Almost 11/16. Almost 10

It was a weird day back then, too. I think about it a lot. The weather that day. The pop and gush of your amniotic fluid so early in the morning, busted by your bony self, set off almost 24 hours of wild winds and rain and sun and humidity and clouds.

Driving home today was the first time in my driving life that I was convinced I'd be in an accident. So many cars, so much snow. It was as if everyone was unprepared. Even me. The more I read about the storm I can't believe I made it home unscathed.

But I made it. I made it just like you did, my love. Your birth was incredibly hard. It was hard and I can cry thinking about everything I know about you now and if I had known then would I have done anything different. It's an impossible situation to get my head around.

10 years. You have been with me for 10 years.

You talk and walk (well, let's be honest: you gallop). You tease your sisters and dance to ROCK N ROLL, BABY!. You prefer to wear hoodies and soft pants and to eat macaroni and cheese.

I prefer to never imagine a world without you in it.

One of the greatest things about having you around is that I still get to see you do new things, new and sweet childlike things like reading books to yourself and creating imaginary games with your toys and new and wild grown up guy things like getting your own water and putting your shoes on the right feet the first time.

You make me slow down and marvel. You keep me on the edge of wonder and amazement.

You keep me terrified of the future.

10. Soon it will be 15, 20, 30. I'll be old when you're thirty and you'll be a young man. I'll be old and I hope I will have done enough to keep you happy and safe and able to navigate any storm on any day.

Happy Birthday, Lincoln. 

Mirror, Mirror

I was about 11 years old when I saw my reflection in the bathroom mirror and understood that, yes, I was pretty. The bathroom at 43 Williams Ave. was nice by the time I was 11: lots of light, a new vanity! Plus, I was getting boobs, my hair was dark, my eyes darker. I paid attention to the world around me and I knew what I was looking at and it was most definitely "pretty".

Trying to describe how I felt is so hard. "Relieved" is the closest I can come to the complete emotional state I was in once the sediment of the knowledge found its way into all the crevices of my psyche. When I was 11 years old, the male gaze had gripped me.

I don't remember the first time a man outside of my home compelled me to smile as soon as they saw me & noticed my face. Or they first time thy shared their unsolicited opinion that I was "good looking".  I have no idea how old I was when it all started or how many times the men charged with helping me grow up and be OK had made me uncomfortable in my own skin with their glances, their words. I had no idea how many times my grandmother had slapped me for being "uppity", no idea how many times my other grandmother ignored me and my face entirely, no idea how many times my drunk aunt spat in my face because I JUST THINK I'M BETTER THAN HER...

But suddenly it was happening. And I apologized and complied.

And then it got boring; all that answering politely and being gracious.

And then it got taxing.

And then it got exhausting.

And then there was no more relief in what I saw in the mirror.

When I was 12, my cousin groped me while I pretended to be asleep on the couch.

In the 8th grade I was mocked during class because I walked with my head down and I swung my arms as I navigated the hallways. It was a charades type game and everyone guessed it was me immediately.  By the 8th grade I had been in 5 schools.

By the 8th grade I had been conditioned to hide my face so it would not be commented on. At 14 years old I knew that I didn't like being asked to smile, to change my face. At 14 years old I was shamed for trying to be invisible.

When I was 16 I was kicked out of my house by my stepfather for having a boyfriend.

In my freshman year of college, the guy I was dating smashed my head into the driver's side window of his car (he was drunk, I had to drive) and slammed that same door on my leg as I tried to get away.  I didn't tell him I loved him enough that night.

When I was in my 20's a different cousin joked about how cool and fine and normal it would be for us to fuck.

About a month ago a man in the parking lot of my local grocery store called me a bitch because I didn't respond to his command for me to "hey, babe, smile".

Today at my job where I work with a team of people charged with the health and well being of young adults & teenagers, I was asked within a matter of minutes by two different men from two different generations to alter the look on my face.

Now it makes me angry.

I'm 48 years old. It's still happening. And I still want to be invisible.

But it is so much more complicated than that!

I want to be pretty (do I?)! I like being pretty (do I?)!

I have no fucking idea.

Several years ago I had a surgical procedure called a blepharoplasty to eliminate the puffy bags under my eyes. I spend hundreds of dollars a year on high-end skincare products. I pluck my eyebrows and my chin hairs and remove my moustache. I use a magnifying mirror AND reading glasses for inspections.

My face is the scaffolding of my self-image, my self worth and if I don't take care of it, it's going to collapse.

Do I want to be invisible or not? This is not a question I can answer.

Nothing I have accomplished in my life can fend off the despair I experience when someone, some man, comments on the state of my face in the pejorative. NOTHING.

You've heard of RBF? Resting Bitch Face? The Live Love Laugh meme of Misogyny? Fuck RBF. Fuck how funny you all think it is, how cute, how bold, how boss-babe, how quirky. It's insulting, full stop.

If society thought RBF was cool then it wouldn't be used against women who have it as an obvious barrier to intrusive comments.

If society thought  RBF was acceptable, then it wouldn't be used as a slur behind the backs of the women who have been conditioned to not draw attention to themselves.

See, we stop smiling because we don't want men to notice us. But when we stop smiling, men ask us to smile because it makes them feel better when they look at us. IT NEVER ENDS.

Today ended in the worst possible way. I left my office a plastic grocery bag filled with broken glass.
Today some miserable things crystalized for me and at this point trying to separate the logic from the emotion is like doing embroidery in reverse.

Today I am grateful for good wine.

Today I am grateful for a son who has no concept of being sexist and predatory. I am grateful for a husband who fights back his urge to fight because he knows this is my battle. I am grateful for daughters who know I will do whatever I can to blind the male gaze. I am grateful for my friends who rage right along with me and I am grateful for my job and the privilege I have to help my young colleagues and even younger students learn that they are more than what other people see.