Vacation Days

I'm sitting here on a day off, sipping my coffee and enjoying the dense fog from inside my house (and, thankfully, not from inside my car). I guess that's a good start to a vacation day, but I've realized that I will never fully "get" vacation days.

I was a college teacher for twenty-four years, and before that I was a student. I had wonderful, long breaks, but I never had a vacation day. Every year, I had a month in December/January, three months in the summer (even when I taught summer classes, I had more days off than on), and a week in the spring. The rhythms of my life were driven by my profession. Even when I had a part-time administrative appointment and had work to do during those times, I had plenty of down time. Now, to be fair, I always worked during those breaks. The difference was that it was unscheduled time when I could do my work from home and in my jammies rather than have to go be in front of a classroom or grade papers. (Trust me, the actual teaching is the smallest part of a teacher's job.) I frequently used this time to get caught up on real life things that had been set aside during very intense work seasons. The experience of the last two weeks of the semester and then final exam week is not for sissies.

When Wisconsin politics went crazy and my paycheck as a state employee was being affected, I began to contemplate what life would be like if I changed jobs. One of my biggest worries was how I would manage going from having good chunks of time each a year of unscheduled time to only two weeks.

I was very fortunate to find a job that was still in higher education and that gives a quite large amount of vacation time. Between my four weeks of vacation, the week we have off between Christmas and New Year's, and the various holidays throughout the year, it amounts to just over six weeks. Last year, I ended up losing half my vacation days because I didn't use them.

My colleagues would be puzzled when I would say I didn't know how to think in terms of vacation days, that it was outside my experience--but that's what it was. I can tell when I need a day off for mental health recuperation or for a personal issue that needs to be attended to--but I'm not especially good at taking them. My institution is full of one-person departments, and although I have staff who can pick up certain responsibilities while I'm gone, there is much that only I do--so when I take a day off, I usually have to make special arrangements for getting certain tasks done. Today was a no-brainer. We have no classes today, and very few students will be around--so today I not only have a day off, I also didn't have to do much advance preparation for being away today. I feel giddy!

When I was teaching, I would usually have one or two days during the year when I called in sick when I needed a mental health day. For me, stress manifests itself physically, so it wasn't far from the truth--but I always felt guilty about doing this. I would  email my students to let them know class was canceled, but many of them would show up for class anyway. And it meant that I wasn't available in my office for them to talk to, either. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Taking a day off was something that was guilt-ridden and therefore not particularly pleasurable for me.

I'm worried that I won't use all my vacation days again this year. Our financial situation doesn't allow us to take an actual vacation, or even to take a day off and go anywhere local that charges admission. I need to learn to attend to my self and know that it's okay to just be home and do nothing. Taking a day to recharge--even in the middle of the week--is not only okay, it's expected. Two weeks ago, I was talking with my supervisor about a couple stresses I was feeling at work, and she very gently said, "You know, it's okay for you to take time for yourself." Oh, yeah, I guess I can do that. I forgot.

So here I am, home when many of my colleagues are at work, having a completely guilt-free day off. Maybe I'll get used to it some day, but twenty-four years of a habit is going to take me a while to break.

Breaking the Silence

I’ve been thinking about writing this post for a couple years now. Every time I’ve gotten closer to it, I’ve chickened out. I will hurt people I love. It will define how people identify me. It will piss some people off. And mostly, I don’t really have a point…just some rambling related to one experience I had years ago. For some reason, though, I feel like the time has come, so here goes….

Twenty-five years ago, I was raped.

I never told my parents. I didn’t tell my friends until years later. I never told the cops. In fact, it took several days for me to even be able to say it to myself.

I had been drinking and hitting on a couple guys at a party and bragging about being on the pill and bemoaning the lack of a boyfriend. Not one of my finest moments, for sure. I passed out, and when I woke up, one of the guys was inside me. I was screaming. Then I passed out again, only to wake up in the morning to the same thing. While he was in the shower, I found my purse and drove myself home, despite the fact that I was still under the influence of alcohol. At home (I still lived with my parents), I stumbled up the stairs and cried myself to sleep in my bedroom with the girly pink walls.

There are things I can be grateful for. It was not my first sexual experience, so it didn’t take something physical away from me that I’d been saving for someone. Because I was so drunk and passed out, I barely even experienced my own rape. Truly, it could’ve been worse.

I dealt with it in a way that makes no sense to me and truly no longer even matters. I found a way to feel like I was in control of something, and then I manipulated things to get the guy fired from his job. Although it wasn’t all he deserved for what he did, it was enough to help me feel better.

So I can tell myself that it was okay, that it wasn’t as bad a rape as it could’ve been, that I could’ve had it worse, and that I deserved it. Even now, I have to own the fact that my own behavior set the stage for the guy to do this to me. That doesn’t mean I think it’s my fault, but I know about guys and I know how much temptation I was dumping on him. I wanted him to make a pass at me. So that’s on me. But he shouldn’t have taken me without my consent. Twice.

Years passed. I told some friends in college, when it seemed relevant. I really didn’t think of myself as a rape victim or rape survivor most of the time. I’d done some other stupid things that seemed to be a bigger part of my identity at the time. Still, for several years, I thought about the experience at some point every day. It was part of my subconscious even when I wasn’t actively thinking about it.

When I met my husband, I told him. Eventually, I went to graduate school, married, and had children, and my identity was overwhelmed by whole new sets of experiences. At one point, I realized I hadn’t thought about being raped for years. As much as possible, I was over it.

But during the past year, I’ve begun thinking about it again. Perhaps it’s because I have a teenage daughter who is preparing to go to college herself. Or maybe it’s because I now work at a women’s college and am simply more tuned in to issues of women and powerlessness. Maybe it’s because I am approaching the age of 50 and have begun to reflect on my life’s experiences and the many things that shaped me into who I am now. So I’ve been thinking about it.

I’m not completely sure why I’m breaking the silence now. In part, it’s because too many of us keep silent. For several years in my life, I was quite close to three women. Every single one of us had experienced some form of being sexually violated—by a neighbor, a relative, a family friend—and not a single one of us told an adult, not for years. Even now, only one of us has been to counseling to deal with the experience.

I have to wonder how many other women have experienced some kind of sexual assault or sexual powerlessness. How many wounded women are walking around us and working with us every day? How does a shared experience that is never discussed affect us? And how different would it be if it were okay to talk about it? How differently would I be able to support other women if it were okay to talk about this?

Too often, we don’t yet know how to talk about it. I do know that there are a lot of women who will be angry at me for saying that I set the stage for this to happen. Slut Walkers will want to walk right over me. But that doesn’t change the fact that I wish I had behaved differently and that I had dressed more respectfully of myself. The value of me is in more than my breasts, yet I dressed to draw a man’s attention to them that night. I didn’t invite the act, but I did invite the interest. Yes, men need to control themselves—no means no, and lack of consciousness means no, no matter what the woman has done or how she has dressed or acted. But had the young woman I was had more self confidence in her worth aside from her breasts, I doubt this would’ve happened. But it did happen, and I healed alone. And it needs to be okay for women to share their feelings about their experiences, even if it upsets other women. Even one voice telling me I am wrong to feel what I feel is another violation of my sense of self and the choices I have as a woman.

We have done so much to destigmatize mental illness and domestic violence. But what are we doing to make it easier for young women to find support for experiences of sexual violation? Posting a rape hotline number or a website on a flyer isn’t enough. Asking them to talk to a total stranger after they’ve already experienced a violation isn’t enough. A piece in the NewYork Times a year ago reported that out of every five women, one has experienced rape or attempted rape—that is 1.3 million American women every year.

If this were to happen to me now, I know absolutely that I would seek and find good support and understanding. But at the age of 22, I had no one. I didn’t tell anyone at all until I had worked through most of it myself—but if I had known even one grown-up woman in my life who I’d known had been raped, I would’ve gone to her. But because it’s still so hard to talk about, even to say, “This happened to me,” I doubt that most women in my life now would know they would find an understanding heart in me.

I don’t know what the answer is. Maybe there isn’t one. This has been the experience of women for eons, right? And men will be men with their own issues of sex and power.  I doubt that we can put an end to rape, but we can at least make it simpler to surround rape victims with the love and support needed to help them become survivors.

So, for what it’s worth, after twenty-five years, I’ve just broken my silence. One more voice to say to other women, “You aren’t alone. I do understand. You can heal.” Because truly, we can heal.  The greatest thing I’ve seen about women is our ability to work together to support and nurture. I’m willing to do my part now.

The Consequence of Raising Children: They Grow Up

Having twins, everyone says, is double the trouble, double the fun. True--but it is also double the joy, double the sorrow. My babies, the ones who kept me sleep deprived throughout 1995, when I was also trying to keep up with their 3-year-old brother, will turn 18 next month.

Every day brings a new college recruitment letter for my daughter. My son is waiting for me to track down some medical records so he can go forward with his military enlistment process. Next year, the holidays will be so different, and it has hit me that this might be the last Thanksgiving, the last Christmas, when we are all together. Next year, my daughter will be starting the process where she transitions from coming home to visiting home to visiting parents. And my son will answer to the military's need for him, not to his mother's.

How did time get so far away from me? I have finally figured out what kind of mother I want to be, and I have run out of time to become her. I want a chance to make up for all my parenting mistakes and make sure my kids are fully equipped for what comes next. My guess is that they are far more ready than I realize. They certainly are more ready than their mother is.

The fact (I hope) that their older brother will be sticking around for a while helps me some, but I find that I am grieving and raw as I try to steel myself for the inevitable consequence of raising children.  I am excited for my kids, but I had no idea it would be as hard as it is--and it is still months away for me.

Please bear with me, world, as I try to figure out how to do this without crying a gallon of tears every day. I know I will be okay, eventually. My kids are going to be wonderful adults, and I know they will always be my babies. But for a little while yet, their mama is going to be just a little sad.

Sighs from the Unemployment Carousel

After several years of watching my husband ride the unemployment carousel, you'd think I would be used to it by now. I don't remember what year it started--2007? 2009? And I have lost track of how many jobs he's had. Between the effect of the economy on the shipping industry, a few unfortunate mistakes, and the reality of approaching the age of 50, it has been hard for my husband to find a job and keep a job.

Chronic unemployment leaves scars, even on spouses. When my husband lost yet another job early this week, it occurred to me that I might never recover. He had been at this last job for three months, and I had just started to feel hopeful about our future for the first time in years. I was daydreaming again, thinking about doing some household projects that cost a little money, and generally feeling fairly content. But it hadn't been enough time to build up my reserves. When I saw his number on my phone at a time he would've been at work, I found myself hoping someone had died because I just couldn't bear it again. It was the most despair I'd felt in some time; not only did my husband lose a job, but I had experienced the anguish of finally feeling hopeful again, only to have that hope demolished. Each time, it gets harder to learn to hope again.

He has already had a couple interviews and has a follow-up interview next week. But I don't have it in me to be a supportive wife. I don't want to know the name of the company, and I don't really want to talk about it--even though it is what he needs to do. It feels like putting myself in the line of fire and volunteering to have any glimmer of hope attacked. I just can't do it.

I'm sighing again, trying to resign myself to difficulties and emotional transition. Again and again and again.

Why I Can't Read *Fifty Shades of Gray*

My first time hearing about Fifty Shades of Gray was when a friend asked me if I liked S&M books--so no matter what else I ever learn about it, that's how I will think of it. And that's why I can't read it.th
I have nothing against S&M. As long as no one is hurt and everyone consents, the great range of human sexual behavior is worth exploring and celebrating. But whenever I hear people talk about this book, I think of a student named Christina.

Years ago, she showed up in my developmental writing class. Although she was only nineteen years old, she seemed to carry a great many more years on her. She left home at fourteen to escape a stepfather who was too interested in her. By nineteen, she referred to herself as "retired from the entertainment industry." Translation: she had been a stripper, lap dancer, and occasional hooker.

When I knew her, Christina lived with a man in his forties. One day she came in wearing an expensive leather jacket, saying that her guy had bought it for her because she was good at the mall. When I asked her what that meant, she said it was because she looked hot and other guys looked her over but she didn't look back.

At the end of class one morning, she gathered up her materials and announced that she was headed home because her live-in guy would be gone. A student and I both commented on how nice it is to have some time home alone. She then said (in front of our class and the students coming in for the following class) that she wouldn't be alone because her boyfriend was coming over. She explained that she needed the boyfriend because her live-in wouldn't spank her, and she couldn't help it that she was kinky and needed that to enjoy herself.

At nineteen, this young woman had a poor sense of her value in the world and had been jaded by previous sexual encounters. How can a nineteen-year-old have such specific sexual needs already?

When my friend first told me about the Shades of Gray books and that the guy needed S&M, all I could think about was the young woman who was rewarded for being good at the mall and who felt a need to be spanked.

If she had ever seemed happy, I probably would have forgotten her as anything more than a story about what a student said after class one day. But she never seemed happy. Her career goal was to have a corner office with a big plant. And the entire four and a half months. I knew her, she never ever smiled. Ever.

Every time I think about reading this book about a man with specific sexual needs, I find myself thinking about Christina Who Never Smiled. And it makes me incredibly sad to think about all the broken women we have in our world. And then I just can't bring myself to care about a male character who wants to have sex with an innocent young woman.

Lessons from Food Poisoning

I recently spent a full week suffering from food poisoning. Here is what I learned:

• Don't eat raw cookie dough.
• Gatorade really can keep you hydrated.
• Always buy 2-ply toilet paper.

A Year of Blessing

One year and three days ago, I made a decision that changed my life. I decided to apply for a job that would take me away from the classroom.

As someone who cherishes anniversaries as occasions to reflect and ruminate, I've naturally been spending time in my mind with all that has passed in my professional life since I made this choice. Interestingly, the changes have been ones that have been so natural that it's hard to start to articulate what those changes have been and how different my work life is now.

What I find myself thinking about the most is the actual process of making the decision. I loved teaching. At times I was a weak teacher, frustrated by the piles of papers or overwhelmed by other pieces of my life. But when I was "on," I was a great teacher. I loved composition studies. I loved coming up with assignment ideas and learning activities and thinking of how all the pieces of the class would work together in accomplishing the course goals. I loved my colleagues. I loved my campus. At times, I am still stunned that I found the courage to leave and that it ever even occurred to me that leaving was a possibility. Why would someone leave a job and people she loves?

I am reminded, frequently, of why I went into education in the first place. It was never about the academics for me. Not ever, even though  I loved that, too. Rather, it was about making a difference. I remember very distinctly sitting in the relatively new student lounge at Highland Community College in Freeport, Illinois. That year, I had found that a lot of new college students would approach me as an older sister, asking for advice about things from relationships to coursework to picking a major. I remember that the sunlight was streaming in through the windows, casting an orange glow over the lounge, and I thought, "This. This is what I want to do. I want to make a difference in people's lives."

The only skill I thought I had was writing; therefore, writing--and the teaching of writing--was the tool I would use to accomplish my purpose in life. It was the instrument of my future.

So I went to college, preparing to be a middle school English teacher and then shifting toward teaching college composition. Yet I always felt different from my colleagues. I was interested in student development and understanding how their learning of college writing strategies intersected with the other aspects of their development. I sometimes would hear my colleagues say things like, "That's the job of student services," or "Why would I worry about that when we have counselors?" or "But what about the purity of the discipline itself? Instead of worrying about why students are struggling, let's blame them for being bad students." (Okay, no one actually said that last one in my presence. Exactly.) I always felt like I was in a parallel job, that my professional life was completely different from that of my colleagues--even in cases where on the surface, things looked the same.

When I sent my application in one year ago, I thought I would just be getting a spruce-up of my life with some re-energizing. I had no idea that I was about to enter the world where I finally get to do what I really, really wanted to do when I grew up: make a difference. I have never been one to make friends easily, yet I did so where I am. I am surrounded by women, with all the nurturing and mood swings and emotional nuances that inhabit every cell in my soul. I am part of midwifing other women from wherever they were to the women they are meant to be next. I have cried at work and held others while they've cried. I hug every single day--sometimes those I barely know and sometimes those I care about deeply.

The school's mission is to transform the world my educating women. To my great joy and blessing, it has transformed me as well.