MY STORY OF SHAME

Every time he pointed his finger at her and said, "You should be ashamed of yourself" (which was multiple times), I cringed and my heart sank like a stone.  I felt myself folding in on my myself, like a child punished for a wrong I barely understood or never even committed.  Shame.  What a powerful and destructive emotion to carry.

Last night's Presidential Debate was a spectacle unprecedented in American politics, as were the events leading up to it.  History can record (it's all on video) the onslaught of disgusting and reprehensible words of the Republican candidate for president in 2016 throughout this campaign.  I won't repeat the litany.  But last Friday, a videotape was released wherein he uses vulgar language about women and boasts about his conquests, saying "when you're a star, you can do anything."   He admitted to being a sexual predator and committing assault.  Of course, now he says he never did it, it was just "locker room banter."  His big defense is to accuse President Bill Clinton (who's own sexual escapades were litigated 20 years ago) of doing much worse, and then showed up at the debate with women who have accused Bill Clinton of assault to throw Hillary off her game.  Classy move.  Punishing Hillary for what her husband did.  Yes, women need to take responsibility and be punished for the behavior of their partners, I forgot.

All of this has brought up a long-buried incident in my own life.  I was 25, working at the medical center where Hub was in medical school.  My boss, 22 years my senior, was a renowned professor, foreign-born, urbane, and demanding (but with a smarmy smile that belied his cruelty).  I was a secretary; actually I was more like a "clerk", my immediate supervisor was the secretary.  I made coffee and typed and answered phones.    I thought myself mature and savvy; but I was no match for him and looking back I see I was naive and timid.   

He often had me come into his office to "take dictation", but he spent a lot of time critiquing me, trying to help me be more sophisticated.  He offered suggestions on clothing, make up, hair, and one time he told me not to move my face so much because it would create wrinkles.  He asked personal questions about my marriage and offered helpful hints for a "good relationship".  I listened uncomfortably, tried to laugh it off (without moving my face) and was relieved when I was excused to go back to my desk.  (Think "Mad Men" -- those were the days when this type of thing was commonplace and not "reportable".)  

One day he asked if I would be a participant in a study he was doing on a new type of stethoscope.  I said I would.  He stood up and locked his door, so we wouldn't be interrupted and he could concentrate, he said.  He then proceeded to lean in and listen to my heart, so close to my face I could smell and feel his breath on me.  Then he said he needed to test it on the femoral artery.  This is located in the groin area.  Why I didn't run from that room then and there is a mystery to me.  I felt trapped.  I felt intimidated and I felt like I would NOT behave like a scared rabbit.  I was trying to be strong.  He asked me to lower my slacks just a bit so he could access the area.  I did.  He asked me to slouch down in my chair.  I did.  He placed the stethoscope just so and listened, taking notes on a yellow legal pad.  Then he said he had what he wanted and told me I could go.

I was shaken.  I was sick to my stomach.  I did tell my supervisor and she was sympathetic, but helpless to do anything.  We agreed I didn't have to go to his office alone anymore and she would run interference for me.  (Some time later, she told me the study was legit and he got other subjects to participate, but no part of the process involved the femoral artery.)

Not long afterward he insisted on taking me out to lunch at a fancy restaurant in downtown Chicago to thank me for a project I'd completed for him.  I don't know why I agreed to go; maybe to not let him intimidate me; maybe to try to overcome the shame I felt in his presence.  I had toughened up with him and likely felt I could "handle" him at this point.  So I went.  Lunch was fine, although he criticized the outfit I chose to wear that day.  Afterward he said he had taken a room at a hotel for the weekend to get some work done away from his family and he needed to pick up some paperwork there to take back to the office.  I was trapped.  Once in the room, he lay down on the bed and encouraged me to sit near him.  I refused.  He told me he loved me, over and over.   I told him he was crazy and I wanted to leave.  He reached out to touch me, and I rebuked him.  I told him I would scream if he tried to touch me again.  He became angry, told me I was acting like a child.  He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door.  I followed.  In the taxi ride back to the office I ignored him, wouldn't answer his questions, or respond to his benign comments.  He acted as if nothing had happened.  Finally, in anger, he told me I should thank him, because now I knew the depth of my commitment to my marriage, having been "tested".  

I told my supervisor and another doctor in the department who I liked and trusted, a good man.  But he did nothing.  Within a month I left to go to work in another department for a kind, respectful, and caring doctor who I still admire to this day.  

Shame.  Writing about this (I've actually only told a handful of people about these incidents since they happened around 1975) makes me so sad for that naive young woman, so sad for there being no place to go with my story at the time.  Was I a willing participant?  I guess so...if an older man in a position of power taking advantage of an obviously naive young woman defines "willing".  I relate to Monica Lewinsky in this regard, so yeah, Bill was definitely an asshole in that respect.  I've heard she's felt ashamed too of her naivety.  Shame makes you want to hide.  Shame makes you hate yourself for who you are, not what you've done, or what was done to you.  It's soul destroying.

So, when a 59 year old man (his age when the video was made in 2005) says the things he said about women he's tried to seduce and/or grope without their consent, that is a man who objectifies, feels entitled, and is absolutely unrepentant and uncaring.  He is a shame-making machine.  He is dangerous.  And he is running for president of the United States.  If there is shame to be felt, I wish it would start with him.  But it won't.  In fact, he shamelessly trotted out women (who he was using for his own means) to humiliate Hillary and then pointed the "shame on you" finger at her.

Too many women have stories like mine to tell.  Every woman has been objectified in some way at some time.  All women must rise up and keep fighting this fucking shit.  Vote as if your life depended on it.

At least, that's the view from here...©

GOLF PORN

I've been sick.  And I never get sick.  Last year, nary a sniffle.  But the bug got me a week ago.  Just a common cold, thankfully, and not the dreaded flu virus.  Still...the stuffy nose, sore throat, watery eyes, hacking cough all make for a less than stellar experience lately, and keep me mostly isolated in my attempts not to infect others, as well as often giving in to the overriding desire snuggle on the sofa in "jammie clothes" and a blankie.

I am getting a bit antsy, however.  Of note, I'm tiring of my usual reading materials and picked up a freshly delivered copy of Hub's Golf Digest magazine.  I don't golf.  Truth be told, it's sort of a silly sport, in my opinion.  (Oh...I hear you dear golfing friends, I hear you, and I love you anyway....).  It is very popular, however.  I get that.

Hub is an occasional golfer.  Being just a natural jock kind of guy though, he is passable to really good at most sports -- even those he rarely plays.  He used to golf about once a year, but has increased that frequency over the past couple of summers since "couple friends" of ours took it up.  I know it would be nice if I'd join in and make it foursome, but my lack of interest and bad attitude would outweigh any benefit -- as is so often the case.

Anyway, our friends sent Hub a gift subscription to Golf Digest and I admit I was surprised when he decided to re-up the subscription.  I note he shows moderate interest when it arrives, then it goes on the "to be read" pile, never to be opened again.  I understand this -- I have such a pile going most of the time as well.

Since the guy on the February issue cover (Billy Horschel -- never heard of him) had a passing resemblance to Adam Levine (Maroon 5), I was drawn to opening the magazine.  I spent some time thumbing through it and got the gist of the thing -- it's about how to be a better golfer, what equipment will help, where to play, and what to wear while playing....these socks! (Photo by Victor Prado)

As I was about to put the magazine down, something dawned on me.  Golf is for guys.  Golf is for "guy" guys.  Golf is for rich "guy" guys.  Here's how I know:

Ad content:  Golf club ads are sleek, modern, and mostly in stark sliver/black photography with primary color highlights -- red or blue preferred.  Same with the 2-page Rolex watch spread.  Same with the cars  -- Lincoln Navigator (starting at $61,480), Lexus ("prepare for the white knuckle treatment"), Porsche ("powerful drives are an obsession we share" -- I get it!).

Copy content:  Lots of guys giving golfing advice to other guys, all of an indeterminate age (35-50?), in great shape and wearing some really sporty and colorful slacks and collared, knit shirts that remind me of my dad. (The shirt that is, without the paunch.)

Feature story:  Osama bin Laden Special Forces assassin, turned golfer, talking in great and graphic detail about the day he shot our arch-enemy in the face.  Booyah!  Also, America's Top 100 Golf Courses.  #1 Augusta National.  Famous for the annual Masters Tournament.  Also famous for not allowing any African American members until 1990; mandating all caddies must be black (until 1959) and not admitting women until...wait for it...2012! (Condoleeza Rice was one of two women who were the first to be admitted.  Augusta defends their policies by citing "we are a private club".  Oh, OK then. )

This woman and people of color thing sort of had me going at this point, so I went back through and did a count.  With the exception of Tiger Woods (one photo, one ad) and another man who's ethnicity was indeterminate, all the guys were white.  There is a photo spread on page 98 of 108 total pages of a woman who's face we never see beneath her bent head and white cap, swinging a club.  There is a teeny, tiny photo of a woman who works in the 'golf fashion industry' standing for a photo with the ubiquitous Donald Trump. The only other photo of a woman in the whole magazine is a 2-page ad for Viagra, where that attractive brunette in all the commercials is seductively sprawled in a half-recline on soft bed, offering her sage and oh so understanding advice about "getting and keeping an erection".

I have some advice for the Viagra-inclined golfer too.  Just read this copy from David Leadbetter's article on putting and you may not need that little blue pill:

You'll have much more power for this shot if you hold the club with your normal full-swing grip.  You'll naturally put some wrist action into the strike, which will help you get the ball to the hole.  You're going to need more room for your hands and arms to make a bigger stroke than normal, so stand more upright.  If you're hunched over, you'll struggle to swing the putter freely.  The common mistake when putting from off the green is to try to hit the ball harder with a short, jabby stroke.  Swing back longer, and let the flow and acceleration of the putterhead feel natural.  Don't force it.  Let your hips and knees move a little toward the target, especially your back knee kicking in.  This helps generate more energy so you don't have to try to muscle the ball with your hands.

FORE!

At least that's the view from here....©