National Anxiety

I went to bed Sunday night after the entire Presidential debate. That's fairly late for me since I usually get up at 5 a.m. But as I lay my head on my pillow, I felt a buzzing  in my chest, in my stomach. I couldn't settle the agitation. I turned on Pandora nature sounds, setting it to go off within half an hour, but I was still awake when it went off. What was going on with me? Why was I so unsettled?
My daughter called me for the third day in a row. She wanted to talk while she was driving. She felt on the edge of an anxiety attack. She couldn't understand why they were happening; she hadn't experienced them for awhile.
Then she stopped. "I think it was the tape that came out on Friday," she said, making a connection with her anxiousness and the bragging of a powerful man that he can force himself on women any time he wants.
That kick started the nausea that she feels, the racing of her heart, that feeling of metal in her mouth.
I don't think she and I are alone in this kick-in-the-gut feeling.
Women have known men like this all our lives. Sometimes we're strong enough to fight back, sometimes we wonder did we do something to lead them on, and sometimes we swallow the uncomfortableness and never tell anyone.
When I was a girl, 11 or so,  I went with my cousin to visit her grandparents on her father's side. They were a lovely old couple. I sat on the porch swing with the grandfather while my cousin went with her grandmother to the garden. The man's arm resting on the back swing reached over and snapped my bra strap.
Thwack. I felt the elastic and heard the twang.
I was shocked. I sat still, wondering what I should do. I let a minute go by before I slid off the swing, saying I was going to find my cousin. He laughed.
I never told anyone that happened. I felt ashamed that a nice old man would have done that to me. He obviously didn't see me as a little girl but as a sexual object, even at that age. I never went with my cousin to her grandparents' house again.
Of course, it's different when it was boys my age who would pull my bra strap. The power makes a huge disparity in how women feel -- like we have no way out. We only have to grit our teeth and take it.
So as we both dealt with uncomfortable sensations this week, I suggested to my daughter that she might  tamp down the anxiety if she stopped listening to political news and if she went to the early polling place to vote.
"Once you vote, maybe you'll feel some sense of resolution, knowing you've done what you can to prevent him from winning," I said.
She hasn't gone to vote yet and she called today after retching over the toilet at work. I don't think she'll be able to make it to early voting during the week since the polls are open 8-6 and she works 9-5. So she'll have to wait until Oct. 29 when the polls stay open on the weekends.
I hope both of us can turn our attention away from the ugliness that has invaded our society, until we can put it to rest on November 8.

Catching Up

Sorry to be MIA for so long. My week has been partially wonderful and partially explosive.
Tuesday was my birthday.
It started out with a lovely run then breakfast with my husband and daughter at Pistace Vera.

I had my hair cut and  emerged for lunch at Bon Vie totally different.

Then I went to work in the evening.
Some time that night, Tucker let both cats outside (they're indoor/outdoor cats), but only one cat returned home. The younger one didn't come to the door. At 3:30 in the morning, I heard Tucker outside in the rain calling for him.
"Don't get arrested for skulking around," I warned him as I got up to check on Tucker.
The next morning as we hurried out the door to work, Tybalt still hadn't shown up.
Tucker got up around 9 to begin looking for him. As Tucker got more and more worried, I posted on our local Facebook page with a picture of the missing cat. I went to Ohio Pet FBI and posted. I called the non-emergency number of the police and the local animal shelter and the local vet clinic trying to find the cat. Instead of going to the gym after work, I came home and walked the streets shaking a container with cat food in hopes of luring him out.
Searches online told me that outdoor cats are usually within five houses, unless they've been trapped somewhere or accidentally relocated. Accidentally relocated would mean that a cat climbed in the back of a truck or in a wheel well and driven away. Another possibility would be that the cat got scared, sprinted from his normal neighborhood and couldn't find his way back, according to the Pet FBI research.

As I walked the neighborhood, gaining steps on my new Fitbit, I pictured our poor cat stuck in a shed or a garage, unable to get out. Or maybe a possum or raccoon had fought with him, leaving him hurt. The website warned that cats are silent when injured, even if I was close by calling his name. They don't want to alert any predators.
When Grace got home from work, we wandered the neighborhood again, stopping random people on the street to show them pictures of Tybs. The AEP guys going door to door. The kids skateboarding. We were getting desperate as the sun began to set again.
Finally around 6:30, a call came in. The young man had found a very nice cat on his porch. He'd been there since this morning.
Tucker and Grace went to fetch Tybs and the drama for the day ended.
Thursday, I determined would be the day I'd catch up on all my lagging work. I ran and showered then got down to work. Tucker told me he needed to film me doing something for his videography class -- 50 shots at least 3 seconds each. He wanted me to do something interesting.
"Too bad you don't have a talent," he said. He had wanted to film his father drawing a picture. It's not too interesting to watch someone grade papers or write stories.
He finally decided that I should play Scrabble.

But, at 10:15 as I put in a second load of laundry, also not worth filming, the phone rang. Grace couldn't move her neck and was in a lot of pain. I drove to pick her up at work. Got her home, medicated. Called to make doctor's appointments, took her to the doctor where she was diagnosed with a pinched nerve and muscles in spasm, picked up her prescriptions,, dropped everything at home then headed to the college to testify for the harassment hearing.
After I complained about a student in one of my classes, the college's Title IX rep filed charges.
She said I could send in a statement, or testify by phone, but the best idea was to attend and give my testimony.
Feeling anxious, I showed up and sat in the faculty kitchen waiting for the student to complete his testimony. He had denied that he hugged me, saying he'd only shaken my hand.
Up until I heard that, I'd continued to believe his inappropriate behavior was due to a cultural misunderstanding. By lying about it, he as much as admitted that he knew it was wrong and wanted to hide it.
The committee, made up of one student, one faculty member and one administrator, listened to me then asked questions. From the questions they asked, I thought they were leaning toward the student's version of events.
"How uncomfortable would you be if this student were in your class or still here on campus?" the male faculty member asked.
I came home Thursday feeling defeated. I wondered if I could avoid teaching at that college, maybe getting by on one of my jobs.
Friday was another sprint -- teaching, then a lovely afternoon of a facial and pedicure, making a casserole dish of macaroni and cheese before Tucker left for work, a quick trip to the gym, getting Grace comfortable with her still inflamed neck muscles and pinched nerves.
After 6, I sat down at the computer and checked my email. The student accused of harassment had been suspended for a year. Now I have a year to not worry about running into him in the halls, and next year at this time, we'll be preparing to move to France. Our schedules might overlap by one semester only.
Saturday, I ran with my friend Noreen then spent the day tackling our complicated taxes.

Today, a run, Trader Joe's, and my parents' taxes.

Tomorrow, I'll start the schedule all over again, with the added chaos of Spencer coming home for Spring Break. He starts with a trip to the dentist for a chipped tooth.
You'll understand if you don't hear from me for awhile.

Sexual Harassment

Yesterday I wrote a blog post about misreading signals from men. It seems innocent and frivolous.
Today, it feels much more like the railroad crossing gate didn't come down, and I'm blaming myself for getting hit by a train.

http://nicksuydam.photoshelter.com/image/I0000nP1cQuR19aU

My stomach was churning when I woke up at 5:30. I could feel my student's big arms struggling to wrap around me as I pushed against him and said, "No! That isn't appropriate. No!"
My hands pushed ineffectually at the rough material of his cotton coat as my eyes searched the empty hallway beyond the door,  hoping someone would be outside.
As the professor, I had the power in the classroom situation, yet his physical strength trumped whatever authority I might have.
Still, politeness prevented me from calling out for help or screaming at him. I didn't kick him or hit him. I maintained my civility, as I'd been taught. And when he stepped away, I held my hand out to shake his, showing him the proper way to indicate appreciation for a professor.

http://i.imgur.com/1MigC.jpg

I called my husband on the phone before I stepped out into the darkness of the parking lot, and I didn't confide how shaken I felt by the encounter.

I had written yesterday's blog post in class. After an initial lecture, I gave students the opportunity to catch up on their work before the final exam next week. I'd graded all their papers. As students worked, they asked questions or requested that I help them with an assignment, and slowly they finished, packed up their things and left. Except for the one student who'd made me uncomfortable all semester.
Wondering whether I was making more of his comments than I should, I wrote the blog post "Subtle Signs." I published it before the final encounter, the forced hug, the deliberate disdain for my words that said: "Stop!"
When I got home, I edited my blog, adding the section about the student grabbing me and hugging me against my will. But it's there in the middle. It's importance hidden like a Russian nesting doll.
My body let me know this morning that his actions do matter.
Instead of writing at 5:30 a.m. I went for a walk, hoping activity would calm the sick feeling that fluttered through my middle. I bought a white mocha, comfort food, but it tasted bitter as I trudged home over the ice-covered sidewalks.
I got dressed for work and thought carefully about what I would wear. I planned to talk to the Dean. I didn't want him to think I dressed in a provocative way that might have encouraged the student. I slipped my wedding ring on my finger, another talisman to ward against evil.
Halfway through dressing, I realized that I'd fallen into the societal judgment of women, that something I had done, some way I had dressed, some jewelry I had worn, might have caused the incident.
At the back of my throat, I felt the dryness that arrives right before vomit fills my mouth. I swallowed and urged my body to get a grip.
I planned to talk to the dean after I'd finished teaching for the day, but when I had a break, I grabbed my phone and called him. I thought reporting the incident might settle the queasiness in my stomach. It didn't.
The dean responded suitably. He talked about the student growing up in another culture, but agreed it was no excuse. The dean assured me that he and another faculty member would talk to the student to let him know his action was inappropriate, and that he couldn't continue at school if he didn't change his behavior.
I should have felt relief, but my heart continued to skip within my chest -- those arms coming tightly around my shoulders, my hands pushing against his shoulders to get him away.
I grabbed my bag and walked to the cafeteria. I ordered fries and doused them in ketchup.
After my other classes, I took a quick trip to Trader Joe's. On the way, I called my friend Janine and told her all I was feeling. We talked about how society has taught us to respond by wondering what we did wrong. "You didn't do anything wrong," she reassured me, and I felt better. I bought a small hyacinth plant to cheer me, and some chocolates. Nothing seemed to calm me.
I worked out at the gym, lifting weights, throwing my shoulders and stomach into the rowing machine as I leaned back then pulled forward again.
Finally I came home to write this.
I'm still surprised how big this felt, and truthfully, it was nothing compared to what other women go through.
I guess I didn't expect to feel so helpless. I'm a strong woman. I'm an older woman. I feel secure in myself, but it only took that one incident to reduce me to a quivering Victorian woman reaching for her smelling salts.
But if it happens again, I hope I'm ready to yell, to curse, to fight, and not worry about being polite. And I need to teach my daughter, and all those other young women who feel strong, but might react with politeness when they should react with fierceness -- creating the world we want, not the one we inherited.