Category Archives: rape

Writing Again, But Poetry?

I intimated some days ago that I was writing again, meaning that I was looking at some of my fantasies for new inspiration. But then a funny thing happened. Donald Trump’s 2005 comment about grabbing pussies made the news and turned my world upside down.

I am a 65 year old woman who lived through many of the trials and tribulations of the 1970s and 80s as a woman rising under the feminist movement of those days. To say that I was subject to sexual harassment is an understatement in the extreme. I was also the victim of one sexual assault and two rapes. I did not report any of them, in two cases because the assailants were members of the legal profession in which I was lowly public defender. I will not further detail the incidents, but it should be clear that a woman making charges against two men high in the legal field would have been laughed out of court. I would have been disbelieved and smeared at a level that is no longer present in our legal system, except from certain judges who seem to think that rapists shouldn’t have their futures damaged by a few minutes of fun. They are the dinosaurs of today.

But back to Trump and the effects of his statement. I, like many women, numbering undoubtedly in the millions, suffered the crimes against me alone, and I built internal walls so that I could continue to function without falling apart or lashing out. Many women of my age built walls of different strengths and sizes, depending on the nature of the abuse they suffered. The everyday indignities of being a woman in a “man’s world” we all built walls against. We smiled, and accepted crudities that would stun today’s woman.

But the walls built to hide rape and assault were stronger and more enveloping. I had indeed buried my injuries so deeply that I had not considered them for years. They were part of my youth, and not worthy of spending time on. I had survived and would continue without ever having to review the pain and horror again. Until Trump….

What has this to do with writing? Just this. I have had anger and despair rising up in me in waves, with pain adding a slight piquancy to the mix. I was in danger of exploding at the least provocation, and I knew for my own sanity I had to find a way to tamp it down. I turned to a form of writing which I have used to deal with issues of depression and suicide in the past few years. I have been writing poems. The original ones were wrenching to me, causing me to desire drink or some other means of escape. I knew I was improving when the poems turned more to the failures of Trump as a human being, and less on the damage he had done. But I finally succeeded in writing a witty poem, denigrating Trump as nastily as I could. And with that, although not healed, I am back on a more even keel.

I have done something I’ve never done before. I have submitted some of the poems for publication. Accordingly, I can’t share them with you here. But I’ll keep you informed of any acceptances and let you know if, by any slight, slim chance, they are accepted for publication.

The Stanford Rapist

This will probably be short and caustic, because Brock and Dan Turner have made such a ridiculous mess of this that the presiding judge almost looks sane. Between Brock’s blaming of a party culture and his father’s claim of 20 minutes of action, we have apologists galore for a senseless act of violence and power by an 18 year old athlete who should have had “Privilege” tattooed on his dong.

This young man, had he been taught properly the respect for women that most civilized men know instinctively, would never have felt it was okay to have intercourse with an unconscious woman. On what world do men think that it’s okay? Other, that is, than on Turner World, where “action” doesn’t equal “rape.” American men could learn something from the two Swedish students who came to the victim’s aid and tackled the rapist. They were the only real men on site that night.

The crazy judge worried that the poor boy’s life would be damaged by conviction for three felonies. I would love to hear him say the same if Turner had been black. For a good white boy of privilege, it is unfortunate but not fatal to be convicted of three felonies, but the crusher was having to register as a sex offender. Poor baby! And not a word of remorse or regret for the harm caused an innocent woman. I can hear the cries of outrage. She was drunk!  She asked for it! Bull. She asked for a hangover; what she got was one of the most painful and denigrating experiences a woman could go through at the hands of a supposedly civilized man. She could have had something much worse, had it not been for two men who reacted well and spontaneously to do the right thing.

The heroes of this action are appalled by what they witnessed. The poor victim only knows her story through their eyes. These were the only real men on that scene that night. Brock Turner was a vile little boy, the son of a vile man, who both have no idea how to behave decently in polite society. One’s a criminal, a felon, the other an apologist. Anyone who pays into poor Papa Turner’s legal fund is an immoral enabler of privilege and a denigrater of a woman’s right to safety in a social setting. I hope you’re all proud of yourselves for the disgusting picture you present to people in this country.