Warning: FOUL Language, Sensitive Subjects, Blunt, A Liberal
Political Rant, Men Not on Their Best Behavior, and Many Words.
Previously on this blog, I added my two cents to the #MeToo outburst. An outburst
that is a couple thousand years too late. My eight-page summary was very
perfunctory. A laundry list of thirty-five years of sexual assault, harassment
and one mild rape. I know, “mild” sounds awful, I use that word because
although it was against my consent, I didn’t say no or try to stop him. I
was at a sleepover, it was my friend’s brother. I was, at the most,
thirteen. I was silent.
The aforementioned #MeToo outburst, however, has yet to make any
difference in the daily life of most women. This woman, anyway. In fact, the
misogyny, harassment and dismissal from men seems to have ratcheted up, or I am
just more aware and more pissed off. Hard to know for sure, but what I do know
is I’ve had about half a dozen unusually awful “dating
situations” in the last few months. From childish to dangerous - to a
completely different issue since I’m a white turbo-liberal, racism – the white supremacy
kind.
I’ve been Bumbling – Google it. It’s like Tinder but not quite as
sleazy (it’s getting close, though). And once you match, the women control the
first contact. The guy is not able to send you a message until you open the
conversation. You only have twenty-four hours to do so and they have
twenty-four hours to reply. If one of you doesn’t, then the match disappears.
Which I like because when someone doesn’t reply, it tells me a lot. And then
they’re gone, and I never have to think of them again. Until I start thinking
about all the men who have “swiped right” on me but can’t be bothered to answer
a five-word message. Like a really cute guy I’m waiting on right now, he has
seventeen minutes left to respond. A forty-five year old man who is on a dating
site looking for love. So he says. By the time I finish this page, he will
disappear. Buh bye.
In the few months of being on this app I have matched with dozens of men,
maybe four or five dozen, and I’d say 90% have not replied. I usually say
something like, “I see you like ‘XYZ’ in your profile, what’s that like?” or
“Hi, are you up for a phone call? I prefer it to texting. Give me a call if
you’d like @ XXX-XXX-XXXX.” THIS, in particular, has really freaked out grown
men. Men over forty. It has been suggested to me that it is, “too forward, may
look desperate.” Which I find ridiculous. It is a DATING site, the point is to
DATE people, and if they don’t want to speak to you, how the fuck can you date?
I’m not walking around a bar, handing out my number to random dudes. A
fifty-year-old man matched with me yesterday, chose my profile - could not make
a phone call. Fifty. Years. Old.
Out of about sixty men who feared speaking to me, there was one who
thought it was hot. He called immediately. He said, “It was so confident!” He
was kind, lovely, beautiful to look at and very attentive when we met, but
after one of the top first dates I’ve had, the second was a head nod toward sex
is all I can give without actually saying that. His life was up in the
air, he may take a job on the road, he doesn’t know what 2018 holds, etc. etc.
I deduced, he could give me nothing more than sex. He realized my deduction and
ran with it, like the last leg of a relay race. The sex, though, was really
good, exciting and extremely affectionate. He also thought I was a pretty great
person. Sounds kind of awesome, right? But for women, when someone worships you
not only sexually but also as a human and still can’t take you to a movie or on
a hike – it’s just not sustainable. Look, a “fuck-buddy” is sustainable
for women. I’ve had them, my girlfriends have had them. But when the guy is
soooooooooo flattering, sooooooooo good looking but also:
- · complimentary beyond reason
- · concerned for your well-being
- · asks about your career
- · protective
- · often talks about your smile
- · says shit like, “Let’s talk a while, I like talking to you.”
- · repeatedly says you should be worshiped
- · washes you in the shower and towels you off after
- · gives you a back rub after sex . . .
That man was not a #MeToo story, per se. That was just a
rant of frustration. He was not molesty, rapey, pervy or
misogynistic. Just emotionally jerky. Although, there is something to be said
about how I was conditioned to take crumbs, to be grateful for a man’s very infrequent but all-encompassing attention, and be hurt when it stopped. Because,
in my mind, I wasn’t worth the effort of a relationship outside my apartment. Even
a cup of coffee in the real world was too much of a commitment that I was not worthy of.
My other dating experiences have had a weirder twist during the #MeToo
outcry. A more obvious tone. I’m sure I’ll take some shit for this, but it just
baffles my brain how rude, disrespectful, disregarding and simply unaware men
are still being while also trying to date
women in this climate. Are they really even trying? Men choose my profile as a
woman they would date, then 90% of them ignore me. Seven men this week alone.
Which triggers the fuck out of me because all of my life, all of most women’s
lives, are spent trying to get someone’s attention. Not just “male attention”
or “sexual attention,” but situational attention. An attempt
to give input at work, to join a conversation with men, give an opinion, give a
FACT, give a fuck about the world, discuss someone else’s idea, push back
on anything at all. I (we) have so often been ignored in most
areas of life that we clamber or over-compensate constantly, which makes things
worse. Then, we soften. We shrink. We take crumbs, and little by little . . .
we erode. For people who say women have “Daddy issues,” that is mine. Mine are
not sexual, they are resentful. I resent the fuck out of him. I run from older
men, I run from dismissive and narcissistic men. (a.k.a. why I’m so keen when
men are attentive). My aversion to older men is so strong that it makes me
excessively angry when they hit on me. I’m completely offended, although I’m
forty-eight now and it’s not really that wrong anymore. I consistently date men
my age or younger. At thirty-eight, I had a long fling with a twenty-two-year
old, gulp! Na, it was all good. We are still friends to this day, which I’m
kind of proud of. If I date younger now, I have a ten-year limit.
But what I still carry around with me from childhood, what still yanks my
chain four decades later, is being ignored and dismissed. Because my father
was, and still is, a master at this. He had four daughters and, to him, they
were all somewhat of a burden. I think we collectively felt that we were just a
pain in his ass, on a daily basis. We were something he was happy to pay for,
but that’s it. The emotional junk, the “raising humans” thing was a drag. He
was good with money but the rest seemed like a poke in his eye. He was raised
much worse, so I guess that was progress, but it didn’t do us any favors. He
raised us to feel “less than.” Not worth his time. When I think about it now,
though, I’m really glad he didn’t have boys, because he would have raised them
to treat women the way he treats women, and we don’t need four more men doing
that. I’d rather have four (now three, I have one deceased sister) emotionally
screwed women in the world than four narcissistic, misogynistic, possibly
violent and bullying men.
Getting back to the current rash of misogyny on dating apps. Let me start
with Morgan. Three months ago, we “matched.” We spoke on the phone briefly. I
require a call before I meet someone, you can tell in one minute if you can
stand them for one date. This was a small victory because as I mentioned
earlier, it’s been very difficult to get any grown-ass man on the phone. So,
the dismissing starts before you even talk to them. It seems they’re saying you
are clearly not worth the time and effort of a phone call.
I got Morgan on the phone. He seemed ok, polite and kind of sweet. Not
Einstein but not Eric Trump. I was wrong. We met at a bar and he was fifteen
minutes late. When he arrived he said, “Oh, you’re here on time - I’m late
because all women are late and I just thought you would be too.” Oh boy. He
then kissed my hand and held on to it until I had to pull it away. When I did,
he so-cleverly said, “Oh, did you want that back?” He politely got
us drinks and slouched down on the banquette, spread eagle. I mean a full, wide
man-spread. Both arms outstretched on the back of the bench, as well. He asked
if I had gone shopping that day (it was black Friday). I said no, I wasn’t a
big shopper. He was shocked. “A woman who is on time and doesn’t like to shop?
Wow, that’s weird.” I probably could have scared him off right then by telling
him I also spit, cuss like a sailor in a whore house and drove a stick for
thirty years.
He chattered on about his childhood on Long Island. Very white, very
upper-crust. He thinks a guy should pay for the first ten dates, otherwise he’s
a loser. Look, I’m constantly broke but even I think that’s excessive. Two
dates? Fine. Three tops. And I think a woman should always offer to pay. I do
and I’ve been taken up on it maybe twice in all my adult life (on initial dates).
I’m not going to lie, it was kind of awkward. But not Morgan, he thinks a
pretty-little-thing should be somewhat kept, and shop as much as
possible.
At one point, he randomly told me that, as a Jewish man, he had even
dated a Muslim girl. He was very proud. Then he told me about a bad date he had
with a devil-worshiper who he ditched like a coward. And I mean a total coward,
I’m not just judging. He excused himself to the bathroom and then climbed out
of a tiny window above the stall, jumped down into a pile of garbage in an
alley and took off running. True? Who knows, but if not, it’s really not a
story you tell to impress a woman. Chickenshit. He rambled on for a while, I
rambled on for a while.
I finally got to the, “Did you vote for Trump?” question, which I should
have asked an hour earlier but the first thing on my profile was, “NO Trump
supporters, PLEASE.”
I have found out, after a few miserable dates, many men don’t read the
three-hundred characters we painstakingly curate. It’s nearly impossible to
get in all the important, cute, smart, sexy, witty stuff required of both you
and who you seek into roughly forty words. And so you write, tiny. And
re-write, tiny. And change the tiny format; a paragraph looks so serious, how
about a list? A list looks lazy. Emojis save characters, I can “say” more. No,
emojis look dumb. I’m forty-eight and I want to say, “I like sex” but that
looks desperate. Or sleazy. Or desperately sleazy. I change it and change it
and change it. In the end, 80% of men don’t read it because forty words are too
much of a commitment.
“Did you vote for Trump?” Here came the bullshit. Himina-hamina-ho. “Can
I just say, ‘I’m a republican?’” Ummmm, no. The republicans are trying to turn
over abortion rights, take away my Medicaid, enact a Muslim ban, replace
food-stamps with a monthly box full of beans, cereal and soup (Google it), use
tax money for a delusional border wall; they supported a child molester for
Senate, they did NOT criticize Trump calling the Charlottesville white supremacists
who killed a protester “fine people,” they are constantly defending proven sexual
predators and wife beaters in their party (and in the White House), they passed
a massive tax cut for billionaires that will ALSO kill the Affordable Care Act
because the republicans allowed an amendment to end the individual mandate,
thus defunding the ACA so it will quietly but quickly erode. They are a-okay
with Trump paying off a porn star he fucked right after his son was born, they
don’t care about all his Russian ties and political favors to Putin OR that
Russia swung the election to him. The NRA owns them. Oh, yeah, and they
continue to screw the DACA Kids. Absolutely screw them. Sure, you just can say
you’re “republican” all you want to escape the shame of admitting you voted for
Trump, but I’m not going to fuck you.
And still, he made a move. We walked out onto Santa Monica Blvd., barely
out the door of the bar, and he grabbed me and kissed me. A sloppy,
tongue-lashing, face-engulfing kiss. I pulled away and blurted out, “Ohhh, I
really can’t, you support Trump.” He said, “No way, you’re serious? I don’t
support him!” So, he went in again, even more aggressively. “I said ‘I can’t’ -
Jesus!” This time I pushed him away and he stumbled backwards. He seemed caught
off guard, then immediately turned and stomped away. Stomped like
a little boy, yelling, “I didn’t even vote for Trump!” Which I took to mean as,
“I didn’t even vote.” Apathy. A forty-year-old republican man of apathy, anger,
aggression and danger.
In the opening paragraph, I had mentioned a white supremacist. Yes, I
almost went on a date with one. But that situation was not about the #MeToo
movement, although it certainly was about the current White House occupant. This
guy was not sexist or mean, or even rude to me. He just though that Trump was,
“good for us whites,” and that, “whites have had it so bad for so long, it is
so much better under Trump, I know there aren’t a lot of white people in
Hollywood, but please give Trump a chance.” I live in Hollywood, he lives in
Anaheim – the heart of the OC. Behind the Orange Curtain, as Angelinos like to
say. It was beyond angering and sad; it certainly put me into a tailspin, and I
got him removed from Bumble. But it wasn’t actually misogynistic.
Next was just a phone call. Again, I pulled teeth to get it, but really
wish I hadn’t. He was a fortysomething reality TV producer who had once been a
journalist for the New Orleans Times-Picayune for ten years. This was hot to
me. He called and within a minute was wanting to give me a nickname, I told him
my last name and he said he didn’t like alliteration, but what if he called me
“R squared? Or R to the second power?” I don’t know what I said. But I didn’t
need to say anything because he was off, babbling fast about how he’d been
married once, about his last job and his current job, then asked if I’d been
married – “No.” “Why not? How can you be your age and never married?
Did no one ask you? What’s wrong with you?” “Nothing! What do you mean, I just
don’t want to be married.” “Ever? No one has ever asked you? What’s wrong with
you?” “Nothing is wrong with me, yes a couple guys have asked, but I was young
and said no . . .” “OH, so you’re a heartbreaker. You crush men.” “What? No – I
. . .” but he was off to his next topic, going to Arizona later that day, and
then suddenly he said, “So are you gonna jerk me of?” “What?” I said – “Oh,
does that offend you? Or do you not do that?” THIS is where my fucking
bullshit and desperate conditioning comes in. Instead of just hanging up . . .
instead of yelling WhatTheFuck!?! . . . instead of
saying I don’t know you, Dude, and that’s not cool . . . I
just gave a nervous giggle and mumble something like, “Well, I don’t know about
that. I’m not saying I’m against it – I just, I don’t know you and –“ he rolled
right over me, continuing his blather about Arizona and a football game and
drinking all weekend. I said, “Oh, by the way I’m not a big drinker, just FYI.”
“Ok, I’ll drink for both of us. Then you’ll have to jerk me off in return.” “In
return for what?” “For me drinking for you.” At that point, I managed to say,
“Ok, that makes no sense. You talk too fast, I can’t understand you and I am
exhausted after three minutes.” He laughed and told me to rest up and he would
call me on the way back from Arizona, and we both just sort of mumbled goodbye
and hung up. After a minute of processing, I politely texted him that we were
not a match, and have a safe trip. He did not reply but instantly deleted our
Bumble connection. I mean, before I could open the app, he was gone. HA!
Fascinating that men have the confidence to say, “Jerk me off!” before they
even meet you, but lose all confidence with a single “no.”
The next guy I actually talked to quite a bit on the phone, though he too
was apprehensive of phone calls. He was forty-eight. It turned out he lived
thirty miles away. I was going to put the kibosh on it quickly because thirty
miles can be a one or two hour drive in SoCal, but he seemed really nice and
was an amazing painter. His art is shockingly beautiful and very Van Gogh like.
We talked for hours over a week or so. It was sort of lovely. He finally came
up to the city and it was . . . not lovely. He was half an hour late with no
text or call. When he finally called me, he was standing outside on the street
looking for my address. “I’m in front of 833” “Ok, I live at 848” “Yeah I know,
but there’s no 848 here.” I said, “What do you mean? You’re on the . . . you
have to cross the street. I’ll come out.” I did go out, and there he was, still
across the street, now at 851, very confused. He was in a shitty, old t-shirt,
dirty jeans and beat up Keds.
We had planned to go look at architecture, get something to eat and bake
some banana bread. The latter just because I needed to get that done and
thought it’d be fun to do together. Boy, was I wrong. The buildings were
something he wanted to see for painting subjects. I asked if he would drive. He
immediately looked annoyed. He said fine, but in that way an
eight-year-old says it, “fine!” Emphatic but under his breath. It threw me. I
didn’t think fast enough to just insist on driving and from the moment we got
in the car, I regretted that. He was a completely different person than the one
I spent hours on the phone with. He was nearly silent. Petulant and pervy.
Frustrated and impatient. When he did speak, he mumbled, and it was to complain
about LA or mention my tits. He was surprised I wore a dress. He was surprised
I looked nice. Of course he was, because he didn’t. Each place
we went, he didn’t even get out of the car or take a photo (for painting
reference). We went up to Lloyd Wright’s (Frank Jr.) Hollyhock House in Los
Feliz, truly amazing architecture. Very famous. He didn’t show any interest,
not in the least. It was so weird. I gave up and said “Let’s go eat.” He
agreed. I had asked earlier that he pick a place he would like, look online and
check out Melrose. I didn’t want to make all the decisions. I didn’t want to
control the date. He didn’t do this. So, I gave him five choices, he picked
ramen. Good, fine with me. We got there and had to park in an attended lot. Not
valet, but leave the keys anyway. This totally pissed him off. It pissed him
off that he was being directed “where” to park, that he might get blocked in,
that he had to leave the keys, and (I think) that he might have to tip the guy,
but it was FREE parking. The attendant gave him the ticket and said, “Get it
validated” and he actually scowled – I took it from him and slipped it in my
purse.
I explained this parking was common in LA, but that it was almost always
free with validation. He just shrugged and said, “Different way of life.” Yes,
yes it was. The experience in the ramen place was no different. We stood in
line, this annoyed him. We ordered from iPads, this annoyed him. He ordered
then went outside to take a call, but the iPad was also a register, so I paid
for both of us. He came back in and immediately asked me about paying. I
explained, he got annoyed. We got up to the host to be seated and he asked the
guy to reverse his half of the bill and let him pay cash. It was complicated
and this made him actually angry. The line behind us was long, this stressed
him out more. I wanted to intervene, but decided to let him flounder in his
petulant behavior. We sat and waited for the food in virtual silence. I tried
to start a conversation so many times I ended up blurting out, “You’re really
making this hard for me.” He looked puzzled and said nothing. Food came,
we ate. As I was on my last slurps, he said, “Shall we go? I want to get this
banana bread made and done with.” Christ.
This guy was not big and imposing. He was maybe 5’6” and 150 lbs. So, I
didn’t feel threatened or fearful, but I felt demeaned. And maybe disliked?
Personally disliked– and what I mean by that is that men who demean women do it
“across the board” – it’s not that personal. But, not being liked on a date is
completely personal.
Now, it’s fine if he didn’t like me, except for what came next. We went
back to my place and as we walked in he said, “Ok, let’s get the bread made!”
and I said, “We are not making banana bread.” “Oh, why not?” “Because you seem
angry and annoyed at everything since you got here and I don’t think you want
to bake bread, and I sure don’t want to anymore.” I felt my defense mechanism
of rudeness pop out. He just shrugged and asked for the bathroom. I pointed,
but said, “Oh, the door-hinge is loose, you have to lift up on the handle to
close it.” He said, “Do I need to close
it?” -YES!- What the hell kind of question is
that? I’d known him for three hours! That really creeped me out. He came out, I
was thinking of a way to just get him to leave as he plopped down on the couch.
He just sort-of stared at me, now with a sheepish smile. I sat down, not close
but not far. It took him about a minute to lean in, put his arm around my back
and pull me over for . . . the worst kiss I have ever had in my life. And I
have had some bad kisses. I was absolutely stunned. I almost thought it was a
joke. I tried my best technique, hoping he’d follow my lead --- NOPE! Why was I
trying at all? I don’t know. Sometimes you just get confused. After about
thirty seconds I pulled away and had to say, “This just isn’t going to work.”
He quietly said, “Really?” I just said, “Yeah.” He immediately shoved his whole
body to the opposite end of the couch. “You don’t have to do that.” I said, but
of course he was wounded. I scooted over and put my hand on his arm. We just
sat for a minute or two and then I noticed he was rubbing his crotch with his other
forearm. I actually said, “Please stop rubbing your dick.” He said he didn’t
even notice he was doing it. “Ok, you should go.” “Yeah, I should go.” We stood
up, facing each other, and he looked right at my tits and said, “Can I just
touch them?” “What? No.” But I went in to hug him goodnight, because I
felt bad, and not only did he grab my tits, he slid his hands from them
down to my ass where he pushed himself into me for a quick grind. I pushed him
away, walked to the door and opened it. He walked out, sheepishly.
After him, there was a series of text messages and one or two calls from
other guys. One cute guy asked for my number, so I thought I would actually
talk to him – instead I got four full, mostly nude, body pics (sans face), four
dick pics, and a ten second video of him masturbating into a sink. Yup. I told
him to get lost, and three days later I got another dick pick with the
question, “Morning sex?”
One guy I spoke to was either stoned or eating gravel while watching the
cooking channel. He could barely answer the phone. “Yeah . . . uh, Yeah?” He
continued to mumbled and he “spoke” about how he was cooking brisket for his
Sunday dinner, alone, and was very surprised I didn’t do the same. He then
asked, “What’s your favorite drink? I’ll bring it to your house tomorrow.” I
don’t even know what that meant. I had told him that I don’t like
to drink. I think he heard what he wanted to hear, a girl with a smoky, radio
voice saying, “I really like to drink, will you bring me a cocktail?”
I made it clear, I was not a big drinker. He was
disappointed. I then asked him about Trump. “Well, I guess he says some okay
stuff.” I asked, “Did you vote for him?” He said, “I’m not really into to
politics. I don’t pay attention.” I said, “So, you don’t have any opinion about
what’s going on?” “No, I don’t really care. I mean, I guess Reagan was cool.”
“You don’t care?” I echoed. Huh. Reagan, really? “Well, I think the Cold War
was pretty bad. The race to weaponize space and ratchet up public fear of
nuclear annihilation . . .” “Well, I don’t know about any of that.” he said.
Yeah. He was about forty, what the hell did he know about Reagan? I barely knew
anything about Reagan. I just ended the conversation by saying I didn’t think
this was a match. He said, “Really? Uh, okay, I’ll see ya later.”
Next up was a twenty-minute date. Again, a forty-five year old man who
didn’t want to talk on the phone, but he did, begrudgingly. I was apprehensive
after the phone call but then he texted me, “What a voice!” and I fell for it.
We met at a café, I was early and sitting by the door. He approached me fast,
jittery and a little sweaty. Super tall and much thinner than his photos. Also,
much older than his photos, but still handsome. He had a big smile and hugged
me but instantly said, “Let’s take a walk!” A flash of panic hit,
kidnapper? Rapist? Would I be pulled into a bush or a back alley? But, as women
often have to do, I made a split decision to trust that that would not happen.
And it didn’t, but he was definitely off. We walked down Melrose at rush
hour, to La Cienega at rush hour. He spoke non-stop right over my head.
Literally, he was about 6’3”, I’m 5’4”. I finally said, “Can we walk somewhere
else? I can’t hear you.” “Like where?” he replied. “Like into the neighborhood,
down all of these side streets.” “Oh, uh, yeah I guess.” We did so and he just
continued to babble. I got a few words in about every five minutes, but that’s
it. He was exhausting. And clearly not interested in me. He never looked at me,
walked ahead of me, didn’t ask any questions and never shut up. We got back to
Melrose and I pointed out my car. He turned and said, “Are we gonna continue
this ‘love-fest’?” What? No. “I’m gonna go home.” I sheepishly
said. “Oh, Really? That’s it? Uh, ok, I’ll walk you to your car.” He did and he
was quiet, at last. He gave me another hug and jetted across the street. I
walked around to my driver’s side door and involuntarily mumbled, “What a
nightmare.” Instantly afraid I said it too loud, I looked up at him and he had
whipped out his phone and unmatched from me on the app before he could reach
the other side of the street. I guessed that’s what he was doing, so I got out
my phone, got on Bumble and watched our text conversation disappear.
Three blocks later . . . I got a direct text:
Him: “Not interested?”
Me: “No, you’re cute but the chemistry just wasn’t there. Sorry.”
Him: “Ok, but if you ever want oral, LMK”
Him: “I’d love to give that to you”
Him: “THAT DRESS!”
And in my must be kind to a man who I turn down/hurt ego/shows
interest conditioning, I sadly replied:
Me: “Haha, but no thank you.”
The truth is, though, there was a time when that would
have been flattering. When I would have felt some sort of ego boost, power or
even self-worth because a guy wanted me so much that it didn’t matter that I
didn’t want him. Now THAT is twisted. And I will say, that time will probably
come again – I mean, I’m not going to say I wasn’t flattered (while laughing)
when I got those texts. But, ultimately, I was just confused because that’s not
how I think. It’s not how I do business.
All of these examples are not how I do business. So, what . . . or who
has to change? I certainly don’t paint these men in a flattering light, but I
sure have a pattern of attracting these exact men, over and over; unavailable,
hot-to-trot, self-misrepresenting, mostly self-loathing, emotionally stunted,
selfish and somewhat apathetic men. I’m not just talking about the last four
months, I have three decades of these stories. So, I look at myself, and I realize
that my self-worth has been predicated on all my #MeToo
situations.
I could not stop those things from happening, I still cannot stop most of
those things from happening. But I can stop participating. I can work on my whole being. I can soften what
they do to me. I can talk it out, write it down, mold it into something else.
Something better. Something useful. It will not be easy or painless. It will
not suffice right away. I will do it kicking and crying, mostly. But I will do
it because this shit has to stop. If not in my lifetime, then in the next –
because my niece looks like a Polynesian Cindy Crawford. She started modeling
at sixteen, she has a fifty-five-second-400-meter dash, she is a 2016 Junior
Olympian, she has a 4.2 GPA as a college freshman and the chutzpa of Michelle
Obama.
She will acquire some #MeToo stories, if she has not already, but I hope
her journey is far shorter than mine, as I know my journey has been far shorter
than my mother’s. And when those situations arise for her, I will be here to
remind her of the following:
When someone shows you who they are, believe them.
Actions really do speak louder than words.
Time heals everything.
And, of course, #MeToo.
