#IAmHer

Curly Chaos and Other Funny Things repres­­­­ents the light at the end of a very dark and long tunnel and the return of a joyful, funny, curious, and independent girl.  Each of us is born with a spirit that is uniquely ours.   In the presence of young children, we immediately feel and observe who they are and the potential of who they can become.   In the best of situations, that child’s spirit is nurtured and allowed to flourish.   I am one of those children who was in the best of situations.  Despite the usual trials and tribulations of growing up and making my way through middle and high school I maintained my joyful, funny, curious, and independent nature.   I connected easily with others and had a cadre of friends every step of the way.   I recognized early on that I had an intuitive ability to feel others’ pain and sorrow, and I understood the injustice some kids were subjected too through teasing, bullying, and exclusion. All of this affected me deeply.  This is why I chose to major in sociology when I went to college.  At the end of my four years I wanted to have a bachelor’s degree that allowed me to help people.   That was 1979.

I headed off to Plymouth State College excited to meet new friends, stretch my independent wings, and even go to class to expand my academic horizons.  To be honest, my first semester could have been focused on academic horizons a bit more, but social horizons were much more appealing to me.  I quickly made friends, started to understand the college culture, and go to parties.  A lot of parties.  They were at apartments, dorm rooms, and fraternity houses.  I also learned quickly that even though the drinking age had recently increased to 21, younger students were still able to get into the local bars.  My curious nature got the best of me and I spent a good amount of time exploring all these social scenes and had plenty of friends who joined me.

Plymouth State had been named the #1 party school in the nation and it was clear to me that the student body was bound and determined to maintain that badge of honor.   The party culture of that era was in full force and effect where binge drinking was the norm, easy access to “black beauty” speed was not unusual, and experimentation with mushrooms, LSD, and Quaaludes part of the cultural phenomenon.   I was 18.

That first semester was a blur of trying to fit in, wanting to experience everything, and complaining about 8 a.m. classes.   I had a great time, met really good friends, and was treated respectfully by young men who had ample opportunity to take advantage of me, but did not.  In high school I had experimented with drinking and smoking pot.  I didn’t like pot, but did acquire a taste for Busch and Miller beer.  I don’t recall ever drinking to excess then, except one time on a class trip, but college was a different story.  I was on my own and most of those around me were testing their limits and bragging rights for who partied the hardest permeated our lives.

In February of 1980 I turned 19 years old.  I had one semester under my belt and while my GPA wasn’t all it should have been, it was enough for me to return for my second semester and refocus.  I felt like I had found my way and could hit my stride both in academics and socially all the while maintaining a reasonable balance between the two.  The party scene was still front and center, but at least I had found my own group of friends and we were more discriminating with our social calendar.  In March, some time around St. Patrick’s Day,  we learned of a blowout party that was starting in the afternoon and would probably go through the evening. It was a party hosted by some Tau Kappa Epsilon (TKE) fraternity brothers in a large house located off campus in a nearby town. TKE had lost its charter from the college and was no longer recognized a Greek organization and therefore, did not have a house on campus.  They didn’t let this faze them and maintained their identity as a fraternity. They were popular young men known for pushing the envelope, big partiers, and handsome. The typical bad boy stereotype. I was not immune to being starry eyed by their persona.  They were good looking, popular, upper classmen and way out of my league.

 

I went to the party with friends and I remember feeling really nervous and excited.  There were a lot of people there, some outside milling about by a keg, others inside the house in the kitchen.  There were two houses on the property, close to each other, connected by a wide dirt driveway and people were going between the two houses. When we got there, we went in the kitchen with our six packs of beer and each opened one to drink.  I recall going outside and talking to people and trying to get my bearings on who was there and how to act, which I’m pretty sure did not meet the standard of cool I was hoping to portray.   I may have accepted a beer from the outside keg.  It was still light outside and this is where my memory begins to fail me.  I think someone put a Quaalude in my beer.

The next piece of that night I remember was when it was dark outside. I fell or slipped in the dirt driveway and since it was still winter my jeans got wet.  One of the TKE brothers who I had known from the Fall semester helped me up and told me he could get me a new pair of pants if I wanted.  I remember thinking that he offered this because he liked me.  Wow! One of these very popular boys actually likes me.  I followed him upstairs where he brought me to the bedroom where he was going to get me a pair of pants.  When I followed him into the room he told me not to go in there, but I was already inside the room and there were other people in the room too.  He told me not to look over at the bed, but I did. There were a group of boys standing around watching another boy have sex with someone.  I was quickly rushed out of the room and as I left I noticed a few other boys standing outside the door.   I asked my him what was going on and he told me that the girl in the bedroom liked to have sex with multiple boys.  It was her thing.  There were boys outside the door waiting their turn.  I later learned this is what was called a “train”, in other words gang rape.

Somewhere outside of that bedroom, but I’m not sure where, I put on the pair of jeans that were given to me.  I was introduced to some of the other fraternity brothers.   They were laughing and drinking.  One of them, a tall, athletic, and light-brown haired boy, asked me something that I still cannot remember, but over the years have tried to piece together what it could have been.  Whatever it was resulted in him bringing me into a large closet and where he began groping me, and asking me to perform sex acts.  My memory is fuzzy and I think I refused, or perhaps I was just too out of it and was too much of a bother, and that may be why he led me into a bedroom and told me I should lay down and then left.  I remember being so grateful that I was alone and laying down, my head was spinning.   I may have dozed off, but I don’t know for sure.  Eventually two other fraternity brothers came back into the room and one was introduced and I was told he was a really nice guy.  I was left alone with the “really nice guy” who raped me.   I know his name, and I’m pretty sure I know where he lives today.

I don’t remember how I got downstairs and outside after that, but I do remember a girlfriend of mine asking if I were okay and me telling her everything was fine.  She commented on the pants I was wearing and asked where mine were and I told her I didn’t know.

How I got back to my dorm room is a mystery.  As a matter of fact, I don’t even remember who drove to the party.  It could have been me.  I woke up and my roommate wasn’t in the room and I didn't know where she was, maybe still at the party?  I just laid there trying to sleep, feeling confused, sick, and afraid.  What had happened? 

Later that day the fraternity brother who initially brought me upstairs to get a dry pair of pants stopped by my dorm room to bring me my pants.  I thanked him for stopping by and before he left and with a concerned look on his face he asked if I remembered all that happened the night before.  I pretended I did, making light about how messed up I must have been -- ha ha, it was such a wild party.  He remained serious, beating around the bush about what he really wanted to ask me, which to this day I believe was an attempt to figure out if I remembered what his fraternity did to me.  I avoided that.  He did ask me directly if I was a virgin, and I just sat there embarrassed to tell him that I was (or had been).  He left me with the offer to let him know if I needed anything.

As horrendous as this experience was, I didn’t tell a soul what happened.  I laughed and shrugged off inquiries, continued to go to parties, do horrible in school, and put on the air that everything was fine.  But it wasn’t.   The joyful, funny, curious, and independent girl had stepped onto a path that extinguished much of her spark.  I made it through college with a GPA enough to graduate.  There were some highlights along the way, funny stories that still remain, strong friendships, and accomplishments.   There was no way to name what had happened to me and sadly, this probably happened to other women at every single party.   Sexual assault and harassment had not yet been added to Title IX and the societal norm was acceptance of this type of behavior and was steeped in believing that women who experienced sexual assault had done something to provoke it.  What I did was go to a party nervous and excited to be part of this college experience.

It wasn’t until 1991 that I had words to describe what had happened to me.  There was a Time magazine issue about Date Rape.  It was then that I came to truly understand that someone other than a stranger behind the bushes could rape you.  I finally had a name for what had happened.  Three therapists later, over twenty years in the sexual assault movement, studying and researching the affects of trauma, and the benefit of being in my older years, I can say that my spark is shining bright again.  I made it through the dark tunnel to emerge on the other side stronger, fiercer, and sure of who I am and what I deserve.  The road to get here was not always pretty, but it was mine.   To this day there are just a few people to whom I’ve told my story and I see this blog post as one of the last steps in my 38-year journey.   I’ve carried a lot of shame and guilt for a very long time and truthfully, I’m not sure I will ever be able to shed all of it, but I’m very close.

This last week I’ve listened and watched the news while women of my generation, actually all generations, share very similar experiences to mine.  The familiarity of their stories has been painful and triggering.  We are all telling the truth.   I’ve tried to reframe and reset my focus to acknowledge that much progress has been made in the sexual assault movement since 1980, and it has.  However, that progress is no consolation to the power plays, diminishing and pandering language, and abhorrent tactics the current president and republican senators and others have used to support Brett Kavanaugh.  Being nice to the victim with empty sincerity saying you believe “something” happened and expressing how powerfully moved you are by her courage while siding with a man who aggressively avoided responding to allegations is a strategy to silence the truth.  Kavanaugh successfully placed blame on others by hiding behind divisive politics and his male whiteness - a tried and true strategy that is indicative of the lengths powerful men will go to protect their own place in the power structure.  The disingenuous indignance of how these senators spoke to Dr. Blasey Ford is despicable.  Let's call it what is, they put on sheep’s clothing so we will forget they are really wolves.  But hear this, I’m not fooled, I see them for what they are and are doing, and mounting numbers of women and men are not fooled either.

I have no choice but to remain fierce and stand my ground.   There are armies of women just like me, we will not stop fighting and we will not be silenced.  The reckoning is here.

 

Hello Community, Nice to Meet You.

I’m naturally drawn to community and the many definitions that one simple and complex word represents.  I easily identify with many communities, enjoy reflecting on where my affiliation in them intersect, sometimes collide, and how this tapestry makes me who I am.  It really is pretty cool to take the time and soak in the multiple layers of life that naturally swirl around me and contemplate a deeper understanding.  If my usual state of community curiosity is a stroll on the beach periodically dipping my toes in the water, this week was body surfing on a perfect summer day and catching every. single. wave.

So, many of my community affiliations intersected this week.  You see, the UNE Rural Health Immersion packed up a van of 10 students from osteopathic medicine, pharmacy, social work, and dental medicine drove them 250 miles off campus into Washington County, a region of the state that is near and dear to me.   My heart was beating thinking about them looking out the window at the vastness of Route 9, hoping they were seeing the beauty of landscape, the peeks of water, rolling hills, blueberry barrens scattered with boulders, rundown structures, and not thinking to themselves “what the heck was I thinking” as they saw markers for territories instead of towns.  Here it was, my professional life was taking a road trip right into the middle of a very special part of my personal life.   I so wanted them to love Washington County, felt like I had to protect it, and at the same time I let that piece of being from “away” creep in and realized this was an incredible opportunity of immersion for me as well, a new type of journey into a community I love, this time with my professional hat on.  What happened next was magic.

Not every student is a good fit for a rural immersion and that is why they self-select.  It takes someone curious, open, compassionate, innovative, and willing to listen.   Most of all it takes strength of character.  A tall order for anyone in any situation.  They met these expectations and to say I was puffed up with pride would be an understatement. Each of these students is enrolled in incredibly rigorous academic programs, and this was their one week of “time off”.  They chose to use it to learn more, to immerse themselves in a transformative experience with their peers from other professions in a community they knew nothing about.  Its true that some of them grew up in rural communities themselves, but others were more familiar with the likes of Los Angeles, Miami, and Manhattan, a far cry from Calais, Lubec, and Eastport.  Through the long days, many miles on the road, they remained inquisitive, humorous, and appeared to developed what I hope to be friendships that will stand the test of time, both with their peers and faculty.   This is what interprofessional education looks like in real time, why we do it, and why we need to keep doing it.  It is what will make the health care system better in the future.  One student said to me that it felt like we were on a family vacation!  A family of future health professionals.

But here’s where I think the magic really happened, in each candid and generous conversation in the community.   I have been blessed with years of friendships with my Eastport clan, and feel grounded, loved, and connected.   What this opportunity did was push me outside of my circle of friends and put a different pair of lenses in my glasses that let me see this community more deeply.  I admired the amount of time afforded the students which we learned mirrored the time given to patients, and this was not lost on anyone.   In a world where health care can be an assembly line, to see how rural care providers took the time to listen was inspiring.  Part of this is necessity because lack of resources leaves no other alternative than for social workers, doctors, dentists, pharmacists and others to fill many roles.  It’s compelling to hear that a surgeon, turned primary care physician, now retired has found himself as lead substance abuse doctor in the region.  Or the nurse practitioner scheduled for a follow-up with a patient finds herself spending more time doing a mental health check with the patient then the follow-up.  And there is the dental hygienist that started a program to teach elementary school students how to brush their teeth because of the lack of fluoride and parental guidance for dental care.  The list goes on.   This community makes it happen and when you ask them why its because this is where they live, these are their family, friends, and community members.  They see each other regularly at spaghetti suppers, town meetings, the grocery store.  They coach sports, start knitting circles, and they look out for each other.  They understand each other.  They are in it together, in ways that seem to be lost in other places.  Their skill, education, abilities, and drive could get them jobs anywhere, but the choose here.

It went further than that when we met with community members outside of health care.  First was our trip to Raye’s Mustard Mill.  Originally thought of a nice diversion from all the health care talk, but there it was in front of us again … a history of community.  The rich history of the mill, the family, the pictures on the wall, and the dialogue that it generated were fun to watch.  There is science in the mustard seed after all. We then moved onto Quoddy Bay Lobster, a much touted (by me) experience, where we got a glimpse into the lobstering industry, its challenges and joys, what its like to be a lobsterman’s wife and raise a family, and how to grow a business.  Lobstering is a complicated, political, and dangerous job and I know I walked away with a new appreciation and admiration of that business on Sea Street down the path from my Eastport house.  One of the highlights was looking at the faces of students look at the three pound lobster wriggling in front of them.

To be honest, my community organizing heart was most excited to have connected and worked with my good friends to organize a panel of community members to meet with students and faculty.   I know I am loved, but truth be told on those nights I got home after long days of being on the road to get emails from them knowing they were helping made me want to cry.  (Super shout out to Tessa Ftorek and Kevin Raye).  The quick and willing replies were only overshadowed by meeting new friends in person (Judy Clendenning).   There was also the phone call to Sara Griffin in the parking lot of Monica’s Chocolates when she told me she would make time for a Quoddy Bay Lobster tour, cater our lunch, AND be on our community panel that almost made me fall out of my car.  And there were my phone calls with Chris Gardner where without question he agreed to take 2 hours out of his busy schedule to meet with students and reserved the conference room for us. Just to note, he’s the Executive Director of the Port Authority.  I. Can’t. Even.  All of this even before the lively conversation with students that  ended our day in Eastport.  And that conversation? It was lively, candid, honest, and real.  Students and faculty asked questions.   Community asked questions.  We all learned from and with each other.  Biggest take away … you make what you want.   Eastport wants to thrive and it will. 

It’s not that I don’t feel connected to my community in Southern Maine.  I absolutely do. I LOVE my job.  I love my Southern Maine clan of friends, my family, the beauty of the area.  I live an absolutely blessed life.   What happened this week is my heart grew a little bit more.   I’m more connected to Washington County, and most of all Eastport.   I'm more immersed in UNE and can’t wait to see these 10 students on campus again and work with faculty on other projects.   What this experience taught me is it is possible to be more connected no matter where you are.  That is what I want.  That is what I will make happen.