Making America Great Again

So, we all heard the big promise for months and months--Number Forty-Five said, and continues to say, he is going to "Make America Great Again." Unlike the millions of Americans who cast their ballot for him back in November, I never saw a chance in hell that he was going to actually do it.  And never mind that nearly three million more Americans cast their ballots in another direction, because they didn't believe he would either.

But, devil's advocate, I am starting to think I may have been wrong. I know, it sounds crazy coming from this die-hard old liberal, but he may actually have found a way to do exactly what he promised.

Not long ago, a longtime friend posted that really tired old meme with the haggard, dirty, homeless child on the streets--you know, the one that declares that we shouldn't be helping people from other countries if we can't take care of our own? I have seen that grizzled old meme so many times. Sometimes, in place of the child, it's a presumed homeless veteran. Most of the time, I just roll my eyes, grown, and scroll by, because I know that when I inevitably call the person out on it, they are also going to end up saying that our tax dollars shouldn't be paying for public assistance either. Maybe it will be followed by suggesting that people need to work for a living, or we should drug-test everyone who receives even a penny from the government. But I took the bait this time, and it played out exactly like I anticipated it would. I think I may have even salivated a little because the hypocrisy laced argument was oddly satisfying in my moment of weakness.

One point offered was that people who can help others should. I queried whether until there is some way to force the very wealthy, or financially able to help others, if we should simply let all of the homeless and hungry children and veterans starve. And that's when the declaration that public assistance isn't a good answer either predictably popped up. So, our tax money shouldn't help foreigners because there are Americans in need, but our tax dollars shouldn't help them either. So, we should help--no one.

But, perhaps Number Forty-Five has outwitted this vicious circle, and in the process, he is steering America toward an unexpected greatness.

In the days following the 2016 election, Americans began to throw their financial support behind organizations such as Planned Parenthood, the American Civil Liberties Union, the Human Rights Campaign, and many others that work to support women's rights, civil rights, and human rights. And in the days since Number Forty-Five took office, with every new threat to these rights, Americans have continued to rise to the occasion, and fork over millions of dollars in support. They aren't all giant donations, like the ones you hear about celebrities making. Many of them are the ten and twenty dollar donations that many of us redirect from luxuries like a new book, or an afternoon movie.

Women from all walks of life and colors have been reminded that the work started over a century ago was never truly finished, and now we must not only fight for our own rights, but for the rights of everyone threatened by this new shade of darkness, and this new wave of hatred and intolerance. Many of us are first time activists who are just finding our way. I know I am.

There are so many positives about activism. It brings people together who may never have had a reason to cross paths before. It gives birth to conversations about causes and work that were being overlooked. It raises awareness, and reminds us that we have a shared responsibility to each other, and our Earth.

In the days since the election, I have done more to help and support others than I have ever done in my life. I attended the Woman's March on Washington, I have reached out to my local Islamic Center to offer support, I have sent emails, volunteered, made small donations, and reached out to strangers. I have always cared, but never so actively. And if not for a wicked cold and flu season, I would have done more. But that's the great thing about helping or supporting others--there's no expiration date. We can always do it.

With the release of the newly proposed budget, which threatens to remove federal funding of programs like Meals on Wheels, and before school breakfast for students, a whole new wave of philanthropy has ensued. Millions of dollars are flooding the Meals on Wheels program. People are stepping up to fight for Public Broadcasting and National Public Radio.

As Americans, we are being forced to fight for the things we believe in, and to protect the things we value. We are standing up to say that we will not ignore intolerance or violence against people of color, immigrants, Muslims, transgendered women, or other members of the LGBTQ community. We won't accept misogyny, and behaviors that encourage rape culture.

For the first time, something is driving Americans to take action like we haven't in a long time. Sadly, I know we may not win every fight, and even the fights that we win may take a long time, and be hard fought. Some of the fights have been fought before, and we believed they were won, but frustration cannot stop us from raising the sword again.

No, I don't really believe that Number Forty-Five is making America great again. That's because I don't believe that any one person can make America great again. Number Forty-Five didn't even make America "bad." He simply spoke to angry people, with the tendency to fear and despise that which they do not understand, in a language that gave them permission to bare the worst part of their souls through their ballots, and, in some cases, their words and actions. Many innocent people are under threat, and are living in fear because of such words and actions.

The only people who can make America great are Americans, and we do it by digging in, and digging deep to provide help, support, and shelter for the people who need it, and for the causes that protect all of our truly American rights and values.

A Day Without a Woman, But Not Without a Soul

So, today is International Women's Day. It also is the first Day Without A Woman event.

My daughter was born three years ago today. Oddly enough, I had never noticed that March 8 was Women's Day until I was perusing social media a few hours after my girl was born. It wasn't particularly significant to me in the moment, but I filed the new knowledge away, and now, I always remember the two being linked.

When I look around me, I see people questioning the reasons why women are behaving differently these days. I see people still saying they think that anyone protesting, striking or speaking out is just sore about a lost election. Still others suggest that it's all about abortion rights. And I'm not going to lie, it annoys me.

It annoys me, because to me, and to many of my fellow marchers, protesters, strikers and sisters, the reasons are as clear as crystal. To us, all you must do to understand is open your eyes.

Yes, I am a middle class white woman with a comfortable life. Perhaps it should be easier for me to ignore the world outside of my comfortable life. Perhaps I would be more content. But I have never been that person. I have never been someone who could stand idly by, or keep my thoughts to myself.  And at 2:15 p.m. three years ago, I think any chance of my becoming a settled, contented--quiet--housewife was forever doomed.

I am a mother now. I have always been a caregiver, but something in you changes when you become a mother. When I see other children now, I see my own child. I see potential. I see tomorrow. I cannot turn away. And I cannot turn away from other mothers--other women.

As a mother, I see it as my personal responsibility to make and leave the world better than I came into it, because now, I am leaving it for someone to whom I have made an unspoken vow. My daughter. I have promised her every bit of life and potential I can possibly give her.

Motherhood--womanhood--is a sisterhood. Whether you want to be part of the same tribe or not, we face all of the same obstacles, struggles and challenges. When I see a photo of a Syrian woman cradling her starving child, I can see myself in that same photo. When I read about a homeless, single mother in America, I picture myself in that story. When I see a black mother grieving for her son--taken away too soon, I am heartbroken too, because I cannot fathom how I would recover from that same pain.

There may be a percentage of marchers, protesters, strikers, and sisters who see one man, or one issue as the target of their efforts, but to believe that fighting against one man's electoral victory, or the possible overturning of abortion rights is sustainable, is naive. The momentum behind this fight comes from the depth and breadth of its motivation.
While it's true that this one man, and this one moment represent everything counter to my own personal values, this fight isn't about one election. It cannot be about one election, or it will be lost. It is about the rights of all people to live to their full potential. It's about recognizing our responsibility to one another as humans, and shepherdesses of our shared Earth. It's about standing up for the rights of people who disagree with us, not because we are contrary, but because we believe even those who do not share all of our views are still entitled to the same rights we demand and defend for ourselves.

I believe in everyone's right to decent health care. I believe in everyone's right to safe water and air, as well as sustainable energy and resourcing that is not counter to the protection of our environment and other species. I believe in body autonomy, which means I believe every human should have self-determination about what happens to their bodies. I believe in civil and human rights. I believe in global consciousness, and peace. I believe in national security via all  avenues, not to exclude diplomacy and collaboration. I believe in equality--for women, and members of the LGBTQ community. And when I say that all lives matter, I don't say that as a retort against mothers who have buried their sons and daughters because they were presumed to be thugs or criminals before they were presumed to be humans, I say it because each one of us--brown, white, olive, mocha, yellow, or peach--as my daughter refers to herself--is precious, and holds enormous potential.

I believe that there are more ways in which we are similar than ways we are different. As average citizens, we would take back all of the power if we stopped listening to those who stole it tell us to be afraid and suspicious of each other.

I am a white, middle class mother, but that doesn't make me any less part of the human tapestry that has been woven throughout time. I understand that every right I have is there because someone else fought for me to have it. I understand that not all of the people who have made America so many of the wonderful things that it is have shared equally in the rights and privileges that I have been able to take for granted.

My skin color and my financial security do not give me permission to discount the value of others. My belief system and values do not allow me to trample on the beliefs and values of others. And my commitment to my own child does not permit me to look at other children and ignore their potential, and their right to thrive.

I march, speak out, protest, and fight so others have an equal right to share in humanity's potential. Geography, skin color, religion, financial status or social standing should not determine whether someone lives or dies. Nor should these things define a person's value.

I won't apologize for who I am, or my "loudness." You may not be able to see it, but I stand for us all, because we truly are more alike than we are different.

Yes, I know I have privilege, but I am on your side.

So, it's been a crazy day. I'm new to activism and being openly political in an area of the world where being liberal is like a scarlet letter.

I started the day off thinking about something I saw yesterday that got under my skin. It was a bingo card for people of privilege, and each square had a stereotypical response that privileged people tend to give. It irked me, but I didn't respond to it, because so often when you respond to things like that, it turns into a vicious circle of "well, of course, you would say that because you're privileged."

I followed up that thinking with some normal daily routine things like running on my treadmill, and sorting laundry. A group of my friends thought it would be cool to find a local tattoo shop where we could go get "nevertheless, she persisted" tattoos, and maybe the shop would be willing to donate a percentage of the proceeds to Planned Parenthood or the ACLU. It's lame activism compared to standing with the water protectors at Standing Rock, or going to a townhall meeting, but I really wanted to "mark" myself in some way to remind myself to keep on doing things that are new and hard.

Because it was my idea in the first place, I took responsibility for making contact with a shop that others suggested might be friendly. I didn't get a response to my initial contact, so as my morning routine was somewhat complete, I decided to follow up. Within moments, I received a response that truly shocked me.

Today was the first time I have ever been called a "baby murderer."

It felt almost as if someone had punched me in the stomach and just ran off. I didn't know how to respond. So, the only thing I could think of to do was make a screenshot of the message, and share it with my other friends who were interested in my idea.

I know that people who stand up for what they believe in are often attacked. And I know that the people who are on the other side of almost every single issue frequently feel attacked, too. I know that it will get worse before it gets better, and this is just a part of getting down into the trenches. I know that the fact that this is the first time I have been personally attacked affirms my privilege.

But here's the thing, as much as I understand that I am a white, straight, middle class woman, I am no less a person who understands right and wrong. I may not live within the skin of someone who is harmed by discrimination, violence, and bigotry on a daily basis, but that doesn't mean that I don't care, or that I accept things as they are.

One of the key things I took away from going to the Women's March on Washington was that I haven't personally done enough. I have cared about inequality, racism, rape culture and human rights. I have written about social injustice a million times. But I have never put myself in harm's way, and I have never made myself a target.

When I see or hear the statements about privilege, it does stick in my craw a little. Not because I am unaware of it, but because it feels like as someone of privilege I have to prove that I am on the right side of things. It feels like somehow there's some kind of competition within the sphere of activism. And for someone with privilege, it feels like in certain circles, no matter how much I want to do the right thing, and no matter how hard I might try, nothing I say or do will ever be good enough.

I know saying it is a lightning rod for those who will argue that of course, a privileged person would say that, but I can no more control my skin color, my ethnicity, gender identity or sexuality than the people I want to fight for. And I truly believe that continuing to focus on each other's failings or differences undermines everyone's cause.

No, I haven't been to Standing Rock. No, I haven't marched in a Black Lives Matter event. No, I haven't been to a gay pride parade. I've signed petitions. I've sent emails. I've canvassed for political candidates. I was a member of the ACLU while I lived in Kansas City, and though I couldn't afford to renew when my membership was due again a couple years back, I renewed my membership in November. I still know that none of these things are enough. I am still trying to develop my own confidence, and still trying to find my own way in this, as I know so many other people of privilege are doing.

All I can say about our past failings is this: We are here now, and we are on the same side. Isn't it time to remember that we are on the same side? And isn't it time to understand that the best chance we all have of advancing our causes is by acknowledging our failures and differences, then picking up wherever we are and moving forward together?

My March: Just a tiny step toward the change.

So, sometimes we decide to do the right thing for the wrong reasons, but along the way, we realize how significant our actions are, and we realize how much more we need to do.

It's been a few weeks now, and I haven't been able to fully encapsulate my Women's March on Washington experience. I think that I have been processing, and I think that I have been completely overwhelmed by the bombardment of what we are seeing from the Trump administration. I admit, I am still having trouble referring to him as our "new president." I'm not in denial. I know what happened.

I have been disappointed in election outcomes before, but this is different. This is not a Democrat versus Republican response for me. I still believe that a Donald Trump presidency transcends the two-party system in a way that I can only describe as a nightmare. His campaign, and his continued rhetoric and actions have brought out the worse demons of our nation. It has given our ugly underbelly the opportunity to roll over like a dog to be scratched.

When the thought occurred to me that I wanted to go to the Women's March on Washington, it was for myself. I wanted to be able to say I was there. I wanted to see the process of my own feelings of loss come to some kind of conclusion. And like so many other "events," I bought the sweatshirt, I made the pink hat, and I brought my camera--because that's what you do.

I am a terrible activist, and my original reasons for going weren't completely pure. I got on a bus with 53 other Arkansans, and awaited my internal shift. It was a long day on the road. I know that my true self rises to the surface when I become completely exhausted. About an hour before we reached our hotel in Roanoke, Virginia, the tears just started to flow. I wasn't thinking about crying, but suddenly, I was. The profound weight of how our country had changed, and how we had become something I didn't recognize hit me like a ton of bricks (all over again).

We had gone from a nation of hope and potential, to a nation of cynicism and distrust.

It was late at night, and I didn't want to disrupt others around me with my emotional release. I swallowed hard, and pushed down the need to snot-sob. I had to get on with it.

We arrived in D.C., and what I saw was beyond anything I could have anticipated. Small groups gathered, and we suddenly became a sea of people. I could not see the end of it.

Of course, there were celebrity speakers. It goes without saying that some people are attracted by events when celebrities turn up. But it wasn't Ashley Judd or Madonna that got to me. It was little Sophie Cruz, Donna Hylton and the Mothers of the Movement who really got into my heart.

Sophie Cruz was born in America in 2010 to parents who came here illegally. She now has fears that she and her family will be separated and that her parents are deported. She's just a few years older than my little girl. Her maturity and clarity on family values and America's history as a nation of immigrants is astounding. Donna Hylton served time in prison for murder. There is no way to sugar-coat her crimes. But she raised so much awareness in me about the treatment of black women by our criminal justice system, that while I cannot reconcile her past, I can identify with the feeling of inequity and opportunistic nature of those who hold power over any woman. And as a mother, hearing other mothers speak about the tragic loss of their children as a result of our criminal justice system allowing an undercurrent of racism, stereotyping and profiling to persist, their words were like a key in a lock for me. I already recognized the inequity with which blacks and whites are treated within the criminal and judicial systems, but these women live with the pain of that inequity every single minute of every single day. That pain will last forever.

In efforts to make the Women's March more inclusive, speakers from many different groups were invited to share their vision for moving forward. We literally stood within a throng of people for hours as speakers shared their stories, and their calls to action. Many of us had never been to a protest or a march in our lives. After a while, standing in place becomes very uncomfortable. You need to move. It's actually painful to stand still for that long.

And that is when I had my activist epiphany: Imagine standing in place forever. Imagine what it feels like to keep fighting for the same rights forever. Imagine what it feels like to experience the same discrimination, pain and inequity forever. Imagine the pain of standing still in someone else's shoes forever.

I am a white middle class woman. I am comfortable. I only have a few personal worries. I have always been politically vocal, but I have not been politically "active." And there is a huge difference between words and actions.

My favorite sign from all of the marches.

I think many of us who marched can say that. The group of marchers I rode along with was very eclectic. We had women of all ages and backgrounds, a couple of men, children, and members of the LGBTQ community. When I think about what those of us with privilege have failed to do, I try to consider where we have come from socially. I am not seeking to excuse us or ask for forgiveness, I am seeking to understand myself and others like me who are passionate about the rights of others, but who have not done enough. Is it possible that those of us from the older generation mistakenly believed that in winning the fight against segregation, and finally electing a black president that the fight was over? Is it possible those of us from my generation simply didn't have the kind of exposure to the realities of race, and we only thought the issues still survived in outlying pockets of our nation?

I don't know the answers.

I have some really great friends in the black community, and I credit them for helping me learn a lot--especially over the last election cycle, and as our worst nightmares have come true.

One of them is the woman my daughter refers to as "the hair lady." She moved here from California, and we talk about race a lot when she is making me look amazing. Even she didn't understand the level of racism that still exists in America until she moved to the South. When we talked just a few days ago, we both agreed that we had known things weren't perfect where equality issues were concerned, but we thought we were heading in the right direction. We didn't believe that we were literally going to start going backwards.

Another dear friend shares so much in our American history about which many of us living in privilege have not been aware. My sweet-hearted friend lives with a fire about her people that I never witnessed or knew about when we worked together. I am grateful to her for helping me understand more about the Electoral College, and some of the ways the seeds of racism so successfully took hold among working class whites, poor whites and people of color.

I stood in a throng of people who truly want to be the change. But as uncomfortable as it was to stand in place for so long, I have never truly suffered for any cause. In a seventy-two-hour period of time, I traveled from Northwest Arkansas to Washington, D.C., and back. Space was cramped. It was hard to sleep. There was a lot of gas-station junk food along the way. But none of that compares to anything that my friends have endured. And none of that compares to what so many Americans without privilege have faced, and continue to face everyday.

So, at the end of the day, why did this white, middle class, stay at home mom march? I marched because it was the beginning of acknowledging all that I have not done, and all that those of us who truly care must do.

Just after the election, fears about my family and our future were raised. For the first time, I felt concerned that sharing my views on social media and with others would lead my family to come to harm. At that moment, the definition of that harm was social alienation, or maybe financial impact.

After standing in a massive crowd for a couple of hours, listening to people talk about real harm and real fear, I think I better understand what it means to suffer, and that I absolutely haven't done it. I knew I was fortunate. I knew that that the playing field was not even. But I thought knowing that was enough. I thought recognition and relation was enough.

But even though I am not a great activist, I know that as long as the rights of people of color, women, people of different faiths, members of the LGBTQ community, and our environment are under threat, I have not done enough.

When the promise of change promises a climate of fear, who will I be?

So, being on the "losing" side of anything sucks. Everyone knows that. Everyone knows that there will be sore losers, accepting losers, and every other kind of loser in between. And everyone should know that there will be equally be sore winners--people who cannot see the losers' points of view.

Some of us are scared--even just to express ourselves. Some of us fear backlash against ourselves, our children, our families, and our livelihoods--just for being who we are. Some of us feel compelled to hide who we are, as we have never had to do before.

This past week has been difficult for many. Election cycles can be very ugly, and in America, they seem to go on forever. This cycle was the ugliest in my lifetime. And the ugliness of it made it seem longer than usual.

Most people on the "winning" side are not bigoted. They are not homophobic. They are not sexist. They aren't promoting discrimination, or inequality. They are not the voices of the ugliness, and I think they are genuinely confused by the idea that people on the "losing" side want to hold them accountable for their votes.

It doesn't seem fair. We all have a right to a secret ballot. We all have a right to cast that ballot based on our own values, beliefs, and financial standpoints. Those of us who not only consider voting to be a right, but a responsibility take that responsibility seriously.

Our president-elect said some pretty awful things over the last 18 months. He called people names. He promised to deport people. He promised to ban people. He promised to help overturn legal protections for American citizens (and taxpayers) who already feel vulnerable. He denied science. He said things that encouraged his supporters to be violent--and offered them legal assistance if they needed it. He promised many things, that, for many of us, sounded either extremely frightening, or extremely vague.

He promised to "make America great again." He promised to bring back jobs. He promised to restore industries. He promised to make us all safer. He promised to improve our standing on the world stage. He promised to turn Washington upside down, and gut the "establishment." He promised to put an end to the hold that money and special interests have had on our government for decades. He promised his supporters--many who are angry and feel marginalized--that he would make their lives better.

He made a lot of promises. All politicians do.

Many of his supporters like the way he talks. He tells it like it is. He says what he means. He isn't politically correct. They relate to him. He looks like them. He's different from everyone else. He's an outsider.

Here's the thing--if he means what he says, why shouldn't some of us feel threatened by some of the promises he made? If he means what he says, did he not mean those promises?

Now, some people are saying that he didn't really mean all the bad things. I think most of us who feel concern truly hope so. On the other hand, some of his supporters are using his words as a mantle in which they can wrap themselves as they let other vulnerable, threatened and marginalized Americans know they are unwelcome, and they are in danger.

I am a middle class, white heterosexual woman, with a roof over my head, health insurance, and with no religious affiliation. Aside from the concern about access to women's health care being threatened--not just abortion--I should have nothing to fear.

But I do.

Three years ago, I moved from a large Midwestern city to the upper south. I moved from a state that has teeter-tottered from red to blue and back, over and over.

In the city, I canvassed neighborhoods during the Kerry/Edwards campaign. I donated small amounts of money to the Obama campaign, and this year, to the Clinton campaign. As an adult, I have always been proud to support candidates who champion social justice, empathy for others, and support systems for those who need it. I have supported candidates who protect human rights, women's rights, reproductive rights, and equality.

I have been proud to use my voice, even though it has always been a small one. I have never been the person who goes to rallies or protests. I have never been the person who runs for election. I have never been the person able to donate enough money to end up at one of those fundraiser dinners we all hear about.

I have been the person who writes about my life, and my experiences in relation to current events. I have written about women's rights and inequality. I have written about social injustice, in relation to race and gender. I have written about terrorism, gun safety legislation, and discrimination. And many things in between. I have tried to view issues from as many perspectives as I am able.

I have been the person who tells others who I am on social media, but I have never disrespected anyone for disagreeing with me, only for doing so disrespectfully. I have never made my political or religious views a part of my professional life, and have never pushed them in inappropriate contexts.

Even after this past week's election, I believed--without reservation--that was who I always would be. I know that my views aren't the same as all of my friends. I have never asked anyone their political or religious affiliation before deciding to be friends with someone. It would never occur to me to do so. If my heart meets yours, and we click, that's always been the only thing that matters to me.

But, I have been put on well-meaning warning. I have been counseled that in this new place, my voice can, and probably will hurt the people I love--especially my daughter. I have been told that if her friends' parents become aware of my views, and how vocally I express them, my daughter will potentially face social ostracism. She won't be invited to play, to attend birthday parties, etc. When she wants to become involved in activities and the community around her, she might be shunned. If she is witness to something nefarious and tries to help shut it down, all of the same is likely to apply, and little to no good will come from it.

I grew up in a home gripped by the iron fist of domestic violence, emotional, and sexual abuse. Within that iron fist, I was conditioned--conditioned to keep my mouth shut. I was conditioned to go along. I was conditioned to survive. I was conditioned to only breathe when I felt safe to do so. I was conditioned to be a prisoner without chains, bars or locks, but a prisoner all the same.

So, this warning cuts deeply into my spirit. Of course, I would never want to cause harm or grief for my loved ones. And I know that even with the best of hopes, dreams and intentions about making the world a better, safer and more place for everyone, none of us wants to be the kid alone at the lunch table. None of us wants to be the girl who doesn't get invited to the dance, or accepted onto the school dance squad. We all want to be invited to the party.

My heart is broken. It is split between the desire to soldier on, and raise my daughter to be so empathetic and aware of right and wrong, that she will stand up for those ideals in the face of any obstacle or situation, and the understanding of how much it hurts to be on the outside of everything and never wanting that for her because of something I have done.

It feels like there should be someplace I can land that doesn't require me to push myself down into the ground again. It feels like there should be a place where we can find the other people like us, and we can overcome the iron fists of our community together.

I know I am an idealist. I know everything we are, puts us at risk. I have never had many friends, and I have never required any of them to be anything other than who they are. Every friend I have had, I have held dear, regardless of their political or religious affiliations. I have always chosen to be friends with people who are kind, genuine in spirit, and who accept me for who I am.

I know it's a mean old world. I know that there are wolves out there waiting to tear away at all of us in different ways, and for different reasons. I know that we all have to develop the right skin, for the right paths. But I also know that if we hide who we really are from people, we can never be certain what they are hiding from us. If we are never true to who we are, we are never true friends to anyone.

Maybe that is what I teach my daughter. Maybe that is what I need to remember, myself.

My fears are not equal to those of others, about whom terrible promises were made. I can only feel a fraction of the threat that immigrants, Muslims, members of the LGBTQ community, and people of color feel. But the fraction of fear that I feel about being in your corner helps me understand your fear in ways I did not before.

We cannot allow fear to force us from each others' corners.

The culture of victim silencing has to change. Some choices ARE black and white.

So, our daughter started at a Montessori preschool this fall. There are many philosophies that feed into the Montessori approach to education, but positive discipline is far and away one of the most prominent features of the classroom. Parents are encouraged to implement positive discipline at home.

One of the more popular approaches to the developing toddler (i.e. the uncooperative toddler) is offering choices. The idea behind this concept is that you defuse the power struggle. It's brilliant. Really. At least that's what I have read, and that's what I am told. 

As my daughter was beginning her new journey, her daddy volunteered to chauffeur her each morning, to give me a little more "me time." But occasionally, work trumps my run on the treadmill, and I have to take the morning wheel. 

Anyone who has ever tried to get a kid out the door knows that it can be about as much fun as getting a root canal without sufficient anesthetic. It sucks.

When I recently had to step in and get my sweet, delightful little girl off to school, we were struggling to finish dressing, and I was worried she was going to end up missing out on the limited breakfast I can get into her. I remembered my positive discipline toolbox, and decided to offer a choice. 

Me: Food or shoes? 

It seemed like an obvious question, and a simple set of choices. 

My daughter: Shoes aren't food, Mommy. 

Sometimes the choices on the table seem very easy. Sometimes it seems like the choices in front of you are black and white. And then, the person making those choices reveals a grey area. 

Life's like that. I needed my daughter to choose between two very simple tasks, and she heard a very different statement. 

As this year's election cycle has spiraled out of control, and the issues that we expect to be talking about have taken a backseat to insanity, some of the most disturbing and unexpected topics have risen to the forefront. Sexual harassment, sexual assault, and the perpetuation and acceptance of rape culture in our society are now part of the political narrative.

No matter what side of the two-party aisle you stand, or even if you are trying to champion the revolution of a third party or Green Party candidate, one thing is sure, you never expected one of your choices in this year's election to be someone who brags about kissing or grabbing women without their invitation or consent. Sadly, a lot of people are diminishing the significance of this harmful talk and labeling it "locker room" talk, as if this kind of talk is justified if you use it in the correct location.

There is no correct location.

And for many of us who have suffered sexual harassment, abuse, discrimination, and/or assault, it seems like the choices are black and white. But sadly, that's not the case for everyone. 

Several women have now come forward, accusing the Republican presidential candidate of previous sexual assaults, lewd comments, behaviors, and harassment. And as always, one of the questions being so loudly asked is "Why did they wait to come forward until now?" Others seize on the fact that one of the women with the most disturbing allegations can't remember the exact date of her uninvited encounter with the man. 

Trauma doesn't follow a rule book. We don't always remember dates, time of day, flight numbers or the color of our perpetrator's tie. We may vividly remember that our perpetrator smelled of coffee and cigarettes, but still be unable to answer questions about a physical attribute. Some of us block all memory of a traumatic event for years, because we simply are not equipped to deal with it at the time it occurred. Those hidden memories only surface when something unexpectedly triggers us. 

Survivors of sexual misconduct are frequently disbelieved. In most cases, these crimes are a matter of "she said vs. he said." In most cases, if you are murdered, nobody doubts that. If you have a limb severed from your body, people can see that. But emotional and sexual trauma are in question. These traumas may be harder to prove, but they are no less destructive. 

Emotional trauma, sexual abuse, and sexual harassment can, and often do alter you. As a victim, you must decide whether you are going to seek justice for yourself, and potentially prevent the victimization of someone else, or if you are going to remain silent. For most of us, that choice seems obvious. But for others, the analysis of all of the possible outcomes leads to less certainty. The answer isn't always black and white.

As someone who endured years of emotional and sexual abuse at the hands of a relative, I know that victims often feel they have very valid reasons not to come forward. For me, it was the fear that my abuser would become unhinged, and kill everyone in my home. But sometimes the reasons are quite a bit less extreme.

As I said before, victims are often disbelieved by the very people they go to for help. They must relive an awful event--usually multiple times, and face questions that feel almost as invasive and violating as the original event. It is humiliating. It is painful. And as with the original assault or abuse, you just want it to be over.

Sadly, even when you have the courage to come forward and you are believed, justice isn't always served.

In my case, I came forward as my stepfather was finally leaving the house, because I wanted to ensure that my mother wouldn't let him come back. If he didn't come back, the abuse would stop. I also hoped that by coming forward, I could influence the visitation rights he would have with my younger sister, and that I would never have to see him again.

Things didn't work out the way I hoped. The statute of limitations had expired. I suffered through reliving some of the worst years of my life, and I felt I had gained nothing. I was disowned by family. The financial impact was devastating to my mother and sister. My education was compromised. He ended up babysitting my sister after school every day, and I had to see him when I took over until our mom got home at night.

In recent days, several high profile rape cases have served as painful reminders to many of us that doing the right thing doesn't always result in achieving justice. When judges choose to protect the futures of rapists, instead of sentencing appropriately, it sends a very clear message to victims: I don't matter.

As women and girls, we learn very early whether or not we will be heard, and what the outcomes might be. If we look around us and see that coming forward leads to additional abuse, harassment and unpleasantness, that black and white set of choices may not feel so black and white. We may choose to remain silent, because the results of using our voice may invite worse than what we have already experienced.

One of the women who have come forward in the case of the Republican candidate,describes getting up from her first class seat on a plane and thinking that she didn't "need" what was happening to her. That description is very telling. She remained silent for about 30 years. Was it simply that she didn't need a man reaching up her skirt, kissing and touching her without her consent? Or perhaps she didn't "need" all of the fallout that might come along with reporting the incident. It has been said that she didn't want to come forward even now, and that it was at the urging of friends that she did so.

Considering the way many have been questioning the timing of her coming forward, and casting doubt on her claims, it's not hard to understand why she hesitated.

In the last couple of years, about 30 women have come forward, claiming that actor Bill Cosby drugged and sexually assaulted them. Cosby has held an endearing place in popular culture for decades. People have equated him with the characters he has played on television. The reaction to these women and their claims has been astonishing. While it is true that we are innocent until proven guilty, these women have endured demeaning attacks and accusations that really hit below the belt. They have been accused of gold-digging, trying to garner attention, revive failed careers, and many other terrible things.

What is remarkable about the courage of these women is that in spite of so many of Cosby's defenders attempting to tear them down, enough evidence has come to light that he is facing serious investigation. Sometimes--often--where there is smoke, there is fire, or at the very least the smoldering embers of painful events and memories.

When we treat victims of crimes as conniving, plotting, attention-seeking or gold-digging, we discourage others from coming forward.

Doing the "right thing" is not always easy. In the case of coming forward to report sexual harassment, abuse, or assault, it may be the hardest thing you or a person you care about ever does. Sometimes it's the hardest thing they choose not to do. It's hard to encourage someone to report a crime, and have them decide not to. It feels like another crime. But that decision requires understanding and compassion, too. 

From my own personal experience, I understand that the pursuit of justice can feel like a revictimization, and we often fail to see that the benefit outweighs the personal cost. 

At the end of the day, the conversation about reporting these crimes needs to change. We need to become a great deal more compassionate, understanding and supportive of those who do have the courage to come forward. Ultimately, the conversation needs to shift so dramatically that reporting such crimes is always the obvious choice, because as victims, we are going to receive the thoughtful and compassionate treatment our offenders denied us.

We need to stop the cycle of victim shaming. We need to understand that post traumatic stress disorder can play a huge role in a victim's ability to come forward, and to remember details in the way we remember other events. We need to seriously review how our justice system treats victims and how sentences are applied. The very language we use when talking to, and about victims needs to change.

Until such changes occur--a tectonic shift in our culture--the choices about reporting sexual abuse, harassment and assault, may continue to be grey for some victims. Those of us who have courageously endured the system to seek justice must understand that not all of our sisters and brothers feel strong enough to face the process, the attacks and the further feelings of violation. 

I will raise my daughter with "open borders." She will understand that she has any and all support she needs to be strong and use her voice. And my hope will always be that she never becomes the victim I was. But if the worst happens, I hope she will feel the courage to pursue justice. I will also hope that our world moves in the direction of getting a little better each day, and that if ever she must choose between coming forward and remaining silent, the choice will be black and white. I will hope that if someone tries to touch her on a plane, or look at her body without her knowledge or consent that she won't be conditioned to accept this as just one of the threads of our cultural fabric that all women must face at some point. 

And for anyone who now declares that the words of a presidential candidate don't matter, or could be worse, you are part of the problem. You are part of the thread that silently and loudly discourages victims. You are part of the revictimization that prevents change and that conditions our children to believe that they must accept and perpetuate the madness. I don't care nearly as much about your political choices as I do the fact that you are willing to turn a blind eye to the destruction and harm this language does to victims, women and girls. I care that you are willing to accept that such words and treatment are a norm. 

Until enough of us--victims, parents, teachers, legislators, leaders, friends, women and men--are willing to say "Enough. I will not let you say those words or do those things without consequence," we will continue to see the silent and loud destruction of our women and girls, and our future. 

This choice is black and white. 

What girls learn.

So, I find myself feeling kind of discouraged about my daughter's future. 

As the summer is drawing to a close, as the afterglow of the Rio Olympics begins to subside, and as Stanford Rapist Brock Turner prepares for steaks on the grill at home for Labor Day Weekend, I am afraid this world just isn't fit for any of our daughters. Our daughters do not hold the same value in this world as our sons. There is no doubt about it. And I don't know what to do about it. 

It was literally weeks ago that so many of us were angered and outraged by what seemed to be a far too lenient sentence for a young man who seized a terrible opportunity. He raped an unconscious woman, and even though convicted, the judge in his case thought a long prison sentence would be harmful to him. As the weeks of Brock Turner's sentence have ticked away, and now been further shortened, there have been other fragile, young rapists (unsurprisingly white) whose futures were deemed too valuable for more than slaps on the wrist. The potentials of these young rapists were, essentially, measured against the potentials of their victims, and judged to be worth more. 

That's a tough lesson for a victim to learn, but sadly, that lesson reaches beyond the victims and their rapists. It reaches to all those who may become victims, and even to all of those who may rape. 

But it's lessons like this one that our daughters learn every single day. 

Many of us watched coverage of this year's Summer Olympics in Rio and were amazed by all of the skill, talent and strength of women athletes from all over the world, and especially those from our own backyards. What we didn't get to watch was all of the lessons female athletes have to learn throughout their years of training, preparing and reaching for their dreams. We did, in many cases, get to see the poise with which many of them had to respond in the face of media coverage that sometimes overlooked their accomplishments, judged them by their appearances, credited their accomplishments to men, and called into question their patriotism and values. 

In the days following the games, we also got to watch as a bunch of boys--one of them in his thirties--behaved inappropriately and even illegally by falsely reporting being robbed at gunpoint. And much of the response to Ryan Lochte and his buds breaking things in a gas station and peeing everywhere has been the all too common phrase "boys will be boys," or "they were just being rowdy kids." Again--one of those "kids" being in his thirties. 

Why is it that boys and men don't have to learn the same lessons that girls and women do? 

As a woman in my forties, I am anything but naive. I know how the world works. I know that if I go someplace after dark, I need to look around me and be aware of my surroundings, but I also need to keep my head down and not draw too much attention to myself. 

As a college newspaper reporter, I did tell my editor when an interview subject attempted to force himself on me, but I didn't want her to do anything about it, because it was a tiny campus, and I just wanted the incident to be forgotten, and I was afraid I would be blamed. I may not have told her at all, but for the fact that she questioned why the majority of my article had been fleshed out with quotes from someone else who was very distantly related to the topic.

I also know that opportunities have come and gone, solely based on my appearance or interactions with the men who have been in my work environment, and not my knowledge, qualifications or skill. 

As a woman, I know that my smile is not welcomed, but expected by men, even if I'm not feeling like smiling. I am pretty sure that the expectation of women to always be smiling when they encounter a man must be the origin for the concept of the "resting bitch face." As a rule, I never ask anyone to smile, unless I am trying to photograph them, and even then, I understand if they decline. 

I know that I paint a bleak picture. I know that women can be empowered, and I know that they can reach amazing heights, but sadly, I also know that, in our current world, if you don't learn the right lessons, achieving everything you hope to can be much, much more difficult. 

I will teach my daughter that she can be anything she dreams of being, and I will also offer her all of my support and encouragement--even if she chooses difficult paths. And I will hope that those of us who are aware of the power of the inequities between boys and girls--men and women--will manage to make a cultural shift, and some of those inequities will be diminished or gone. 

But I am scared. I am scared that my daughter will still have to learn many of these same things. I am scared that she will have to learn how to navigate, and conduct herself such that she does not become a victim, and she accomplishes what she dreams in a world where her potential is not valued at the same level as that of her male peers. I am scared that she will have to learn that no matter how amazing, gifted, talented and hard-working she might be, she will be judged by appearances, a lack of makeup, or her failure to smile when it's expected of her. I'm scared she will have to learn that she will be judged by her unwillingness to flirt, play nice, or give things of herself that her male peers will never be asked. 

And beyond being scared, I am sad. I am sad to know that girls and women of all ages and backgrounds are learning these lessons every single day. They are learning them in locker rooms. They are learning them in offices. They are learning them when they receive unwanted advances and harassment by male coworkers, classmates and friends. They are learning them when they have to follow dress codes in elementary school classrooms. They are learning them in dark horrible places where their trust is broken forever, and then again in courtrooms. They are learning them, because if they don't learn them, they won't survive, let alone accomplish all that they dream of. 

These are powerful lessons, and harmful ones. They are lessons we should all be striving to unlearn, and that we should all be standing against with our loudest voices. We owe it to our daughters, and every girl or woman we love to do more than just express our outrage every time one of these horrible lessons is taught or reinforced. 

I may not be able to thwart all of these lessons, but I can do one thing that matters. I can stand with my daughter, and I am at the ready to stand with yours as well.