Even something as small as making your bed every morning can be a goal. Some days I hit it. Some days, I don't. But that's okay.
I tell myself. "It will get better." Because it does. It always gets better. We all know this.
Personal or public issues will always get better with time, motivation and action.
What are your short term and long term goals?
I don't want her to think a woman cannot be a president because "women are too emotional to be a president." I think about Trump. Holy shit, he's a basketcase.
I don't want her to blame herself if someone takes advantage of her. I don't want her to hold it in, in fear of retaliation, or in fear of disbelief. I think, again, about Trump, and his horrific comments about women. I think of Kavanaugh and how so many people attacked Dr. Ford. Blaming the victim isn't new, but it is very wrong. And I had hoped that here in 2018, we as a community would have grown and matured since then.
But when people in power are regarded as role models, a community shifts. When the people in power abuse others, redirect the blame, and use fear as a distraction, then those who follow blindly destroy the faith in those who wish for good in the world.
I'm feeling morose. I am hoping that the elections will bring a positive change. It's disheartening when I hear that the younger generation, even after all the shootings, the fighting, the economy, that they would be excited in voting. Instead, I hear from their parents "Oh, my child just doesn't care." How can they not care?!
It's frustrating. Again, I look at my children, and I want only the best for them.
I think about my daughter again too. I remember when I was her age. I remember how I was when I was even younger. I remember announcing I wanted to play baseball and being told that "it's softball for girls, and boys won't like you if you play sports." Why would that matter? But as a child, I understood that as "getting a boyfriend was more important than playing sports." And then later, when I was probably 8 or 9 years old, I remember going into a store with my cousin and sister while my mother waited outside. An older man kept following me and touching me. I was scared, and after the third time feeling him press up against me, I ran out. I was too scared to say anything, but one man saw what was happening. He had looked at me, but said nothing. After a few minutes, my sister and cousin came out to meet my mother and I. About twenty minutes later or so, I eventually told my mother what happened. She told me "It's too late now. You should have said something when it happened." So I closed my mouth and said nothing else. It was too late, my mother said so.
A couple years later, maybe only one or two years, I sat in the after-school school bus heading home. The driver had a friend who was older than us. I thought I was cool because he liked to talk to me. It made me feel special. He would joke around. Sometimes I didn't understand his jokes, but the other boys laughed, so I did too. One day, he started tickling me under my shorts. The other boys laughed. I didn't like it, but I forced myself to laugh. I tried to move away, but he kept doing it, laughing and joking about how red my face was getting. The bus driver didn't stop him. All the boys were laughing. I pretended it was funny too. And when the bus stopped, I tried not to shake as I left the bus and walked home. I was in fifth grade. I remember that much. I remember his name was Hector, and I remember there were other boys around us and they were laughing. I didn't understand how I felt, but I knew I didn't like the feeling.
Eventually, I told my mother. She didn't seem to care. She told me I should have told him to stop. She made me feel like it was my fault. And then, years later, when I was I high school, she found out I took a picture of myself in my bra to give to my then-boyfriend. She yelled at me, called me names, and then told me that if what happened on the bus actually did happen, that I had probably asked for it.
I had wanted to die when she said that.
But that's the generation we lived in. I remember being 14 -years old and standing in line to see the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City, one of the holiest places in the world, and some guy kept groping me. He grabbed my ass, squeezed it, chuckled under his breath and then started rubbing. I kept trying to move away, but he wouldn't stop. When I told my mother that the man kept touching me, she told me to just ignore him.
I know I am not the only person who has had things like this happen to. The #metoo movement hit me hard as it hit so many others. Too many times we are told to ignore or shut up. Too many times we are told to blame ourselves, to question our actions.
I do not want that for my children.
My children understand the importance of consent and respect. But I worry when I watch the news and see who is getting away with what. It's a scary time.
I love my children. I want the best possible future for them, and I will continue fighting for them and their future.
It's been nine weeks in lockdown and we were getting tired of the same food...the kids wanted something different. So thanks to Google E...
