The Making of Brett Kavanaugh

Call it the smirk heard ’round the world.

Images of a young, white man smugly invading the space of a chanting First Nation’s Elder, while trying to goad him into a physical altercation as his friends and guardians egged him on was infuriating to anyone with a modicum of  decency or empathy.

It was that much worse, then, to know that Nathan Phillips – Vietnam Vet and Omaha tribal Elder – had received this treatment after interceding with a blessing to keep the peace between the Trump-supporting teens and a group of black protesters who were hurling insults at one another by the Lincoln Memorial.

Videos show an aggressive white teen – who would be called a thug were he black and sporting a hoodie – get closer and closer to Phillips, glaring at him and daring him to engage in any way. Soon his fellow students are mocking Phillips’ ceremonial chant, some of them dancing – all of them laughing.

Phillips was treated to the indignity of having his faith and culture cruelly mocked for his efforts to keep the peace between Trumpers and black protesters. It’s truly mind boggling.

The prep school student and his friends had just come from the ‘March For Life’ along the National Mall in Washington, D.C., as part of a sanctioned school field trip from Covington Catholic High School in Park Hills, Kentucky. It is unknown if the tax exempt school or diocese provided the MAGA hats that so many of the students were sporting, or if the students bought them as souvenirs of their trip. Regardless of their origin, students of CCH were wearing the caps with the tacit approval of staff and chaperones, who were also happy enough to listen to their charges shout ‘Build that wall!!’ and mock at length a ceremonial Native American chant.

These wankers had just come from a march purportedly celebrating the dignity of human life, and here they were mocking the value of someone else’s religious beliefs.

How these young men came to be cruelty taunting a revered Omaha tribal Elder might best approached by first accepting that this incident did not happen in a vacuum.

Covington Catholic High School has a reputation for racism, homophobia and misogyny, and the school – which is located on Dixie Highway – has an antebellum Colonel for a mascot. Because of course it does.

The school’s mission statement is shockingly sexist, referring to women and girls as not just an afterthought but by that Incel buzzword: Female.

 

ky hy eb females

 

Twitter is chock full complaints about the Bro Culture at the school.

Former CCH student Mac Duckworth details in this twitter thread how he was mercilessly bullied after he came out in 8th grade. He details years of online abuse, in person tormenting, other students refusing to respect personal space and boundaries, and the glee CCH students took in physically threatening him.

CCH students feigned surprise in 2017 when social media called them out for wearing blackface for Halloween, and posting pictures themselves smiling and laughing.

Then there is the scandal of Jake Walter, who was found guilty in his senior year of raping young woman just weeks before his 18th birthday, in 2018. The 7-foot, 300 lb basketball star-player received probation, and registered as a juvenile sex offender for a few weeks, until he became an adult. Seven months later Walter, the son of a former Cincinnati Bengal, was arrested for rape the second time in a year, this time with 2 counts of sodomy. According to court records both women he victimized were hospitalized after he choked and raped them, and laughed as he dismissed their pleas for him to stop.

These incidents all have one thing in common: CCH students sadistically finding humor in other’s pain.

Because cruelty is the point, you see.

 

indelible in the hippocampus

 

Recall, if you will, Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s Senate testimony during Brett Kavanaugh’s SCOTUS confirmation hearing. Dr. Ford spoke clearly about Kavanaugh and his friend attempting to rape her when they were all in high school, and she was a few years younger than them. Ford spoke with great authority about the incident and what she would remember ever after: “Indelible in the hippocampus was the laughter.”

Cruelty was the point then, too.

You can draw a direct line from the coddled, white, religious prep school students who tried to intimidate a Veteran tribal Elder with smug sneers and viscous laughter all the way to Brett Kavanaugh demanding we not look at how he acted at that age because BOYS WILL BE BOYS!!!

This is the STENCH of moneyed white male privilege.

I see *so much* of Kavanaugh in these entitled, toxic young men from Kentucky.

Kavanaugh was nurtured and encouraged in an exclusionary Catholic school that encourages every one of these men to indulge in ‘Smartest Boy In The Room Syndrome’, where they know they’re better than everyone else by dint of religion, education, genetic, and sexual superiority.

When their self-imagined primacy isn’t enough to keep the insecurity wolves at bay they preen through life with the back-pocket knowledge that Daddy’s money and connections will always save them if their genetic superiority won’t.

It’s not such a surprise that a parochial school trip to advocate for women to lose their self-agency (with nary a vagina betwixt them) should end with the absolute disrespect of our First Nations’ people and their spiritual beliefs.

Don’t forget these insufferable Kavanaughs-in-training KNEW they were being filmed, and still thought this was a good idea to scream ‘BUILD THE WALL’ at an Omaha Elder, proving they’re only motivated by White Supremacy, and not any fear of terrorist illegal immigrants.

Now imagine what they’re capable of doing when they think no-one is watching.

 

then and now

Advertisements

Doesn’t Play Well With Others

I was recently messaging with a friend about the fool’s errand of saying, ‘I want to keep everyone happy’.

It has NEVER been possible in the best of times to make everyone happy. These days? Pffft. 40% of the country identifies with Nazis and White Nationalists (but I repeat myself), and another good 20% just can’t be arsed to get involved with the suffering of others. These ‘Keep Everyone Happy’ folks spend great quantities of energy NOT THINKING about kidnapped brown children in cages, or that their friend’s sexuality is being legislated out of existence, or that the Press isn’t just being threatened anymore – they’re being murdered and jailed.

The most disappointing thing about Trump is not his poor behavior, but the poor behavior of our family and friends. Their Nazism or lack of will to stand up to it has translated to ruptured relationships and hurt feelings. In the last few years I’ve parted company with a good number of people I had been very close with for a long time – some of them I’d known since childhood. But, I draw the line at Fascism and Nazis.

Not one person with a moral compass is immune from this culling.

Sometimes you cull people who have become openly, virulently White Nationalists. Take my neighbor, for instance, who believes Muslims should be registered and Syrians should be put in concentration camps. Or my husband’s college friend who believes Human Rights are no longer universal because not everyone is a human being.

Sometimes people who can’t bother giving up an inch of their White Privilege, and just want you to STOP TALKING about things that make them sad or uncomfortable cull you. They ghost you because you’re Debbie Downer with all your talk about children in cages and The Geneva Convention and the UN Convention on Genocide. Can’t you just go back to posting hilarious and disgusting vintage ads featuring Spam or mayonnaise?

No. No, I can’t pretend that Trump isn’t gaslighting us every time he opens his mouth. Nor am I going to be silent about Trump delivering on the promise of state sponsored murder and the torture of children. I refuse to ignore his abusive threats to the Press that the violence will continue until the coverage improves. I will not keep my opinions to myself about this Fascist almost-Dictator who promises to violate the 1st, 2nd, 4th, 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th, 9th and 14th Amendments, and to end abortion, civil rights, voting rights, marriage equality and the EPA.

“Not gonna happen,” to quote George Bush the Senior.

 

Spam & Peaches

 

 

This culling of our friends and family list didn’t start on January 21, 2017. It began loooong before that, and congealed when Trump declared his candidacy, in June of 2015. Too many people have still not figured out that the radicalization of the American Alt-White movement began decades ago with the Southern Strategy, and solidified in earnest in 2010 when Mitch McConnell vowed to make Obama a one-term president by opposing ANYTHING he supported, and by silently allowing birth certificate rumors to flourish unchecked.

McConnell and Lift-Bro Ryan should have taken every opportunity to stamp out the pernicious racist rumor that Barack Obama was born in Kenya, his birth certificate was fake, and therefore he was an illegitimate president. But they, and every other member of the GOP leadership, hadn’t even the barest scrap of integrity to say, “So what? Even if Obama was born in Kenya he can still be POTUS because he’s AMERICAN citizen, being that his mother was born in Kansas. It’s in The Constitution.”

This well known fact went unspoken by the GOP, and the Alt-White pretended it didn’t exist by continually shrieking about the birf certificate!!

But, it was never about Kenya or Kansas for these folks. A black man was elected President and gave them health care against their will, and the Alt-White lost it’s collective fucking mind.

When a WOMAN had the temerity to try to use 45 years of advocacy for the disenfranchised and hard work within her own party to run for President, the Alt-White lost its collective fucking mind again. This time they were joined by a motley assortment of Brogressives who were simply FURIOUS they couldn’t have their pony, so Fuck It!! I’ll have viper, instead, and we might as well burn this bitch down, while we’re at it.

These things were all quite clear in the fall of 2016. Trump had been gaslighting and saying terrible things unabated for 16 months. Instead of people taking him seriously they were amused by him.

The more I raised my voice about how THIS IS NOT NORMAL!! The more I was either avoided or assured I was making a mountain out of a molehill.

He’s NOT going to win, and even if – by some fluke – he did, he’s not going to be able to do the things he promised. There are laws.”

Unfortunately NOBODY paid attention to what I kept harping about: If Trump wins the election the Executive, Legislative and Judicial branches would all be held by one party. There was a SCOTUS seat at stake, and thus the ENTIRE make-up of the court for the next 20 years was hanging in the balance. Not only that, McConnell had blocked nearly 1,000 of Obama’s rightful picks to open judgeship positions at all levels of the federal circuit and appeals courts.

Couldn’t ANYONE see the consequences of the GOP having unfettered control of EVERYTHING?!

I felt like Cassandra whose warnings went unheeded: The balance of power would shift too far if Trump was elected. Trump is an Abuser, and you believe an Abuser when they promise to hurt you.

 

But Her Emails Handmaids Tale

 

 

It was at that time (September of 2016) that I finally broke up with my creepy psychiatrist, and I’ve been carrying some unresolved and seriously unnecessary baggage about it ever since.

I say ‘break up’ because you have to put an immense amount of trust in someone to be able to tell them your hopes and fears. He violated my trust, though, and it became an abusive relationship in August of 2016, when he ‘jokingly’ threatened to sell my records to the paparazzi.

Yes. My psychiatrist actually threatened to sell my records to the paparazzi to make a quick buck – and then called it a joke.

I knew what he did was wrong at the time. But I ignored the fucked up dynamic of the middle-aged white male abusing his power because he was a Doctor.

It took me writing about him and what he did to me to see that he was trying to mold me and ‘fix’ me through intimidation, not help me navigate an increasingly hostile world. He abused his power by threatening to expose my deepest fears and secrets (for profit) to strangers who would ridicule me, and have undeserved access to my inner-most thoughts – and then called it a joke.

He had an idea of what I should be, and he expected me to kowtow to his notions and respond positively to the flex of his power, and capitulate to his emotional blackmail.

While it makes me feel like I need a Silkwood Shower just to write about what Dr. Blackmail did to me, it has to be given a voice. I realize I’m lucky I didn’t have a massive backslide.

The truth is that I grew up amongst a pack of abusive, rabid wolves, and it’s hard not to subconsciously pick abusive, rabid wolves with whom to associate. Even doctors.

I initially saw Dr. Blackmail in late 2014 to have medical supervision in getting off of short-term PTSD drugs another Psychiatrist had forgotten to stop, and I’d been on 18 months longer than recommended. (Whoops! Sorry about that. We good?) He was one of the only doctors who was taking patients at the time, and I jumped at the chance of getting off of the meds. It only occurs to me as I write this that every other patient I saw in Dr. Blackmail’s office was female, or with a man – presumably doing some kind of couple’s therapy. You do the math.

I got off the unnecessary PTSD drugs in just a few months, and things were SO much better. My anxiety attacks decreased by 90%, as did the visual vertigo, and the crippling panic attacks when I wanted to leave the house. My head was clearer, and my thoughts were, too. I began writing again, and resumed work on my memoirs. I even started this blog. This will be my 84th entry, and I have 11 drafts I’m still tinkering with, and I have more than 10,000 reads.

 

This about That First Post

First ever blog post, Nov 28, 2014

 

I continued seeing Dr. Blackmail because it was increasingly difficult to deal with my Mystery Illness. I needed emotional support to navigate the crushing disappointment of seeing dozens of doctors over several years, none of whom were able to diagnose the disease nor halt it symptoms. I was also grappling with the new reality that I couldn’t work, and I felt utterly useless to the world.

Dr. Blackmail REALLY WANTED to treat my appropriate grief and sadness with anti-depressants. I mean REALLY. WANTED.

No matter how many times I explained to him that I wanted nothing further to do with psych meds at that point – and ultimately *I* was the one making decisions about my health care – he would bring it up at EVERY damned appointment.

Finally I snapped at him, “Stop it. Stop asking me to take medication to change the way I think. I *LIKE* me. What you’re asking me to do is take happy pills to conform. Do you think I’m a danger to myself or others? No? Do you think I am incapable of caring for myself? No? THEN WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO CHANGE ME?!!”

His answer was always, “‘I think you’d do better if you were on something to stabilize your mood.”

Stabilize my mood.

Stabilize. My. Mood.

Stabilize.

My.

Mood.

Not to keep me safe. Not to keep others safe. Not because I was bi-polar, and in some kind of manic-depressive episode. Not because I was incapable of ascertaining reality, was hallucinating, or was hearing voices. But, because he thought it would be a great idea and best practices if I would kindly stop making such a fuss and please melt into society a bit more, and not be SO MUCH like me.

He claimed to be worried about my losing friends when I disconnected (willingly and unwillingly) from the users and abusers in my life, those uncomfortable with my illness, those who were revealing their dormant White Supremacy, and those unwilling to make a choice about the rising Nationalism. To Dr. Blackmail the most important thing wasn’t moral boundaries, but how many ‘friends’ I had.

Dr. Blackmail planted a bullshit seed that is at the heart of a continuing problem: I think I am a social misfit for having a highly developed sense of morality – and acting on it.

Sometimes when I block someone or (even bigger) let go of a hurtful person I’ve been close to in real life, I hear that asshole’s nagging voice about how when disappointing people leave my life it’s bad and entirely on my shoulders, and can be treated with medication.

That fucker made me question myself until today. No more. Today I let go of what I started when I walked away.

The proverbial Straw That Broke The Camel’s Back that caused me to leave his practice happened one day in September of 2016, probably a month after Dr. Blackmail threatened to sell my medical records. I was trying to explain how I felt like Cassandra, and this terrible thing was coming with Trump’s election. His response was to laugh at me good and hard and say through his gales, “Claudia, stop! Don’t be ridiculous. Trump’s NOT going to win!!”

Super professional behavior, no?

I blew my top, yelled at him for about 15 minutes and left, never to return. I’m certain my file is a shit show, and I regret not turning him into the state for his egregious behavior.

 

I think about Dr. Blackmail occasionally, and the thoughts that keep bubbling up are:

1) Why did you keep trying to medicate me if my only problem is ‘Doesn’t play well with others’?

2) WHY is it imperative everyone like me?

3) Who fucking threatens their patient’s privacy as a ‘joke’?

The inescapable truth was that more I pointed out the rising misogyny and institutionalized sexism that’s impossible to escape in America, the more I was told BY MY PSYCHIATRIST that I needed try to fit in harder. Complaining about online bullying and abuse by men led to being told I needed to stop arguing so much. When I became incensed about people who had been using me for years I was made to feel guilty for abandoning ‘my friends’.

The answer to my increasing distress at society treating me as inconsequential wasn’t to work on my fears through mindfulness and meditation – but, rather, to medicate me into compliance like a Stepford Wife.

We’re stuck in the 50s, and I was getting the modern-day treatment for Hysteria. This year’s pills aren’t Thorazine, but the aim is the same:

 

Sexist Thorazine

 

Medicate the FUCK out of the Little Lady and she won’t complain when she realizes society is stacked against her!!

“Holy shit, John. I just realized I wasted the best years of my life wiping noses and asses, and having your slippers ready when you walked in the door. Of course, I was useful during WWII when I worked in the factories and literally made and brought home the bacon. But THAT went down the memory hole, and I’m supposed to pretend self-agency wasn’t wonderful… What do I do NOW?!!”

“Open wide, Martha – you’ll never remember a thing.”

 

Keeping everyone happy is the least of my worries these days, because I’m really okay with the label ‘Doesn’t Play Well With Others’ when it comes to Nazis taking away my rights, and the rights of those I love.

Keeping everyone happy means you have to have the moral center of a marshmallow that gives whenever pushed. The ‘push’ right now is Fascism that’s quickly devolving into a Dictatorship. Being polite about our rapid descent into a White Nationalist totalitarian state means you agree with it, plain and simple.

There is no neutral position regarding Nazis – no one gets to play Switzerland.

I may have lost friends and loved ones to the rise of Fascism, and the lack of will to fight it. But good friends and loved ones who have stood the test of time are ever so dear to me, and make life lighter.

I’ve joined forces with some incredible new friends: Wonderful people who share the same ideals, and we value all lives – not just Blue or White. Together we all keep each other sane, and reassure each other that the gaslighting is happening, and NO, this isn’t normal.

You know what? Not a one of us Plays Well – and our voices will be heard while we have each other’s backs.

 

Dan Rather Decency

 

 

 

Lone White Gunman

This afternoon I heard one of my husband’s colleagues talking with a co-worker about different places they had worked. He remarked jovially that he taught for 39 years at Platte Valley High School, in Bailey, Colorado.

A female customer who was not part of the conversation said eagerly, “I go to church with Fred Wegener – were you there then?”

His face became serious and he said soberly, “I certainly was.”

“Did you see the shooting?” she asked breathlessly.

“I was in the classroom across from it,” he said quietly.

“You were?!” she thrilled, ignoring his distress, “What happened?”

He paused, having difficulty speaking, “I was the last person they took out of the building after I identified the bodies.”

At this point I disconnected from the woman’s grisly voyeurism and began to vainly wrack my brain, trying to remember the details of the Platte Valley High School shooting. Plate Valley. Platte Valley. Platte Valley…

But, all I could recall were Eric Harris, Dylan Kleebold and Columbine – James Holmes and The Aurora Theater Shooting – and The Youth With A Mission massacre just 3 blocks from my home.

Platte Valley… I simply couldn’t muster the details in my head, and waited hours before looking them up, just to see if they would finally come to me.

On Sept 27, 2006 the proverbial ‘Lone White Gunman’ Duane Roger Morrison entered Platte Valley High School and took 7 blond female students hostage in one classroom on the second floor, ordering the teacher and the rest of the students to leave. Morrison – who had no connection to anyone in the school – sexually assaulted the girls for several hours. As the random deadline Morrison set for the police approached Sheriff Fred Wegener made the decision to storm the classroom to save the hostages. Morrison killed a fleeing 16-year-old Emily Keyes before turning the gun on himself after being shot several times by the police.

I’m not sure which bothered me more: That I had somehow sublimated the shooting among of list of a dozen gruesomely notable killings in Colorado, or that the customer felt entitled to her ghoulish curiosity.

How crazy sick is our society that it’s possible to forget a madman raping girls at gunpoint and dying in a hail of gunfire because there are just SO MANY school shootings to keep track of?

It’s a society just crazy sick enough to encourage strangers to believe it is their god-given right to hungrily demand gruesome details from grieving victims moments after meeting them.

The United States is crazy sick with its multifaceted gun fetish, and it’s getting worse. We’re like the heroin addict who twitchily assures you they’re fine as they eye your silverware.

Perhaps we aren’t thinking and praying enough.

Yeah. That’s GOT to be it – more Thoughts and Prayers

Forever and Ever, Amen

“You have to ask yourself,” the hospital priest said to me, “what you did to bring this upon yourself.”

His words shamed me, and immediately I felt the crushing weight of responsibility on my chest. The color rose in my cheeks, and I was tearing up.

“But, they arrested him…” I began, lamely trying to defend myself from a second attack I was not prepared for, one I had not expected in the least.

“God will deal with him as he sees fit. Just as God knows what you did to bring this on yourself, and only He can judge your actions. If you do not forgive him God will hold it against you on Judgement Day. What you hold on Earth will be held against you in Heaven.”

I could not believe what I was hearing, propped up in a hospital bed at Saint Joseph’s Medical Center in Burbank, California, in May of 1980, just days after an emergency operation to remove my appendix, which burst as the surgeon removed it.

The night before an orderly had raped me, incorrectly assuming I was sedated. When he realized I wasn’t tranquilized he panicked, and shoved my head face-down into a pillow. When I stopped struggling he left the room, assuming the worst, and continued his duties.

I did nothing – paralyzed in fear, playing dead. I laid in that bed at the age of 16, certain he would come back and finish the job.

Finally, I could hear heels clacking on the tile floor, and knew it wasn’t him. It was the mother of my roommate – another 16-year-old girl, but one who had gotten her sleeping shot – who came back from dinner to check on her zonked-out daughter one final time for the night.

I lifted my face out of the pillow, gasping in cool delicious air, daring to hope.

“Hello?”  I called out to the woman on the other side of the divider, “I… I think I was molested by the orderly…”

“My god…” the woman gasped as she came over, “Then Cheryl was telling the truth about him last night?”

 

***

 

St Joes

Saint Joseph’s Hospital, Burbank, CA

 

Can we please stop pretending that the Catholic Church hasn’t known about the multitude of sexual predators in their midst going back to forever? Can we stop acting surprised?

Pope Francis’ statement about the *latest* revelation that the Catholic Church is rife with sexual predators who prey on and abuse minors is standard Catholic bullshit:

“I acknowledge once more the suffering endured by many minors due to sexual abuse, the abuse of power and the abuse of conscience perpetrated by a significant number of clerics”.

Blah, blah, blah.

You know what will Change? Dick all.

Absolutely nothing will happen, except a few old transphobic men wearing dresses will pretend to be shocked and outraged – and I guaran-fucking-tee you that as I put these words to long overdue paper that someone, somewhere within the church is at this very moment abusing a child – and NOTHING will be done.

Forever and Ever, Amen.

 

***

 

 

 

 

 

 

I grew up in the Catholic Church, and our parish was Our Lady of the Holy Rosary in Sun Valley, California, in the eastern San Fernando Valley. My brothers attended school there until the nuns who were teaching primary school voted to stop wearing a full habit, and were disappeared by the church one weekend.

The Church had no concerns that the full habit the nuns were forced to wear in non-airconditioned classrooms in Southern California were causing them to pass out from heat exhaustion. It did not matter that the priests could dress in clothes appropriate to the climate or the activity. The Church demanded these women continue to wear voluminous clothing indistinguishable from the chadors that ‘Good Christians’ despised Muslim women wearing. They came to school one week wearing modest dresses, and faced the fury of parishioners rabid at the notion their children had been exposed to the arms and calves of a woman who has sworn herself to celibacy.

People openly made jokes about rapist priests and not being alone with Father Pick, a man who was first accused of raping a child in 1947, and whose last assignment was Holy Rosary when he ‘retired’ in 1969. Father Pick left in ignominy, a sloppy drunk who groped the alter boys, including one of my brothers.

 

Father Pick

 

The entire parish tut-tutted about Father Pick before he was forced to leave, but those things were just to be accepted. Use the buddy system around Father Grab-Ass.

But, a nun speaking up for their human rights or refusing to put Church over health? Well, now, THAT was something people could whip themselves into frenzies of outrage about.

How DARE these women married to Jesus give a thought to their own health or comfort!!

The congregation of hypocrites came to a critical mass on the weekend of the annual school fund-raiser Fiesta when one of the nuns wearing a dress that brushed her knees, and short-short sleeves on a hot June Saturday night, was caught swaying to the music, and even moved her arms a bit.

The Scandal!!

After mass the next morning there were knots of indignant parishioners clucking their tongues, and demanding *something* be done about these shameless hussies.

By Monday morning they were gone. Disappeared in the middle of the night. Replaced by various parents who did their best to hold the classroom down until someone acceptable – someone who wouldn’t dance or show their arms – could be secured. Their replacements were humorless nuns with varying grasps of the English language. The important thing was they would keep wearing medieval garb and take orders unquestionably from men they knew to be drunkards and pedophiles.

My brothers were moved to public school shortly after that, and the school never recovered its reputation or the quality of teachers they had before reinforcing the Catholic truth that nuns are chattel.

That episode is what saved me from having to be brainwashed in a school setting by a misogynistic cult that approves of child predation.

Make no mistake, the ‘modern’ Church is no different.

Pope Frankie is no friend of the children – not by a long shot. Never forget he allowed Cardinal Bernard Law to die in Rome, unscathed by the sex abuse scandal over which he presided, and unable to be extradited to face the consequences of his actions.

I mean – the whole reason Pope Benedict stepped down (itself an unprecedented scandal) and Frankie became Pope was because Ol’ Benny just simply didn’t want to deal with the Boston scandal. Which is different from the Los Angeles scandal, which is different from the Philippine Scandal, and the Irish Scandal and the Canadian scandal…

Forever and Ever, Amen.

 

***

 

I don’t know why this iteration of the Catholic Church pretending to be shocked about the child rape they encourage is the straw that broke the camel’s back for me. But, it is, and I’m speaking out now, and I’m speaking out Loud.

I realized that my silence about what happened to me is a sort of complicity.

I was threatened into silence by being told I would go to hell if I didn’t keep my mouth shut about what I brought upon myself.

They did SUCH a good job at shaming me into silence that it was only last night that I told my 30-year-old son what had happened to me.

30 years and he never knew that before I had a driver’s license a man raped and tried to kill me – in a hospital bed.

How does that happen?

 

****

 

Father Rick

 

Father Rick was a sensation at Holy Rosary. He arrived in 1973, a young man of 28, full of ideas to engage the young people in the parish. He started a Youth Group, and a Folk Mass on Sunday afternoons that quickly became more popular than Father O’Donohue’s still-drunk-from-the-night-before rambling sermons during morning mass.

Father Rick was dynamic, and engaging. He knew how to work a crowd. One blistering summer afternoon shortly after he arrived, as the congregation was turning into puddles, he got up for the sermon. Surveying the crowd he said, “It’s too hot for you to listen to me pontificate. The moral of my sermon is ‘A House Divided Against Itself Will Not Stand’. Let Us Pray.” With that, we moved on to Communion, and finished mass 20 minutes early.

Another time he regaled the parishioners with a story from his college days. About the time before he’d dedicated his life in full to God and the Church. He was at a county fair with a few friends and he saw a lithe, young, blond woman, and pursued her down the Midway. When he finally got close enough to talk to her she turned around, only for him to find it was a young, bearded man with very long hair. Moral of the story: Things aren’t always as they seem.

Father Rick visited me in St Joe’s when I had my tonsils out, and brought a half gallon of Rocky Road ice cream (my favorite) for my recovery at home. He loaned me The Chronicles of Narnia, and let me hang all over him.

He took my brothers to the batting cage, and I remember the afternoon my mother and I came home from an interview for a commercial to find all of my brothers gone with Father Rick to the driving range. His black cassock hung up in the doorway between the living room and the hall. Something about seeing his clothes in my home set off alarm bells in 10-year-old Me. But, my mother laughed heartily as she pinned a note to the garment that said, “Who left this lovely black dress for me?” When we got home from the store he had written an answer on the note, which he’d left on the kitchen counter: “It goes well with pearls.”

Father Rick was disappeared like the nuns were. One Sunday he was just gone, and a strange priest with a strained smile was there to conduct the service.

The Youth Group swore it was jealousy that caused Father O’Donohue to banish him from the parish. Other people claimed he’d had an affair with a married female congregant. What ever the case, my appeals to the priests to tell me where he’d been sent were fruitless. I needed to return The Chronicles of Narnia – they didn’t belong to me.

One day I called the Rectory and asked the woman who answered the phone if she knew where Father Rick was. I was still searching for my hero.

She put the phone down, and I could hear a conversation between the lay-woman who had answered and a male voice. She asked if he knew where Father Rick had been sent, and he told her Gardena, but that she was not to pass that information along to any of the congregants. She gave me the brush-off, but I had the information I needed.

I used the giant Los Angeles phone book, and searched for Catholic churches in Gardena. I could scarcely believe my luck when I called the Rectory at St Anthony’s, asked for Father Rick, and was told to hold on while he was told he had a call.

“Hello?”

“Father Rick?” I asked breathlessly. “It’s ME. Claudia.”

“Who?”

“Claudia Lamb, from Holy Rosary,” I gushed. “You loaned me The Chronicles of Narnia and I need to return them! You left without saying goodbye!”

As I caught my breath to continue he hung up on me.

I heard the Bakelite receiver clatter in the cradle for a moment before the line went dead. There was no question in my young mind that he’d intentionally stuffed the phone in my ear – I could hear it. I was crestfallen that my hero had deemed me unworthy and had banished me from his world.

 

Father Rick 2

 

 

In writing this piece I accessed a database of priests in Los Angeles accused of sexual abuse between 1930 and 2003. I was curious what I would find about the church in which I was raised.

Besides Holy Rosary hosting a rapist priest in the late 1950s, and letting Father Grab Ass Pick run the place for 6 years, I found that Father Rick was a horrible, terrible predator whose acts were SO egregious the Catholic church defrocked him after he spent 8 years in prison for only ONE of his crimes. Do you know how AWFUL you have to be to get defrocked from the Catholic Church?

He was defrocked, but not before the Church did their damnedest to protect that monster in human form.

Father Rick Henry lasted 13 months at his first assignment, and 15 months at his next, which was Holy Rosary. The Catholic church simply bounced him to a new parish when he was caught raping little boys. He worked in 6 parishes in his first 14 years as a priest, and by 1980 he had a little boy living in his home on the weekends, with the okay of the boy’s parents.

He’d been grooming my brothers when he was shipped of to Gardena to attack a fresh crop of unsuspecting boys.

Henry went to prison for 8 years in 1993, after the church shielded him multiple times at ‘treatment’ centers and retreats. It’s a pity those treatment centers aren’t available for the people whose lives he ruined.

Even though Rick Henry was defrocked and the Mother Church turned her back on him, he only went to prison for ONE crime. All of the people whose lives were shattered and he faced just the one charge. It took 25 years and a prison term for the Catholic Church to FINALLY say Henry was not fit to minister to the public. Even then, when they forced him into the laity, the Archbishop offered prayers of support to the erstwhile Father Rick.

 

***

St. Joseph Hospital

 

You can imagine my complete lack of surprise when I found out that the predecessor to the priest at St Joe’s who sat and coolly told me I’d go to hell if I didn’t forgive the man who raped and tried to kill me, had himself been a sexual predator.

Of course he was.

Of course he was.

I wonder how many other people were raped in Saint Joseph’s in Burbank? I wonder how many of my friends in the neighboring parish of Saint Genevieve were molested by the multiple priests and Monseigneurs (7, I think) who were sued and arrested for molesting boys there in the 1970s and 80s?

I wonder how many people will read this and say, “That’s terrible, but not MY priest.”

Here’s the thing: Yes, your priest.

They’re ALL in on it – all of them.

The priests all know who the abusers are, and they choose to stay silent, close ranks and deal with it ‘in house’. They’ve been doing it for centuries.

These reports about sexual abuse that pop up every few years that involve thousands of children and hundreds of priests? They’re not scandals.

Let me repeat: They are NOT scandals.

The rape and violence, and threats and shaming to keep quiet about them go back centuries in the Church. They are not anomalies or scandals: This behavior is part of the very fabric of the institution. They are what make the Church what it is.

You know what? Shame and threats from a person in a position of power work.

Why else would it take 30 years to tell my son about something terrible that happened to me when I was a child?

Why else would it take nearly 40 years for me to stand up and say, “I was raped in a Catholic hospital when I was 16, and the girl next to me was, too. The man who raped me tried to kill me – and the Catholic church hushed it up. He was sentenced to less than 7 months in jail on a non-rape related charge only because the prosecutor refused to let it go, and everyone from the priests to my parents told me never to tell a soul – not even to testify against the man who tried to take my life.”

Well, screw that. No more silent complicity.

My name is Claudia Lamb, and I survived the Catholic Church.

Forever and Ever, Amen.

 

Holy Rosary Church

Our Lady of the Holy Rosary church, Sun valley, CA

Endless Thoughts and Prayers

Who can honestly say they’re surprised that America had yet another mass shooting? It’s simply a way of life here to log on to social media and find out about the latest massacre, numbly check to see if it is near anyone we love, and watch the body count and the number of injured rise as the reports come in.

In a twisted way I’m getting used to the massacres from domestic terrorists, but what infuriates me now is how the GOP incessantly invokes Thoughts and Prayers after each fresh dose of hell.

Praying is a highly personal thing between you and your God, and is not a replacement for doing your job – whomever you are. Hiding behind God while you refuse to do your duty is an affront to truly spiritual people who do not use their religion as a prop.

For most people Thoughts and Prayers is shorthand for, “I’m powerless to stop this from happening, and I’m asking the Omnipotent Being of my choice to show mercy on this untenable situation.”

But Congress isn’t powerless to change the situation, and they CAN change the law to require the stricter background checks that 90% of Americans are demanding. They could make gun owners responsible for not securing their guns, or require liability insurance. But, they simply refuse to take any action because there’s too much money gushing in from the NRA.

So, when the GOP offers Thoughts and Prayers it’s just weasel-speak for: “It’s out of my hands because I’m going to keep taking contributions soaked in the life-blood of kindergartners and concert goers – but I will ask my God to keep you in His thoughts.”

For the GOP to proudly proclaim that they’ve given a Thought – they’re THINKING  – about something the rest of us can’t get out of our heads, is *stunningly* self-absorbed.

But, I can’t even wrap my brain around the unmitigated NERVE it takes for the GOP to demand God do the heavy lifting when they refuse to vote on bills that have been introduced. How DARE they pretend God has ANYTHING to do with their addiction to Russian blood money laundered through the NRA!

The GOP’s Thoughts and Prayers about domestic terrorists who mow down classmates, co-workers, and worshipers like an edger takes out errant weeds is an infuriating waste of time. Republicans cynically conflate praying with actually doing something, and pretend they aren’t blocking legislation that would prevent future massacres.

Logical people can see that these massacres aren’t happening in other developed nations on the scale that they are here. Look at Canada, Australia or the UK: We speak the same language, have roughly the same religious demographics, the same number of single parents, and marriage equality. We share television content, video games and music. Yet our murder-by-gun rate is 30 times higher than the UK, and our overall murder rate is higher than all three other nations combined. What’s different? The ease with which one can obtain a gun, and the number of weapons of war available to the general public.

The USA is only 4.28% of the world’s total population, but owns 30% of all the guns that exist. There are 1.20 guns for every man, woman and child in the good old US of A. At the same time we hold nearly 1 in 3 guns on the planet, only 1 in 5 Americans owns one. In fact, gun ownership is concentrated into hands of so few people that only 3% of Americans own half the guns in the country

Let me repeat that: 3% of Americans own half of the guns here.

9.8 million Americans own 130 million firearms; which means .001% of the 7.5 billion people on this planet own 15% of its private firearms.

If that number seems out of whack, take this into consideration: Only 1% of Americans belong to the NRA. The murderous gun policies the GOP backs are nothing more than a ruse to fill their coffers with dark Russian cash, while pretending a dismissible fraction of our population should have their fetish codified into our laws.

 

Homice Rate USA UK AUS CAN

 

So, really, when ANY politician (Democrats, too) takes blood money from the NRA and offers the mealy-mouthed phrase “Thoughts and Prayers” about the inevitable NEXT GODDAM SCHOOL SHOOTING, what they’re really saying is, “There’s nothing I will do. Ever.”

Frankly, I’m done debating the indisputable facts that a vast majority of Americans want tighter background checks, or that we have a glut of guns here, or that school shootings don’t happen in other countries like they do here.

I’m tired of people re-framing the need to reduce our gun violence with the notion we must stop all other forms of murder or violence before we tackle the dumpster fire of our gun laws.

I’m sick of answering disingenuous arguments with, “Yes, certainly, vehicles can be used for mass murder. They are also regulated, and insured, and their primary function is for transportation, not for killing people.”

I have precious little patience for those who unironically screech about their ‘god given right’ to the 2nd Amendment, while never comprehending the word amendment literally means ‘change’, and the word god is not in the Bill of Rights. There’s a reason ‘Well Regulated’ comes before ‘Shall Not Be Infringed’, and it’s not that difficult a concept to grasp that Americans are solidly behind weapon’s of war being ‘Well Regulated’ by a margin of 9-1.

I’m SURE as hell over those people stupid enough to argue for anarchy with, “Why pass laws when criminals won’t follow them?” They seem unable to grok that since the police manage to take so many of the white male mass murderers into custody, it’s super helpful to be able to prosecute them, and make them pay for their crimes.

In short: I’m over the excuses for why our schools are war zones, and we have more than one mass shooting a day in America.

Thoughts and Prayers are all well and good as a means to spiritual fulfillment, but they do nothing to change the very real gun crisis in this country. The only way we can break the endless cycle of Republican Thoughts and Prayers will be when We The People force change through activism and elections, and not by demanding God cure the illness we created ourselves.

Screw Thoughts and Prayers – You need to VOTE, dammit.

The Education of Broseph P Entitlement

I read an abusive Fragile White Male (FWM) the riot act this morning – and it was glorious.

My illness has endowed me with a certain fearlessness in dealing with bullies. I urge *you* not to wait to speak up.

Scene: Interior of a busy Doctor’s Office, where several patients wait in chairs

Two female Medical Assistants are behind the counter: One Assistant is making a first appointment on the telephone with a new patient, while a patient waits in front of her to check out. The other Assistant is patiently explaining to Broseph P Entitlement, a sullen 30-something Fragile White Male in a too-tight V-necked sweater, how it is impossible to know how much his bill will be for today’s visit until after it is submitted to his insurance and they pay their portion. She keeps explaining this simple tenant of health insurance that he keeps pretending he doesn’t understand.

“Yes, but, YOU didn’t tell me that when I made the appointment,” Broseph P reprimands this woman who is old enough to be his mother. Her mouth smiles blandly at him, while her clear eyes do not, and she begins to explain to him again that what he pays is dependent upon what his insurance will pay, and that is spelled out in his insurance contract.

“I don’t *understand* how you can run a business like this!” Broseph P gets loud – and the Medical Assistant on the phone needs to end the call because it’s getting hard to hear, and she checks out the man in front of her.

“Why won’t you do this for me? Why are you being so difficult?” Brospeh P whines.

A middle-aged woman who is there to find out how much her lung function has decreased in the last 6 weeks – let’s call her Claudia – has been watching the performance and is giving heavy side-eye to an oblivious Broseph P. She steps up to the Medical Assistant who was on the phone, and rolls her eyes meaningfully as she checks in, getting in return a look that says ‘Right?’

“You gave me this story when I made the appointment that the tests could run anywhere from $200 to $1,200!! How can you NOT KNOW how much your own tests cost?!!” he continues far too loudly.

“Sir – I know what the tests cost, but I had no idea what tests the doctor would order. It’s not ONE test that is $200 to $1,200 – the different allergy tests he orders all have different costs, as the literature we sent you pointed out.”

Claudia leans in and says soto voce, “How come you can’t tell me how much my whole meal will cost before I’ve even ordered anything?!!” and the Medical Assistant checking her in stifles a chuckle.

“I have a balance from January I need to pay,” Claudia says in a normal voice, as Broseph P pumps up the volume about how UNFAIR it all is. Claudia finds that February’s appointment has processed through as well, and hands over her debit card to take care of the balance for both months.

Broseph P is nearly shouting, enjoying that people are uncomfortable, and starting to stare. “It makes no sense that you have no explanation of what happened today!! This sheet is just numbers and letters. How can you call this an itemized bill?!”

“This is what we submit to the insurance company, the bill you get in the mail will be itemized in a way you can read.”

Claudia is handed back her debit card and given the receipt to sign.

“How do I know you’re not ripping me off?! This is ridiculous – I won’t leave here without an itemized bill, and until I know what I owe.”

“I’ve worked here 16 years, sir, and you’re the first patient I’ve had this issue with,” said the Medical Assistant with the patience of a saint.

At that point Broseph P turbocharged his rage, racing past being loud and obnoxious, and hitting a new land speed record for being flat out abusive. “Yeah? Well, I don’t think you know what you’re doing. YOU aren’t very smart and you don’t know what you’re doing!! How do you stay employed? Why haven’t they fired you?”

Claudia could not bear another moment of hearing Broseph P Entitlement abuse the kind people at one of the only doctor’s offices left in this cold world who still treated her like a human being, and not a Dead Woman Walking. She snapped.

“Oh my god – SHUT. UP!!  Seriously: Give it a rest!!! You’re being an abusive asshole!!”

The collective look of shock on everyone’s face was supremely satisfying to Claudia.

Broseph P made a face like he was smelling spoiled milk, and began to open his mouth, but before he could let more garbage tumble out Claudia continued with righteous indignation, her arm stretched out in the classic ‘Talk to the Hand’ pose, “There is no *reason* for you to speak to her that way. None.

“You’re abusing her because you don’t understand how your own insurance works. It’s not HER fault you didn’t read the fine fucking print!!”

Suddenly employees from all over the office began popping up around the reception area like curious prairie dogs, eager not to miss the excitement. Every waiting patient had looked up from their phone.

Claudia leaned towards Broseph P, never breaking eye contact, “Here’s the thing: I don’t work here, so nobody’s going to fire me when I tell you how much of an entitled little douche-bag asshole you are. You’re bullying this woman because you don’t like how the insurance YOU CHOSE works, and you can’t seem to grasp that the system is based on diagnostic codes they submit for reimbursement, and not the handwritten explanation [Here Claudia briefly broke into flawless Valley Girl-speak]‘Broseph had some itchies we tried to figure out, K? Thx.’

“What is *wrong* with you that you think you’re entitled to treat people that way? I have NEVER spoken to a medical professional the way you’ve just been doing for the last 10 minutes, and my life *revolves* around begging insurance companies and doctors to allow me to have the treatments that keep me alive.

“That bill I just paid is for my January and February appointments – that’s how it works!! You go to the doctor, and 6 weeks later you get a bill telling you what your responsibility is. You’ll get a bill, too – trust me on this, Brah. You’ll get a bill. You always do – they never forget.

“I spent $30,000 out of pocket last year on medical expenses just to stay alive, and you’re up her ass because you don’t have your $200 FUCKING BILL TODAY? Are you fucking kidding me?!! Let. It. Go!!

“I went to the doctor 124 times last year, and I had 81 radiation treatments. I spent every third day in a doctor’s office or a hospital, and I’ve seen a shit-ton of disputes about bills and insurance. I have NEVER seen anyone act so pathetically entitled and make it so very personal the way you just did. You’re a healthy man standing here arguing just so you can bully women who can’t talk back because they don’t want to lose their job. What the *fuck* is wrong with you that you need to do that to feel like a man? Don’t you have some puppies you can go kick, you entitled douche-bro asshole?”

Broseph’s mouth was partially open as Claudia took the clipboard from the stunned Medical Assistant who was helping her, and she pleasantly said, “I’ll update my info and get this right back to you.”

You could have heard a pin drop on the carpeting.

“So.. then… I’ll get an itemized bill in the mail?” Broseph said, looking around the waiting room to see if even one face was encouraging him, but all the other patients were busy texting about the dramatic spectacle that had unfolded before them.

As Broseph P beat his retreat Claudia tried to stare him in the eye, but he avoided her gaze, all the while knowing in his secret heart that he was still the Smartest Boy In The Room.

When Claudia was called back for her appointment she was applauded by the staff and the Doctor shook her hand. The abused Medical Assistant hugged her hard, and the Respiratory Therapist said it was the finest, funniest thing she had witnessed in a dozen years of practice.

Claudia pondered the moment and realized: You take your wins where you can get them.

End scene.

 

 

Broseph and the Amazing Fragile White Male Dreamcoat

There is nothing funnier – and more pathetic – than a Fragile White Male becoming abusive when you point out that they’re not nearly as Woke, nor as much of an Ally, as they think they are.

Fragile White Males (not to be confused with Men) continually demand women acknowledge that they’ve been a ‘Good Guy’ as we are trying to process the latest indignity that’s befallen us, or when we’re disgusted with the latest famous or powerful man revealed to have been abusing his position and the women around him.

Usually it’s presented as Not All Men: a hashtag or sentiment FWMs feel obliged to remind women of when they speak of or point out the indignities of sexual harassment and sexism in school, the workplace, and public, or (worse) the soul crushing burden of rape and sexual assault.

“Not ALL Men!” the Fragile White Males have insisted again and again since #MeToo broke in earnest. “‘But *I* didn’t rape anyone! I’d never sexually harass a woman,” they repeat, needing you to know and demanding you acknowledge it. It’s exhausting.

If there’s any push back by women, or we have the temerity to tell men they’re re-framing the conversation to make themselves more comfortable, it almost always ends up with the Fragile White Male offended to the point of a having a temper tantrum, and that tantrum often turns into spewing abuse when you don’t soothe their fragile ego.

A textbook case of a Fragile White Male hijacking the conversation and shrieking #NotAllMen!! happened the other day, when my friend Tawanda (a perfect pseudonym for this fierce and strong woman)  posted on her Facebook page that she and her husband were skipping their usual Superbowl party. (Note that in the following exchange OP refers to Original Post, JT is Justin Timberlake, and the screen caps show the actual back-and-forth with nothing cherry-picked for sensationalism.)

Tawanda begins the conversation with this post:

 

FWM Laura's Statement (2)_LI

 

I watched the video Tawanda posted, an encouraging 80-second clip where Smith talks about choosing to be with people who will fan your flames of creativity, and not piss on them.

I was about to type, “So much THIS!!” when I looked at the third comment down, posted by Broseph, and it felt like getting a thumb poked in my eye. See if you can spot Broseph’s subtle re-framing in his opening gambit.

 

FWM Chicksplain (4)_LI

 

Why, yes – he WAS white. How did you guess? Is it because he sounds so Fragile?

I knew as I typed out my response that the Fragile White Male’s fee-fees would be hurt if I tried to clue him in to his transgression. Fragile White Males who take well to hearing how they could be a better Ally are unicorns – that’s why they’re Fragile White Males.

I’ll let you in on a little secret: I don’t give a flying fuck anymore about Fragile White Male’s tender fee-fees. Half a century of clapping hands for every morsel of respect they accidentally let fall off the table isn’t cutting it for me anymore.

These days I give Fragile White Males and their feelings EXACTLY as much respect as they give me and mine.

 

FWM Chicksplain (5)_LI

 

As expected Broseph’s answer was sulky and pontifical. But, before I checked back in to Facebook he decided it wasn’t enough and posted again, aggrandizing himself and strangely attempting to insult me with a patronizing gif.

 

Patronizing gif (2)_LI

 

I wish I could say I was surprised, but Fragile White Males are so damned predictable.

I grinned broadly at Broseph’s lack of reading comprehension skills, and his refusing to acknowledge that the subject WAS NOT, in fact, Justin Timberlake’s diverse fucking fan base.  Clearly, Tawanda’s point was that the Manly Men in attendance would use Timberlake’s performance as an excuse to morph into Douchecus Maximus, and she wasn’t going to waste her precious time on these people.

Note how this fine specimen of a Fragile White Male blithely ignores his re-framing a statement about inherent sexism driving a mutual friend away from her years-long Superbowl tradition, and instead insists we acknowledge his diversity. Even better? Broseph ignoring Tawanda’s liking my post (with a heart, no less) to give himself permission to blow up with indignity.

 

FWM Harp On My Diversity (3)_LI

 

I laughed when I read his second message. I could see the Fragile White Male huffing behind his keyboard, wrapping his unearned righteous-indignation around him like a well-worn woolen cloak.

 

Supportive Simma Down (2)_LI

 

 

Take a moment to savor that whole Ball o’ Privilege and Fragility, while Irony unplugs the phone and weeps like Holly Hunter in Broadcast News.

“I am about as supportive of any issues of any gender or sex as you’ll find a man to be.”

The fucking ego it takes to even think that way.

You could launch a Space-X rocket from the platform of self-importance that big.

Can you imagine thinking so very much of yourself? Or, more likely, not being able to imagine anyone acting better than you, and chalking up your own shortcomings to being the BEST anyone could find a man to be.

Then, to PROVE what a supportive MAN he was, he posted a patronizing gif  telling me to ‘Simma Down Now’. I was really disappointed he didn’t tell me I’d be prettier if I smiled more.

My response contained exactly the lack of deference that infuriates men like Broseph, who believe their every utterance should be hung upon with rapt attention and fluttering eyelashes.

FWM Poor FWM (4)_LI

FWM Poor FWM Part 2 (4)_LI

 

 

15 minutes later a flash flood of rage hit:

 

Societal Norm (2)_LI

 

 

In refusing to humble myself before Broseph’s almighty bullshit opinion I’d unleashed what he really thought about women, and their desire for self-agency and equality.

My, oh my, how the wheels came off his fragile white wagon, as Dude Bro revealed he has serious rape issues.

 

FWM Rape (2)_LI

 

 

You read that right!

Mr. I’m As Supportive Of Any Issues Of Any Gender Or Sex As You’ll Find A Man To Be thinks anything short of rape is a women crying ‘Wolf!’  while simultaneously accusing me of being A-Okay with rape and sexual harassment because I told him, “It’s not about you.”

Never mind that the Bill Clinton rape charges are as bogus as Broseph’s claims of  Feminism: I had the audacity to tell Broseph he was re-framing Tawanda’s original, uncomfortable point on toxic masculinity, and replacing it with a Fragile White Male’s musings on Justin Timberlake – therefore he was justified in claiming I supported the single most damaging thing that had ever happened to me in my life.

Broseph – not content with lying about my condoning rape, and pulling a grand Whataboutism about the Clintons directly out of his ass to change the subject – felt he hadn’t QUITE gotten his point across, so he posted a gif of a woman circling her ear with her finger, in the classic ‘you’re crazy’ mime.

Much adult! Such dignified!!

This is classic Fragile White Male behavior. They believe with all their heart that verbal abuse is an appropriate way to interact with a woman who won’t be cowed, and dares to question their behavior as it relates to the continual need to re-frame everything in a way that makes them comfortable.

What else could I do, but toss a few more logs on to the bonfire of his rage?

 

Adorable Fragility Long (2)_LI.jpg

 

Fragile White Males ADORE being dismissed even more than being told “It’s not about you.” They NEVER have to have the last, ugly words.

 

Imagine (2)_LI

 

You really HAVE to admire an ego that has been so tenderly cultivated in the rich loam of White Male Privilege that he believes he is As Good As A Man Can Be, and to question HIM is to attack the very movement I’m asking him to respect.

Put your arms around that: He ACTUALLY equated asking him not to re-frame women’s definitive statements on sexism and misogyny as attacking #MeToo.

The only people capable of attaining and maintaining an ego that GARGANTUAN in this society have the good fortune to born a white male.

Furious that I hadn’t taken the bait, Broseph gave one last, feeble shot that read more like the Ambien had kicked in, rather than the stinging invective he imagined it to be.

 

FWM Feel Bad (2)_LI

 

Ahh – THERE it is!

‘If you are married to a man, I feel bad for him..’

The final refuge of the Fragile White Male who is powerless to cow a woman who approaches him as an equal: Imply she can’t land a cock, and if by some miracle she did it’s a Pity Fuck.

You know – because ALL women are heterosexual, and we aren’t complete without a good, deep dicking.

Almost the only men who act like this are white dudes privileged enough to grow up with such unquestioned power they believe it’s their just due for the rest of society to put so much stock in their opinion that it cancels out our actual experience.

For those of you Men who would never act like this? Great. Thank you – you’re doing what any decent person should do. But, it’s not enough to see that Fragile White Male behavior is wrong. You need to SAY SOMETHING – tell them to knock their shit off

The uncomfortable fact is: If you don’t speak up against Fragile White Male behavior you are not an Ally – you’re a Silent Accomplice.

I guaran-damn-tee you there are Brosephs all around us, springing up like poisoned toadstools, pushing back against #MeToo, and redefining its meaning to fit their own privileged need not to feel uncomfortable.

Look: Nothing will change until those of you white men who have power (read: ALL of you) demand that their brethren share it with those of us who don’t.

I know this piece will cause most men discomfort. Tough. It’s time you look good and hard and ask yourself if you have been a Broseph, or enabled him with your silence.

If you don’t see yourself here? Great. I appreciate the Ally. Really, I do. But, I don’t want to hear about it.

It’s not about you.