Me at age 16, traveling Denmark with a good friend.
(Originally written Friday, September 28, 2018 and then edited through October 1, 2018)
My 13-year-old self didn’t even know how to spell his name correctly as I wrote about him in my diary all of 44 years ago. Yet I called him my “boyfriend” in those diary entries from Fall 1974. He was 3 or 4 years older than me and, as I bloomed into adolescence earlier than my classmates, I found myself teased, belittled, and humiliated incessantly for having breasts, my period, and other characteristics of a grown woman. On the academic side, I was fairly advanced and by graduation I was in the top 20 in my class of over 700. I played violin in both the school orchestra and a competitive youth orchestra and studied privately with respected instructors. In these things – academically and musically – I knew the rules, to study, to practice, to revise, to work hard. Yet in retrospect, I was so insecure about my changing body that I didn’t know how to handle the kind of attention it would attract, for good or bad. My rebellious nature grew as I struggled with the attention I received, which often wasn’t in my best interest, especially from certain boys attempting to play men.
From that early experience, I’ve come to some conclusions about bad behavior. I no longer buy into the “boys will be boys” mantra often used to excuse inexcusable behavior by aggressive angry young men. Sorry. Not sorry. Not buying it. Because when you buy into that, you accept that women, girls, “ask” for rape. They don’t. They dress nicely because they like to feel good about themselves. Not because they want to be sexually assaulted. They say “no” because they don’t want to be raped. Not because they want to sound like a bitch. They smile not because they want to be attacked. They smile because they feel good and want others to, as well. We just want kindness, respect, and humane consideration, not deep shame, verbal or physical abuse, and sexual attack.
#MeToo and My Sisters, Too
The #metoo movement that busted into the limelight last year as women began to stand up and be counted as survivors of sexual harassment, assault, and rape, dredged up memories that I’d put behind me long ago. But like many of my sisters in heart who have experienced that same reignited pain, the poor excuse of a man who currently occupies the White House, and whose name I cannot write here, displayed such openly misogynistic attitudes and behaviors as to declare open season on women, our civil rights, and our dignity. He has empowered other men to also be openly misogynistic who had previously felt stifled by the “political correctness” of civility. In response, a growing chorus of female voices has risen, creating a backlash against the older white male generation’s status quo that said women had to stay in their “place” and men would be the only arbiters of power.
Angry, bitter, outraged… these feelings welled up inside me as I felt betrayed by the openly hostile expressions against women perpetuated and endorsed by this old white male guard that I saw on television. Then there were the younger sexually entitled“incels,” men who were “involuntarily celibate,” celebrating a more violent level of misogyny against women as they openly blamed women for their unwanted celibacy, punishing women for turning down their sexual advances.
I felt betrayed because I thought this was a fight that had already been won and done, and that we’d moved far beyond this level of vitriolic and violent misogyny to achieve some levels of success in championing women as equals – or at least the potential to be equals to men, to be treated with respect, dignity, and valued beyond procreation and superficially pretty looks. That betrayal ignited something inside me that I hadn’t felt in a long time.
It was the 70s
Born in 1961, I came of age in the midst of the burgeoning women’s rights movement. Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan’s The Feminine Mystique. The sexual revolution. The Equal Rights Amendment. Although originally introduced by Alice Paul in 1923 on the heals of the 19th Amendment giving women the right to vote, the ERA was finally passed by 2/3rds of both houses of congress in 1972. However, it failed to meet the next hurdle to achieve ratification in 3/4ths of the states by the extended deadline of June 30, 1982. Only two states have ratified it after the deadline, Nevada in 2017, and Illinois 2018.
As I reached adolescence in the early 1970s, the Watergate hearings, the ERA’s passage by congress, and the gasoline crisis served as a backdrop to the experiments of my generation with sexuality, with feminism, and female assertiveness. After getting my driver’s license as a teen in 1977, I bought a car, but discovered only later that during my time growing up women couldn’t have their own credit card (until 1974, Equal Credit Opportunity Act), or even get contraception (until 1972, Eisenstadt v. Baird) if you were unmarried, or legally get an abortion (until 1973, Roe v. Wade). Heck, it wasn’t until 1981 that the US Supreme Court declared a Louisiana law unconstitutional which had given sole control of marital property to the husband. That attitude of the woman being subordinate to a man was endemic even in the decades that followed the wins of the 1960s and 70s.
Buying a House
So it was no wonder that I found myself indignant when my new husband, Keith, and I purchased our first home, mostly using funds from a trust my grandparents had created for me for college, but which I spent very little having gone to a state university (back when tuition was still quite low for state schools). At the house closing in Fall 1982, the deed was written up as “Keith Fulmer and his wife, Mara,” as if I were an appendage of Keith’s rather than the primary purchaser of the property. I expressed to those present that I found this very demeaning and wanted the wording changed. But I was told “it’s the way it is always done.” My feminist assertiveness later led to a confrontation that same year with a town tax assessor when Keith and I went to file our objections to the increase in taxes after the sale. I was the first to speak for us to the grey-haired older gentleman sitting across the table. His reply “Now, why don’t you not worry your pretty little head about this?” He continued, “You’re just going to stay home and make babies, sweetheart. Let your husband worry about this.” I believe I could feel Keith’s hand on my arm as I must have begun to rise from my seat to mentally slap the man. After all, my income was our primary source, and the one upon which our small mortgage had been based.
The indignities continued long after it became “illegal” to discriminate against a woman. Yet the system is basically rigged against women from the onset. Support systems necessary for staying on par with men in various career choices don’t exist in this country, though lip-service is paid to it, even as women are not. The costs are unsustainable for young people trying to start families while paying the bills, buying a home, and trying to get ahead. Even with the Family Medical Leave Act, employers are not required to pay for leave to stay home with a new child, only to allow you time off – unpaid. Childcare is not supported through any kind of reliable social safety net. And women who choose to stay home through the early childhood years (and whose spouse has the income to manage) often pay an enormous price both economically and in their job status as they try to play catch-up upon re-entry to the job market.
Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford
Brett Kavanaugh, nominee for Supreme Court
The Kavanaugh Hearings
The same white male old guard that I saw laughing during breaks at the Kavanaugh hearing when Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford had been testifying yesterday of Brent Kavanaugh’s attempted rape, when she was 15 and he was 17, are the same men who make legislature that keeps women down, or block other legislation that is meant to provide some measure of support. And here they were…laughing during a break after hearing her testimony.
Members of the Senate Judiciary Committee during a break in the Q&A for Brett Kavanaugh, Supreme Court nominee.
Then Kavanaugh got his chance. He hadn’t even bothered to hear her speak earlier, so focused was he on writing his bullying speech on how “not guilty” he was in a vitriolic conspiracy-laced temper tantrum. His anger was frightening, his entitlement astonishing, his indignation unbelievable. What I saw right there was a bullying self-entitled white male who felt he could and SHOULD by all birth right be able to get away with doing anything he wanted because. “I went to Yale!” he shouted. And, “I’ve worked for so and so,” the name dropping and resume rapping all just reinforcing his self-entitled ass. He came off as overly defensive, the kind of man who was used to being able to have his way, but angry that he no longer controlled the narrative, someone who was watching his right to power crumble in front of him, a guilty conscience stomping his feet like a belligerent toddler who knows they did wrong but won’t accept it.
I had been prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, figuring maybe it was a case of mistaken identity. But his behavior spoke otherwise. I’ve been the subject of the self-righteous defense of an alcoholic’s rage before, accusing everyone else for their pain in order to avoid taking responsibility for their own actions. I’ve cried in response to this heated verbal abuse from someone who called my late husband “friend” and who somehow felt it was okay to belittle and attack the widow and bring her grown daughter to tears to cover for his guilt of his own behavior. It was that same out-of-control tantrum that I saw and heard in the voice of Brent Kavanaugh. Someone who was finally forced to confront the demons they’d tried to hide beneath a facade of virtue. In the end, I felt that regardless of whether he actually did attempt to rape Ford when they were teens, or not, he demonstrated that he was a complete emotional train wreck who was unfit to serve on the highest court in the land. I, like many of my sisters in heart, empathized deeply with Dr. Blasey-Ford.
I was 13, he was 16 or 17.
As I stated at the beginning, I was only 13. I did.not.know. I didn’t understand enough about sex to fully comprehend what I was getting myself into. Marshall was older and I felt flattered that someone older seemed to “like” me. But in reality, he only wanted to have sex. And he would boast about it to my friends afterwards. It got back to me in some of the worst ways. “Slut” was probably the nicest thing they said. But one boy who I called friend, even after occasionally slipping into the role of humiliating me on occasions, would sit down and ask me my side. We later would share a lifelong friendship. I recall telling him that I would commit suicide, when one time he asked if Marshall had “screwed” me and what would I do if I became pregnant. I had just confirmed to him what Marshall had been boasting about. Funny thing, though. I kept a diary back in those days. And I really didn’t know what “screw” meant. I hadn’t felt anything – no penetration, no wetness. It was, in retrospect, some heavy petting. But when asked at the time, I thought I must have been mistaken and been “screwed.” So, after that conversation, I went back into my diary in 1974 and wrote over top of the original entry “screwed me.”
It was four years later when I had begun dating Keith that I discovered I had been wrong earlier. Boy oh boy was I relieved… a bit embarrassed by my naïveté, and chuckling a little about it. I remember thinking, “well, if Marshall really DID screw me, it must have been with the smallest dick possible, because I didn’t feel a thing!” Silly, I know. But it did make me feel better.
That’s because there was one instance when it got scary with Marshall. From my diary when I was 13 years old (names have been changed):
Tuesday, Oct. 15, 1974
School was okay today. I talked to Mr. L and I told him about game night. [Note: a chaperoned party where the kids teased the parents about dancing.] We kidded especially about when I was escorted home by 3 boys. During 7th period he told Jay: “I heard about you and what what’s-his-name did to Mara, Friday night.” Jay: “We didn’t do anything.” Mr. L: “But you were thinking about it, and it’s the thought that counts.” Jay told me this as we were standing at Mickey’s locker. Jay walked home with us today. When we reached Mickey’s house, Mickey & everyone else went home. Jay walked home with me. We talked & joked about nothing in particular. When I got home my brother was sitting on the front porch. As it turned out we were locked out of the house. I put my books on the porch and started walking to Mickey’s house. Mickey was riding his bike and so he told me to get on. The bike tipped over so when Joe came out with his bike, I rode on his. We got to the corner of Reed and Wheeler when we met Jay. I got off Joe’s bike and started walkin’ back to Mickey’s.
We went to look at the new house they were building on the Wheeler extension. Then around 5:15 pm, I went home. Jay rode along beside me and offered 2 or 3 times I ride on his bike. I turned him down because was afraid I’d fall off. While I was making potatoes for dinner Mickey came to the door. He had seen my mother drive off and he wanted to know, I guess, if I was available. We talked and he asked if I wanted to come over while he was babysitting around 7:10 pm tonight.
Well after dinner I did go, using the excuse that I had to help Mickey with his homework. While I was walking though, Marshall and Roy [Note: Marshall’s younger brother] rode up behind me on their bikes. They followed me to where Mickey was babysitting and, when I rang the bell, Mickey signaled me to come back in 10 min, (and that) maybe Marshall and Roy would leave. Well I walked around the block once and Roy rode alongside me. When I got back Roy rode off and Marshall followed me back to the door where I convinced Mickey to let us in. Mickey sat in an armchair while Marshall and I sat on the couch. Marshall had his arm around me and so Mickey put a blanket over his head and pretended he wouldn’t look so Marshall could go farther. Every time Mickey left the room, Marshall would try to kiss me. I didn’t want him to because I felt it was neither the time nor the place. But he kept right at it. At 20 of 9 (pm), Mickey said we had to go.
We went outside & Marshall took me by the hand and said “Come here, I’ve got to get my bike.” He got me in the corner of the house next door and wouldn’t let me go. I kissed him twice and then tried to get away. I wanted to get home and I didn’t feel like “makin out”. As I said before it was neither the time nor the place. He wouldn’t let me go & he pinned me against the brick of the chimney where I couldn’t move. He whispered that it was too bad my parents were home… I tried to get away and I struggled. He held me tight so my wrists ached. I wanted to get home. Then he started sticking his hand down my pants. He took my hand and stuck it down his. For a moment there was no struggle. Then I took my hand out and grabbed his to get it out but he held.
Finally he let go and in a mocking voice said “I got to get home, I got to get home.” He left on his bike and went home. I walked down towards Mickey’s house then turned around and went back to where he was babysitting. I asked if I could talk to him & so I told him the whole story. He let me in and we waited till the parents came home. I sneaked out the back door and waited for Mickey. Mickey kept saying what a creep and a jerk Marshall was…I walked home with Mickey who lent me his sweater to keep warm…
Although I think I must have been numb at first, my 13-year-old self finally came to the realization that Marshall was destroying what self-respect I had left, that being with him was untenable. I went through the phases of feeling guilty, ashamed, irresponsible, fearful of disappointing my parents and then ashamed again. Like many young girls, I didn’t respect myself enough, didn’t value myself, though sometimes was good at hiding it. I blamed myself for what nearly happened. I was insecure about myself, my body, my prettiness. It’s not that I wasn’t smart. But, like many book-smart girls, I was very insecure in other ways. And there were always those “mean” girls who seemed to make sure you knew how much better they were by belittling and humiliating you (me) in front of others. Over the next few years, my body shifted back and forth weight-wise and by the time I was 16, I could pass for 22, with a hour-glass figure and long curly auburn hair. I still was insecure about my looks. Oddly enough, Keith was the first one to help me change that.
Looking Back/Looking Forward
In the decades that have since passed, I have reflected on that experience with Marshall* and its impact on me in the short and long term. Perhaps in the short-term, and with the help of people I still count as friends more than 43 years later, I was able to move on, and even come away a bit stronger for it. Certainly, I never let myself get close to anyone who was like him ever again. I used his behavior as a model for whom to avoid. I realized I needed to practice self-preservation. My empathy for others, my need to feel needed and loved would sometimes lead to great personal pain. It took awhile to start to figure out how to harness my “powers” while preserving my sanity.
In the long term, as a grandmother now, I look back at that 13-year-old girl and I am sad. Not just for having to remember her/my experience, but to be confronted by the naïveté of a young girl who so dearly wanted to be grown up, who tried to be and act grown up. But who just wasn’t as mature as she led herself to believe, and who blamed herself and didn’t trust enough to be taken seriously if she were to report the experience.
But no longer do I feel the need to apologize for who I am, and for my experiences I have lived. No longer do I feel “deserving” of the way I was treated by Marshall or anyone else. I have come to understand that their behavior was the result of their own experiences, their own anger and pain. Unfortunately, I was the one who got in their way of their acting out. The fact that I could not trust others to believe me or my side of it, well, I guess I felt that it would only result in more public shaming and blaming of me, and nothing good would come of reporting it. After witnessing the attacks on those who’ve come forward regarding Brett Kavanaugh, I guess I’m not too far off.
Still, I’m rather proud of how that 13-year-old girl – how I – turned out. I know what my powers are now. Such is the result of decades of life experiences, of learning to trust in my intuitiveness, my empathy, my inner and outer “beauty”, and my voice…and of becoming a responsible member of my female tribe. These are among my strengths.
Even so, the behavior on display these last couple of years, culminating in last week’s hearings for the Supreme Court nominee has reminded me of my responsibilities. Beware to those gentlemen who dare to challenge my rights as a woman in the 21st Century. Beware to those who try to demean and diminish the needs and value of women everywhere. I, like my sisters in heart, have harnessed my powers and I know how to use them.
*I’ve chosen not to reveal his real name here because there isn’t any point. Unless he was in the running for Supreme Court Justice, I’d just as soon leave him to Karma. Hopefully, he grew up. I need not waste any energy on punishing him. That fate is in his own hands.
PS: I know that members of my family will have read this and will have their own emotional response to the sexual assault and the other indignities described above. Do something positive. Channel any pain you may feel into making sure the next generation of young women never have to feel “less than” _____ ever again.
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For those of us who were conscious and attentive during the fateful events of 9/11/2001, it is hard to fathom that there is nearly an entire generation who have grown up without the emotional connection to the tragedies of that day. For them, there is no “before” and “after” 9/11. But for the rest of us, myself included, much of life is measured in those terms.
As we sat there facing a remnant of one of the structural members of one of the two World Trade Center towers, a large American flag hanging from the extension ladder of a city fire truck, we listened. With us were new cadets being trained as police officers, and our own college police department.
Mara Jevera Fulmer's Blog 