictured this. She was never part of the plan. All I can do is hope and pray that she is good to them, and they to her. Perhaps turning this on its head means realizing that my girls have so much love to give, and deserve so much love in return, that it couldn't be contained between two people. Maybe there needed to be three. Or four. And there are at least a half dozen more, from our church family, who play huge roles in their lives. Opening my heart to this is difficult, but perhaps it's exactly what needed to happen.
Tuesday, 2 December 2014
the practice of saying No
Bedtime is always a moment of sharing for my girls. If there is something that's bothering them, I can almost count on it being discussed at bedtime. I try not to be too skeptical and choose to believe that it's not a delay tactic, but rather a moment when we can avoid eye contact, since we're cuddled in the dark. It's also a moment of intimacy and of withdrawal from the hubbub of everyday life.
With Boo, I can usually guess what she'll bring up - it's something that got her upset in the day and that caused her to shut down on me. With The Bean, it's always a big surprise.
Tonight, The Bean announced, "I find it really hard to say no."
Man. Not the words I want to hear from my 12-year-old daughter.
I have never had to worry about Boo saying no - she practices on me and her Dad and her sister all the time. I have a pretty good sense that as she grows up, she'll be able to hold her own against friends who want to do something she thinks is stupid (though we're all in trouble if she's the one who comes up with the idea - but that's another matter). But The Bean is a pleaser. I've always known that. Yet to have her voice it in such a direct way was, well, a shock. At least she's self-aware, I guess.
She noticed it this evening when my mom called. Grandma had been dispatched to find a pair of black slacks for The Bean for her choir outfit. Grandma called from the store, announcing she'd found a pair, "not quite leggings," she said, "they are these new things they call jeggings." (Have I mentioned how cute my mom is?) The Bean couldn't even bring herself to tell her grandmother that she was on the wrong track; she handed the phone over to me. I set my mom straight, and she offered to go to another store. Easy peasy.
The thing is this: I can't possibly blame my kid for finding the word no so difficult. I spent the first 35 years of my life saying yes, to everyone, to everything (mostly). It nearly drove me mad, quite literally. I had to learn to say no so that I could keep my self intact.
As The Bean's mom, I could have, of course, gone through the deep philosophical and psychological reasons one must learn to say no. Instead, I focused on the practical, since this child is both pragmatic and logical. We talked through the fact that she wouldn't have ended up with what she needed, and that grandma would have spent money for nothing, and we'd still need to go out and buy something else. That struck a chord. So we're on the right track.
I've asked her to practice saying no. Not just for its own sake, of course, but when she means it. Hopefully she'll have some practice by the time the stakes are higher. Maybe I'll also help her develop a sneer and an are-you-kidding-me side glance. I know she has it in her.
With Boo, I can usually guess what she'll bring up - it's something that got her upset in the day and that caused her to shut down on me. With The Bean, it's always a big surprise.
Tonight, The Bean announced, "I find it really hard to say no."
Man. Not the words I want to hear from my 12-year-old daughter.
I have never had to worry about Boo saying no - she practices on me and her Dad and her sister all the time. I have a pretty good sense that as she grows up, she'll be able to hold her own against friends who want to do something she thinks is stupid (though we're all in trouble if she's the one who comes up with the idea - but that's another matter). But The Bean is a pleaser. I've always known that. Yet to have her voice it in such a direct way was, well, a shock. At least she's self-aware, I guess.
She noticed it this evening when my mom called. Grandma had been dispatched to find a pair of black slacks for The Bean for her choir outfit. Grandma called from the store, announcing she'd found a pair, "not quite leggings," she said, "they are these new things they call jeggings." (Have I mentioned how cute my mom is?) The Bean couldn't even bring herself to tell her grandmother that she was on the wrong track; she handed the phone over to me. I set my mom straight, and she offered to go to another store. Easy peasy.
The thing is this: I can't possibly blame my kid for finding the word no so difficult. I spent the first 35 years of my life saying yes, to everyone, to everything (mostly). It nearly drove me mad, quite literally. I had to learn to say no so that I could keep my self intact.
As The Bean's mom, I could have, of course, gone through the deep philosophical and psychological reasons one must learn to say no. Instead, I focused on the practical, since this child is both pragmatic and logical. We talked through the fact that she wouldn't have ended up with what she needed, and that grandma would have spent money for nothing, and we'd still need to go out and buy something else. That struck a chord. So we're on the right track.
I've asked her to practice saying no. Not just for its own sake, of course, but when she means it. Hopefully she'll have some practice by the time the stakes are higher. Maybe I'll also help her develop a sneer and an are-you-kidding-me side glance. I know she has it in her.
Tuesday, 11 November 2014
today I remember
War always felt so far away. It was something we learned about in history class. But as I grow older, it feels closer. I see how the scars of wars are passed down through the generations. I see how war begets pain begets war. My heart bears some of the scars of a war I have never known, through my dad. This is his story.
The year of his birth, 1934, saw the "election" of Benito Mussolini in a bizarre referendum on Fascism. That same year, Italy won the World Cup of Soccer in a final match against Czechoslovakia, thanks in large part to the Fascist machine. My dad was born into a time and place deeply steeped in right-wing totalitarianism, to a family that was staunchly Communist. His father was drafted and refused to serve in the Fascist regime. As a result, my grandfather spent his last years in hiding, ultimately dying of pneumonia because he had no way of getting proper treatment. His house, where his wife and six children still lived, was occupied by Italian soldiers, waiting for their countryman to return home. The soldiers mistreated my dad's puppy, killed his favourite calf, beat him when he dared take a bite of a loaf of bread because he was starving. My dad was 5, and it was the beginning of the Second World War.
History informs our values and belief systems, our attitudes and points of view, our joy and suffering. That great big story of millions dying, of the Axis and the Allies, of an entire continent ravaged by relentless bombings - this great big story had among its victims a quiet and wily little boy with deep brown eyes, named Roberto.
I have a hard time completely appreciating what my dad must have lived through. I remember learning dates and names of battles in high school. It was so far removed from real lives that I never stopped to consider that while those things in the history books were happening, my dad and his family were a few hundred kilometres away, eking out an existence. Being beaten down for standing up for their principles.
I only know these stories because my mom told them to me. My father never spoke a word to me about his childhood, about the pain. But I had glimpses.
Once, when I was about 9 years old, he sent me to the Portuguese bakery near our house to pick up a loaf of bread. It was still warm as I carried it home, and it smelled so good that I couldn't help but bite off the heel - and indulge in a few more bites after that. I thought for sure he'd be angry because I'd just dug right in. Instead, I remember hearing his deep, throaty laugh, but also seeing the tears in his eyes. I know now that it must have brought back memories of his own experience of biting into a sweet, hot loaf of bread. But instead of being beaten, I was welcomed with open arms. This was redemption. This was freedom.
My dad left his home country as soon as he could, at the young age of 17, living first in Switzerland, then France, and ultimately settling permanently here in Canada. He always called Italy le pays des misères. War had ravaged not only his country, but his childhood. But he found redemption here, in the peace, far away from those memories.
Today I am thankful for those who fought for that peace. Who fought for the freedom of that little boy who was beaten and scarred, for the millions who were tortured and killed, and the millions more who wore and continue to carry the wounds in their minds, bodies and hearts. For the soldiers, the peacekeepers, those who put themselves between the innocent and the violence, I wear the poppy to remember.
The year of his birth, 1934, saw the "election" of Benito Mussolini in a bizarre referendum on Fascism. That same year, Italy won the World Cup of Soccer in a final match against Czechoslovakia, thanks in large part to the Fascist machine. My dad was born into a time and place deeply steeped in right-wing totalitarianism, to a family that was staunchly Communist. His father was drafted and refused to serve in the Fascist regime. As a result, my grandfather spent his last years in hiding, ultimately dying of pneumonia because he had no way of getting proper treatment. His house, where his wife and six children still lived, was occupied by Italian soldiers, waiting for their countryman to return home. The soldiers mistreated my dad's puppy, killed his favourite calf, beat him when he dared take a bite of a loaf of bread because he was starving. My dad was 5, and it was the beginning of the Second World War.
History informs our values and belief systems, our attitudes and points of view, our joy and suffering. That great big story of millions dying, of the Axis and the Allies, of an entire continent ravaged by relentless bombings - this great big story had among its victims a quiet and wily little boy with deep brown eyes, named Roberto.
I have a hard time completely appreciating what my dad must have lived through. I remember learning dates and names of battles in high school. It was so far removed from real lives that I never stopped to consider that while those things in the history books were happening, my dad and his family were a few hundred kilometres away, eking out an existence. Being beaten down for standing up for their principles.
I only know these stories because my mom told them to me. My father never spoke a word to me about his childhood, about the pain. But I had glimpses.
Once, when I was about 9 years old, he sent me to the Portuguese bakery near our house to pick up a loaf of bread. It was still warm as I carried it home, and it smelled so good that I couldn't help but bite off the heel - and indulge in a few more bites after that. I thought for sure he'd be angry because I'd just dug right in. Instead, I remember hearing his deep, throaty laugh, but also seeing the tears in his eyes. I know now that it must have brought back memories of his own experience of biting into a sweet, hot loaf of bread. But instead of being beaten, I was welcomed with open arms. This was redemption. This was freedom.
My dad left his home country as soon as he could, at the young age of 17, living first in Switzerland, then France, and ultimately settling permanently here in Canada. He always called Italy le pays des misères. War had ravaged not only his country, but his childhood. But he found redemption here, in the peace, far away from those memories.
Today I am thankful for those who fought for that peace. Who fought for the freedom of that little boy who was beaten and scarred, for the millions who were tortured and killed, and the millions more who wore and continue to carry the wounds in their minds, bodies and hearts. For the soldiers, the peacekeepers, those who put themselves between the innocent and the violence, I wear the poppy to remember.Monday, 10 November 2014
whirlwind of love
It happened again. This weekend saw a mini blitz of work done at the house; things that would have been done months ago, except that I didn't have the expertise or I didn't have to tools to make it happen or I just didn't have the time.
Two amazing people descended upon my house with their know-how, their tools and their energy in a whirlwind of love, and we got it done. Mostly they got it done, and I learned a few things along the way. In a short 24 hours, the stairwell and upstairs hallway got painted; my linen closet, which had been unusable because of the crumbling plaster, turned into a cedar-lined, huge capacity closet; The Bean got a backsplash behind her sink; the element in the stove got replaced (I can bake again!); The Bean's bedroom door got adjusted and can now close; I got a light installed in the basement stairwell that was pretty dark and scary; I got a hood fan installed over the stove; and I had my leaves raked, to boot.
There are days when I wonder how I will get it all done. A household isn't meant to be cared for alone. Some days I am near tears, worrying and wondering if I can continue to keep it together. And then the whirlwind descends and I am saved from the fear and the worry, and I am swept up in blessings. And I am not alone. It is good.
Two amazing people descended upon my house with their know-how, their tools and their energy in a whirlwind of love, and we got it done. Mostly they got it done, and I learned a few things along the way. In a short 24 hours, the stairwell and upstairs hallway got painted; my linen closet, which had been unusable because of the crumbling plaster, turned into a cedar-lined, huge capacity closet; The Bean got a backsplash behind her sink; the element in the stove got replaced (I can bake again!); The Bean's bedroom door got adjusted and can now close; I got a light installed in the basement stairwell that was pretty dark and scary; I got a hood fan installed over the stove; and I had my leaves raked, to boot.
There are days when I wonder how I will get it all done. A household isn't meant to be cared for alone. Some days I am near tears, worrying and wondering if I can continue to keep it together. And then the whirlwind descends and I am saved from the fear and the worry, and I am swept up in blessings. And I am not alone. It is good.
Thursday, 30 October 2014
change the locks!
I had a dream last night. Jian Ghomeshi was a friend of mine, and he had a key to my house since he came over often. Suddenly, I realised I couldn't be alone with him. When he came over, I made sure that our other friends were there. And somehow I was going to have to change the locks pronto, without him knowing.
I will admit that I am not a regular listener of CBC radio. I was an avid CBC radio fan when I stayed home with the kids; Shelagh Rogers and Annamaria Tremonti were often the only adult voices I'd hear for long stretches in a day. So I've been able to dispassionately watch the Ghomeshi scandal unfold from a distance. Which is why I was surprised to have had such a dream about him and the situation.
***
Just a week ago, I was in lockdown in my office tower in downtown Ottawa. There was a shooting, rumours of multiple gunmen, and Twitter speculation run amok. It was scary. Then it ended and I went home. Commenters said that Canada had lost its innocence; others retorted that Canadians, and Ottawans, are resilient.
Then Sunday night, news on a completely different front emerged about the increasingly-scandal-mired Ghomeshi. Andrew Coyne tweeted, "Okay, NOW we've lost our innocence." It was a joke, commenting on the surprising details of the radio host's confessed sexual proclivities. And I giggled, but as the days wear on, I realise there is a deep truth in that tweet.
A potential terrorist threat is scary, and it rattles us, but it didn't shake me permanently, certainly not personally. Terror-related deaths in the West are remarkable precisely because they are rare. And, to be honest, they do not terrify me. Some might say I'm not letting the terrorists win. What is in fact frightening, and keeps me up at night, is the ever-present threat to girls' and women's personal safety.
As a mom of two girls, I was shaken to be reminded in the swirl of the media/social media analysis that four in ten girls and women over the age of 16 are victims of sexual assault. FOUR IN TEN. Let that sink in. That means that statistically, 6 or 7 of The Bean's grade 7 classmates will be victims of sexual assault. The scariest part is that you can't tell by looking at them that certain men will carry out those terrible acts of sexual violence. Worse, it will likely be someone she knows and perhaps even trusts. And he may even have a voice like silk and a self-depricating way about him.
I think that's why so many people have had such a strong reaction to this: our collective trust has been broken. We are reminded that the nice guys we know may not be all that nice after all. We have, indeed, lost our innocence.
My most visceral reaction is to "change the locks" - keep myself and the girls locked up, inside, safe. While the guys get to walk around and do whatever they please.
It's time. It is TIME that the onus stop being on us, the girls and women, to be the sole keepers of female safety. It is time that boys and men, and women and media, understand that we are collectively responsible for changing the conversation. There are those far more informed and talented than I who have offered ways in which to switch gears, so I won't elaborate here. I will say this, however: I want to raise my soon-to-be-teenage daughters in a time and place where they don't have to be locked up. Let's not let theterrorists abusers win.
I will admit that I am not a regular listener of CBC radio. I was an avid CBC radio fan when I stayed home with the kids; Shelagh Rogers and Annamaria Tremonti were often the only adult voices I'd hear for long stretches in a day. So I've been able to dispassionately watch the Ghomeshi scandal unfold from a distance. Which is why I was surprised to have had such a dream about him and the situation.
***
Just a week ago, I was in lockdown in my office tower in downtown Ottawa. There was a shooting, rumours of multiple gunmen, and Twitter speculation run amok. It was scary. Then it ended and I went home. Commenters said that Canada had lost its innocence; others retorted that Canadians, and Ottawans, are resilient.
Then Sunday night, news on a completely different front emerged about the increasingly-scandal-mired Ghomeshi. Andrew Coyne tweeted, "Okay, NOW we've lost our innocence." It was a joke, commenting on the surprising details of the radio host's confessed sexual proclivities. And I giggled, but as the days wear on, I realise there is a deep truth in that tweet.
A potential terrorist threat is scary, and it rattles us, but it didn't shake me permanently, certainly not personally. Terror-related deaths in the West are remarkable precisely because they are rare. And, to be honest, they do not terrify me. Some might say I'm not letting the terrorists win. What is in fact frightening, and keeps me up at night, is the ever-present threat to girls' and women's personal safety.
As a mom of two girls, I was shaken to be reminded in the swirl of the media/social media analysis that four in ten girls and women over the age of 16 are victims of sexual assault. FOUR IN TEN. Let that sink in. That means that statistically, 6 or 7 of The Bean's grade 7 classmates will be victims of sexual assault. The scariest part is that you can't tell by looking at them that certain men will carry out those terrible acts of sexual violence. Worse, it will likely be someone she knows and perhaps even trusts. And he may even have a voice like silk and a self-depricating way about him.
I think that's why so many people have had such a strong reaction to this: our collective trust has been broken. We are reminded that the nice guys we know may not be all that nice after all. We have, indeed, lost our innocence.
My most visceral reaction is to "change the locks" - keep myself and the girls locked up, inside, safe. While the guys get to walk around and do whatever they please.
It's time. It is TIME that the onus stop being on us, the girls and women, to be the sole keepers of female safety. It is time that boys and men, and women and media, understand that we are collectively responsible for changing the conversation. There are those far more informed and talented than I who have offered ways in which to switch gears, so I won't elaborate here. I will say this, however: I want to raise my soon-to-be-teenage daughters in a time and place where they don't have to be locked up. Let's not let the
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