FLABBERGASTED by the #Metoo movement

Maybe it’s because I grew up on the mean streets of Brooklyn or that I have been dodging molesters since I could walk, but I just don't understand the reaction of many women to sexual harassment. The shock and surprise surprises me.

For me, when I meet a guy I think "potential rapist," and he has to work from there to convince me that he is a human worth talking to (unfortunately, many don't). With statistics telling us that one out of six women has been raped, how can any sane women who wants to stay that way trust a man they do not know? 

Why are we shocked when a woman says a guy did something inappropriate? Yes, many men do not-- hopefully they are our family members and our friends--but strange men are strange men, and we should not give them the respect of believing they are decent human beings these days until they prove they are.

Believing a man is guilty before being innocent might save us some grief. A suit, money and power on a man may be attractive, but they do not mean he is a gentleman and may mean he feels comfortable enough with his wealth and power to do anything he would like to a woman. 

How is this a face to trust?

We live in a time when men call women "hos," "bitches," and "cunts." Women's bodies are draped in ads everywhere in sexual positions to reinforce the idea that we are walking vaginas there for men's usage, not people with feelings and needs and brains. We are hardly depicted as sisters, daughters or friends.

Our whole culture tells men to be aggressive, never to take no for an answer, to go after what they want with both hands. This is the opposite of what women need to feel safe. We need men with self-control, but our culture is telling them "more, more, more," "don't stop," "'no' doesn't really mean 'no', it means you haven't tried hard enough yet."  This doesn’t just apply to women but to things like pursuing success or a promotion.

This how we imagine the beginnings of  male/female relations

My solution? I don't know (maybe... always have a recording device on you?). My only piece of advice is never let a strange man surprise you. For me, when a man does something inappropriate I am not surprised. When I was a girl, I used to be surprised. I used to freeze. So much self-doubt crap went through my head. Can I take him? Will anyone believe me if I scream? What if he blames me? What if he says I wanted it? What if he tells people and I lose my job? Maybe I'm overeacting... Blah Blah Blah. By the time I could react he'd already groped me and left. Now, I'm not surprised. I know now that my self-respect is more important than anything because I have to sleep with me after him, and I am not going to have regrets, not going to have nightmares about him for the rest of my life, or change my hair, or gain weight, or live in fear.  That is why I always respond. I try never to get stuck like a deer in the headlights. I always move. I act in whatever way I feel is appropriate. I have an escape plan. I laugh it off, I move his hand, I say 'no'! and speak up, I scream, I lie, I punch or kick. Recently I only look him in the eye and let him know he has messed with the wrong woman. Then I rise, like Maya Angelou said we should, and leave. I suggest we all learn how to rise.

If you think this is about blaming the victim, that's in your brain and has nothing to do with what I wrote. I know we all get victimized. That is life. It’s naive to believe that we’re getting out of this world without some scars. To fall down is not avoidable, to not learn from falling down is. 

Share and help arm another woman if you agree.

Monstrous Love: My love affair with Frankenstein's Monster

When I was a little girl, I loved Frankenstein's monster. I know you're thinking I must have been a weird little girl. Maybe. But I was allowed to watch a lot of horror movies as a kid, so my friends were TV monsters.

Frank and I met after my great-grandmother's funeral. My grandmother had taken me with her to the wake. When she got tired of making me stay still and be quiet, a cousin of mine offered to watch me. I was around three. She was a teenager and took me to her room. I did not have my own room at my house and had to sleep with my mother, so this was an amazing thing. My cousin had her own closet too. While she was trying to entertain me, she opened it and I saw Frank stuffed up in a corner. She was bringing down a lot of toys to distract me, but he was the only one who held my attention. He was a Halloween present, she told me. He had a soft body but plastic hands, head and boots. When I saw him, I was amazed. Maybe it was because something I had seen on TV had materialized in front of me. Maybe it was because I had seen him playing with a little girl in the movie and hoped he would play with me too (I did not see the part where he drowned her. I saw the abridged version). I was surrounded by a bunch of girly toys, but he was the only one I wanted to play with. I sat him in my lap and held him close while I played. My cousin was so amused by the "pretty little girl and the monster" thing, she let me have him.

Okay, I know what  many of you will say. That thing was ugly. Why would you want to play with it? I know you would ask that because that was the same thing my mother asked when she saw him. Why? Well, my little girl brain did not know anything about monsters. All I saw was a wounded, hurt human being. I saw stitches and raw wounded skin. I saw someone who had been abused by the world.  I empathized. As a victim of child abuse, I saw the scars so similar to those I had suffered at my mother's hands. So, I held on tight to Frank. I would pet his head and kiss his wounds to try and make him feel better. Maybe it was a way of consoling the wounded child inside myself. I wanted to protect him from the world and stop it from hurting him the way I could not stop my mother from hurting me.

As you can foresee, my mother hated Frank. It could have been for several reasons: one because I loved him or two because of all the attention I got because he was with me. For some reason the sight of a little girl in a frilly dress clutching a Frankenstein's monster doll protectively to her heart was cause for commentary everywhere I went.

"Oh my god, look at her." "Isn't she adorable." "Look how she holds that thing. Isn't that cute?" Unfortunately,  my mother had a personality disorder with a side-order of Narcissism  so, my getting attention was her least favorite thing.
"Why do you have to take that ugly thing everywhere?" she would scream at me.
"I love him," I would yell back.
"He's ugly! It's disgusting. I'm going to throw him in the garbage."
"Don't hurt him," I would scream, "don't hurt him anymore!"
"Well, get him out of my sight or I will."
I would keep him in the bedroom or behind my back. Only when she was at work could I sit in peace with him and stroke his wounded plastic head and talk to him of better days. Our time was short though. My mother had her ways of separating me from the things I loved.

I had an asthma attack. I clung to Frank all the way to the hospital, breathing for him. I had to sit in the waiting room a long time. I fell asleep. My mother must have pulled him from my arms. I think I remember waking a few times during her attempts. When the nurse finally came, my mother scooped me up and left him on the chair while she carried me from the waiting room. The fear of getting a shot blanked my mind. I was on my way home before I remembered he was gone. He was alone, defenseless without me in a cold, cruel world that did not understand him or love him.
"We have to go back." I cried.
"You should have kept an eye on him. Some kid probably took him. You always lose things."
"Can't we turn around?"
"No."
"Can't we call and ask them to hold him till we come back?"
"NO!" She looked ahead trying not to smile, and I knew that she had gotten rid of him.

I have had a long relationship with monsters. Some I loved, and some I didn't.

Have you ever lost a beloved toy? There are actually websites that help people find them or replacements. https://www.facebook.com/TeddyBearLostAndFound  and http://www.lostmylovey.com/

I would like to add that those with great mothers should be happy they had someone to support them. For those of us who did not, nothing is guaranteed in this world. Mothers, like all people, come in every flavor. I am glad I am alive and had a chance to be born. I nearly did not survive birth or childhood, but I am strong, resilient and intelligent.  Life is a rose garden full of thorns. It, my mother and my own will have helped shape me into the person I am today, a person I am glad to be.



Candice Raquel Lee

Author of  The Innocent: A  Love Story 

and Effed Up: An Abnormal Romance