Note: Posts labeled as “memories.” feature memoir-like storytelling of experiences from years ago, while “thoughts.” are more reactionary in nature and relate to current or recent happenings.
It never gets easier to see the show. It never gets easier to hear one of your friends stand up and share the story of her assault. Never.
Standing next to your best friends, being held by the man who has stood up against violence against women with you for the past 4 years is comforting, but it doesn’t take away the pain. The pain of knowing that 1 billion women in the world have been raped or sexually assaulted…and that so many of those women are important in your life. And the ones that you don’t know? They’re important to someone else.
So why don’t we stand up? Why the fuck does it keep happening? And why do we make the victims and survivors feel like it’s their fault; like they’re not good enough?
I’ll never forget that: “And you guys, this is sick. All I could think was, why wasn’t I good enough [to be raped]?”
Oh, JC. I wish you didn’t think that; didn’t feel that. I wish that our culture didn’t make you question your worth because of how you look and how some jerk treated you. But you thought it and felt it and our culture has made you question your worth. And you are worth so much. You are brave and strong and smart and funny. You have a killer personality and people can’t help but smile around you.
And part of her story was about having too much to drink. Well, the night of the show, I had a lot to drink. So did my best friend. And when I went upstairs to find him and he was laying on the floor next to Nate’s bed, I laid down next to him. I was never scared for a second that the same thing would happen to me.
SHB passionately delivers Eve Ensler’s words: “I’m over the passivity of good men. Where the hell are you?”
I’m so thankful that every February at Vagina Monologues, I’m surrounded by good men. NW, AR, BY. Thank you.
As BY and I laid on the floor and had a heart to heart (most of which I don’t remember) and cried (maybe that was just me?) and held onto each other, I was so grateful to know him and to have someone to trust.
When he cried out in frustration about how people are constantly questioning his sexuality (“And they question my sexuality?!”) because he doesn’t treat women poorly, I started sobbing more than before. I held him closer. “How can a man do that?” His disbelief and indignation; his emotion made my tears come out that much harder.
I cried for the women and girls who have been hurt and violated. I cried for the good men who feel like BY does. I cried for all of things I wanted to say to him, but couldn’t. That I never can. Because the reason I love him so much is that he’s my best friend. And that he respects women and is comfortable with himself. And that he can’t understand (just as I can’t) why or how anyone could ever hurt and force another person. Like JC. Or JLS. Or any of the 1 billion women on the planet that have been through it.
Thank you for holding me and comforting me. Thank you for laying on the floor and letting me cry. Thank you for being one of the good men who is anything but passive. I love you.