One time I was going to get reamed out by an 0-6 when he noticed my CAR, service bars and a couple of other pretty ribbons and badges and decided not to. You'd be surprised how many lifers, despite two decades of Iraq-Afghanistan fun, have never been near a war zone, let alone actual combat, and how intimidated they are by those who have. That is, if they are decent human beings. Some are not. Did I say some?
I know a girl who was stripped naked, held down and waterboarded with tequila by three rodeo clowns at the Rodeway Inn East in Cheyenne, Wyoming, during Frontier Days. Then they all three had their way with her. When she called 911, the dispatcher laughed and hung up on her. She called back and got the same dispatcher who was still laughing as he answered the phone. He hung up again.
When I was a little kid, one of my dad's pastimes was to design his dream sailboat with which he planned to sail around the world after he retired. He used various formulae to calculate hull speed, stability and what not, punching numbers into a scientific calculator. One formula that he used a lot required determining cube roots. I used to hang around him, pestering him with questions. Finally, he put me to work calculating those cube roots, but not using the calculator. He gave me a pencil and paper, showed me how to manually determine cube roots and set me to work, telling me how important my results were to him and how they must be absolutely accurate.
So I set to work with a will, puzzling out those cube roots, concentrating on the task too seriously to make a nuisance of myself. Pretty soon I began to see patterns and remember previous partial results and plugged them into current problems without bothering to go through all the raw calculations. Then it got to where as soon as I saw a number I could envision its cube root, so when my dad said, tell me the cube root of 1,378, for example, I would immediately say 11.128. He would raise an eyebrow and tell me not to guess, it was important that he know the correct figure. I would insist it was. He'd look at me with his patented don't-BS-me look and then reach for his calculator, feed in the numbers, get the answer, stare at it, then look at me and have me do several more cube roots. When I did, he said, "God damn, kid!"
My mother in the next room called out, "I heard that! Don't swear in front of Wanda. You know she mimics everything you do." My dad muttered, "Maybe it's time I started mimicking you, squirt."
Eventually, he had me giving him the results from entire formulae. After some practice, I could do it practically instantaneously with no conscious thought. Dad began calling me the CalTech Kid, sure I would become some sort of genius. But when puberty hit, I completely lost the ability. I became boy crazy and my mother had to step in to control my concupiscence. It seemed as if as my body transformed itself into that of an adult female my brain lost interest in the abstract and focused on people. My dad was baffled and disappointed but my mother seemed quite pleased. She had worried I would never give her grandchildren but now she knew she didn't have to worry about that.
An audio play about a very bright little girl, "Star Bright," first broadcast on the NBC radio series X Minus One, April 10, 1956:
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| There are easier ways to get what you want, chief. |
The crew boss was an American Indian married to a white woman. The pair showed up the first day, looked around examining the ground and determining what needed to be done, then didn't appear again till the job was done, to ensure we were satisfied and to collect their fee. They, in fact, owned the drilling company.
America -- what a country! -- where a wild injun can drive a $100,000 custom four-wheel drive pickup, marry a good-looking white woman and boss around white men who treat him with cordial respect.
Also what a country because the auxiliary generator we needed to ensure continuous operation of the well and storage tank pumps was not to be had anywhere, including from the manufacturer. Shortages in critical parts and lack of available shipping and trucking had brought inventories to zero with no prediction of when existing orders could be filled. No one was accepting new orders. So we probably won't risk grazing cattle on that land and all the considerable expense of the well may end up being wasted.
Speaking of bow-and-arrow Indians, one Easter vacation when I was in high school I visited the reservation of the tribe I am affiliated with. As with all rez Indians, the denizens were afflicted with an epidemic of obesity due to poor eating habits. So a group of us went to teach them about the joys of chowing down on salads and soups and to help them plant their own gardens so they could grow their own fresh tomatoes and lettuce, carrots, beans, radishes, etc. It seemed a natural and surely successful way to ameliorate their health problems, especially since American Indians had been very successful farmers, providing the world with everything from potatoes, tomatoes and corn to squashes, all sorts of beans and chilies, and even cocoa and vanilla, not to mention tobacco and cocaine.
Everyone was all smiles as we helped them stake out a garden, till the soil, plant seeds, water and fertilize. We even made a scarecrow with spinning discs and twirlers made of old store bakery pie pans and ribbons. I looked forward to seeing the fruits of our labor when I returned during summer vacation.
Alas, when I did so, to my surprise and dismay, the garden was dead. No one had done anything to it since we left. It hadn't been watered, weeded, hoed...nothing. The seeds had sprouted, grown, then withered and died. When I asked what had happened, why no one had taken care of the garden, I was met with shrugs and sheepish grins from fatties stuffing their faces with Doritos and Cheetos. I didn't understand.
When I told my mother about it she said God helps those who help themselves but even God can't help those who won't try.
Last year, every graduating high school student at that rez who had a "B" average or higher joined the armed forces. They'll learn job and managerial skills, self-discipline, discover their capabilities and limitations. They'll see some of the world. It's doubtful that they will ever go back to the rez except to visit. They helped themselves.
But men do all those things to women routinely. I have had every one of those things happen to me and so have my female friends. I've even had a male acquaintance request photos of me so that he could masturbate to them. I wouldn't be surprised if he sent the same request to every female on his contact list, hoping to get lucky. Once when I was an undergrad some guy, I don't know who, cut out a photo of me that was in a college-affiliated publication, ejaculated on it and mailed it to me. You say how can such things happen in the world of "me too"? Well, as far as I can tell, that's pretty much confined to certain social classes, ones I don't circulate in.
I used to be surprised, alarmed, flattered, frightened, baffled by male actions. Now I don't care. If I find out about it, I just shrug. Men. That's just the way they are. As long as they don't physically harass or attack you, what does it matter?
I used to mention to my guy when this happened but he would just laugh. I think sometimes he got turned on by knowing other guys were hot for me.
Another sort of man might become jealous or angry, and not necessarily at the male involved but at the woman, accusing her of encouraging the men. So I'm lucky that mine isn't the jealous type, not that he need be. But I also accept that he doesn't take such things seriously.
Maybe it's because he realizes that I don't either. If I really did, knowing him, I know that he, being a forceful man of action not a talker, would take care of the problem swiftly and permanently.
I have been blatantly sexually harassed from time to time, and not always by men. That's not because I am some exceptionally desirable piece of merchandise but just because I'm female and guys (and sometimes lesbians or bi's) are always trying their luck with possible sexual partners.
Everyone knows the joke about the guy who goes up to every woman he sees, says something, gets slapped, but just keeps repeating the action. When asked what's going on, he says that he's asking the women to have sex with him. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred they turn him down, but oh, that hundredth time!
My mother taught me that when a man comes on to you in a way that you don't appreciate or feel is inappropriate, let him
know immediately and in no uncertain terms. You don't have to be rude about it, just make it clear how you feel. Don't leave him any possibility of thinking that you are okay with his actions. Of course, some men can't take "no" for an answer and some men actually enjoy pushing past the "no," enjoying your discomfort or embarrassment, even your fear. In such cases, a high heel to his foot, a spilled drink or food should give you an opportunity to escape as well as provide a warning that his actions won't be cost-free. It's best to make what you do appear accidental, especially if the masher, to use an old-fashioned word, is a co-worker, family friend (or relative!) or some other person you have to continue to interact with. Only if the man persists in his actions, or escalates them, should you involve the authorities. Then do it immediately. Don't wait.
But don't expect much from involving them. In fact, they could even cause you more problems. The grim truth is that sometimes bad things will happen to you and there is nothing you can do about them except thank God you weren't injured or even killed.
You also may have to accept that the perpetrator will face no punishment and feel no remorse, in fact might happily recall the incident and, who knows, maybe even masturbate to the memory.
