For the past couple of days, I have written about the looming issue of teen rape allegations that have been leveled against Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh by Dr. Christine Basley Ford.
It has roiled emotions in me that as a 65-year-old woman you wouldn’t think would still be so tender.
But I have always been a deeply reflective person, admittedly with a bit of the drama queen thrown in. Hopefully it makes what I write a little more worth reading than it might otherwise be.
I just read a “Washington Post” article by a writer named Elizabeth Bruenig that I wish I could lay claim to – except she deserves every accolade she receives for having written it so beautifully.
It is the story of a teen rape that occurred in her high school and how justice was never obtained by the victim, even though she reported it in a timely manner.
But mostly it is about the cruelties of high school and small, insular communities and how people come angrily together in their denial to harm a victim even more.
And it is how the gentlest, most vulnerable among us are easy prey for hunters who can kill us with harmful acts and deadly lies as easily as if they shot us.
This story took me back to my own teen years and school experiences. As it takes place in Texas, it also makes me wonder about what one of my nieces may have experienced that has led her to a life outcome I desperately didn’t want for her.
Some things I know. But a great deal I am sure I – or maybe anyone – know nothing about.
She doesn’t know how much I still love her and ache for her to turn her life around. She doesn’t know this because we don’t speak any more.
That is on me. Because there comes a point when you have held out your hand to help someone, and they continually slap it away, you just stop. There comes a time when they do something that – while you can forgive it – you can’t stand by and quietly observe it any more.
Because maybe what they did hits a little too close to a raw childhood nerve that never heals. Even when you are 65-years-old.
Ours is a family dominated by a matriarch who was never my mother, not in a daily sense, as she didn’t raise me.
But her imprint was stamped on me at birth and repeatedly pointed out to me by the parents who did raise me, my grandfather and his second wife. Down to a “sneer” I didn’t know I possessed and a physical resemblance I am constantly told of by my sisters.
As I came to know her as an adult, we searched out the similarities in each other, from the exact same outfits hanging in our closets to our shared love of reading and doing crosswords.
Although I don’t think she graduated high school, as she was 16 when I was born, she was a smart cookie, my mother.
I am a smart cookie too. Except we both had terrible taste in men. In fact, except for my youngest sister, none of us has had much luck on that score.
It’s generational, it seems, touching my niece’s life in very dramatic ways.
Which is a round about way of getting back to the main issue. How, in a society supposedly as advanced as is our own, are women still prey and men the hunters?
What are the biological and psychological imperatives that drive that dynamic so that it cannot be educated out of us? Even at the “highest “ levels of our society?
If we are, indeed, created in God’s image, what does that make God? Why ever would the angels envy us, as my Catholic religion teaches, we creatures with one foot in the material and the other in the spiritual world?
No, I am not blaming God for our fallen choices. Just for knowing in advance that we would make them. And knowing that his dying on the Cross to expiate their sin wouldn’t make living any less painful for us all.
I have always questioned what purgatory really means, if it really exists. Perhaps this is it: knowing some of us are prey, and others hunters.
And screaming #MeToo doesn’t seem to change it very much at all.