Thinking through the week that was

I don’t know if it is because I’ve been sick this week and watched/listened to more news than any time in the last few years.  Or maybe because I haven’t been at work to fill my head with event todos, I try to discourage myself from coughing as I go to sleep by listening to history podcasts.  Or maybe this moment in history is very resonant for me. 

I suspect it is for a lot of you, too.

I find myself with the need to write and process some of these reflections.  I can’t say there is a throughline.  Just some things that keep coming back to mind.

1. One of the neglected manuscripts on my computer takes place in the years leading up to the American Revolution.  There has been enough progress and subsequent neglect that I forget how the pieces came together – but in some research of life in Massachusetts during the 1770s, I discovered that the crime of fornication was still a punishable offense for women.  The punishment was either imprisonment or a fine.  I don’t have the sources handy right now, but I do remember that when there was the inescapable evidence of a pregnancy, the female was found at fault.  If she was lucky, the father would step up to pay the fine.  If she was unlucky, she was pregnant in a cell.  If she was an indenture (as was still a pretty common thing), she would have to pay the fine by extending that indenture.  Consent to the fornication was not significant.  It was her fault and her crime.

I weaved that into the story of my time traveler, but she is mostly a witness.  There is a novel - Bound by Sally Gunning -  that puts one such case at the forefront, which I reference because I used her references.  In any case, it is worth noting that both stories take place as men – white men – were rising up and declaring themselves oppressed by a king.  Not peaceably.  Drunkenly.  Violently.  And still enslaving and oppressing the people in the colony who were a different color or gender. 

That is the cloth from which we cut this nation.

2. I walked away from theater this spring.  There are a gazillion reasons for that and it is largely a good thing.  But the irritation of one has reared its head these last few days.

Theater politics are typically petty and not worth the energy or time they consume.  But there was something largely infuriating about my tenure on the board of a rural community theater the last three years.  I own the fact I rattled some cages by challenging the status quo and pushing for change.  I butted heads with quite a few people because of that.  There was one older gentleman who consistently challenged everything I had to say.  It isn’t worth getting into the details of it all, but one thing that really startled me was how he repeatedly expressed his disdain when I spoke the words, “I think” or “I feel.” He argued that was evidence of the fact I was selfish and self-serving and harmful to the theater.    I questioned myself as a consequence and listened to how others spoke at our meetings, and not surprisingly every other person at the table used those words.  But my determination to express what I thought and felt bothered this man enough to call me out for it again and again.

While I’ve certainly experienced patriarchy and misogyny in my 43 years, that was a first for me.  It wasn’t a snide remark about my appearance.  It wasn’t limiting my opportunity to have an office.  But it was censure, telling me it was inappropriate to express what I thought or felt.  I wish I could say I let it slide off my back because it is stupid petty theater.  But it didn’t.  It cut into me because I once admired this older gentleman for his intelligence and generosity.  I questioned myself and my goodness because maybe he had a point.  Maybe I was acting out of self-interest.  The truth was, I just wasn’t acting in his. 

I know this man didn’t see the harm in what he said.  And others who heard it didn’t argue against him - even if they said something else to me at another time - because he was a respected member.  It was frustrating.  Infuriating… and ultimately weakening.  It is a little thing and yet huge, because isn’t that a lot of what is happening right now?  The older, respectable white men being dismissive of a woman’s thoughts?  Especially when it gets in the way or interferes with the status quo?

I gave up fighting that fight, reserving my energy for something that matters more than rural community theater.  But, at the same time, I let myself be silenced.  I don’t know how I feel about that.  Icky.  Foolish.  Powerless.

3. A few months back, I was with a group of friends when the subject of #metoo came up.  The conversation expressed a fatigue with the movement – almost disdain.  There was a disbelief in the genuine nature of some of the claims, something that surprised me and yet I was willing to engage in the conversation.  I knew there are obviously people, good people, who feel that way.

I tried to maintain civility with this topic.  Because I get it.  When a lot of people do things, it is easy to question the motivation.  But I felt my body start to shake with the uncertainty of how to argue my counter opinion.  Because I have a #metoo story.   I couldn’t find the courage to tell it in that conversation.  Maybe because it was a public place.  Maybe because I already saw the doubt.  Because I won’t use it to win an argument.

And there again, I gave up my voice.  Because I didn’t see what good it would have done to go there at that time.  Maybe they would have thought it was just another one of my creative fictions.  I know I shouldn’t think that way.  But the self-doubt and shame are so deeply rooted it cripples you. 

I suppose that is one thing that has drawn me to the news clips in the last week.  I am in awe of the courage of Dr. Ford to speak about what happened to her 36 years ago.  I see her and then saw people I know and care about question her and her motivation.  Then I assume they would probably do the same thing to me.  Intellectually, I know that probably isn’t true.  I also know there are so many more who would listen – but all it takes is one person to doubt you.  One person to disregard and make you feel all the pain and shame and tears isn’t worth it. 

4. I’ve been catching up on episodes of The (Irish) Women’s Podcast as I’ve gone to sleep.  One episode was about a documentary aired on RTE last spring, No Country for Women.  A few things about that discussion have stuck in my head.

- There were a lot of women active in the 1916 revolution of Ireland.  They helped to shake off the oppression of England… only to be oppressed by the Irish Free State a few years later.

- The Irish Free State was influenced largely by the wealth and power of the Catholic Church who could support an infrastructure left without the resources the British Empire provided.  Over the course of the 20^th century this influence made abortion, birth control, and divorce illegal.

- That happened because women lost their voices.  The 1927 Juries Act forbade women from serving on juries unless they owned property.  They could not work as a public servant after marriage.  They weren’t allowed to drink in pubs.  They could not give proper evidence in cases of rape because censorship laws forbid the use of the word vagina.

These bullets are not academic or informed by personal experience.  It is just how I digest another nation’s story to figure out how to swallow the present reality of my own.  I see the possibility of hope when I look at the more recent history of the last 20 years, especially the overwhelming efforts to legalize gay marriage and repeal the 8^th amendment.  The pendulum swings backward, but it can come forward again with a mighty force.

I can’t say these reflections have led me to a conclusion.  Indeed, I’ve been typing these paragraphs over two days and hesitate about the value of publishing this post.  Is it just another indulgent act of self-interest to expect readers to care about what I’m thinking or feeling right now?

But isn’t that the thing?  And the most dangerous part of what has happened?  The assertion of power and the stifling of our voices.  Maybe I don’t have the answers right now.  But, as I said in the beginning, I suspect I’m not alone in lingering on this topic, through whatever personal or historic lens I look through.

I know the most important way to claim my voice in the next few weeks is to vote.  And then as I go through all these paragraphs again and again, I remind myself of what I’ve always known.  There are stories I can’t bring myself to tell.  That’s why I write my fiction, to find another way of telling them.  And maybe that neglected manuscript that came back to mind this week is a good place to start.