This will not do*

:: An editorial ::

When I first heard about Lara Logan's ordeal in Egypt, I had just dropped off Maddy at the high school.The rising sun streamed through the bare exposed trees, creating a flickering strobe-like effect of light and dark across the car's windshield as I drove through the trees' shadows. Lightdark, lightdark. Stuttering sunlight. I wept, my sudden tears taking me by surprise.

In the days since, I've listened to interviews of Egyptian women and foreign women who live in Egypt relating their own experiences with harassment and sexual assaults. It's not rare (83 percent of Egyptian women and 98 percent of foreign women living in Egypt report being sexually harassed). They poignantly express their delight that their time in Tahrir Square made them feel as equals, that most men left them alone in that crowded public square, that they had their place in that space. As democracy crept forward that week, so did the hopes of women. The news of the actions of that group of assailants (and who knows how many women experience this on a daily basis?) marred some of that hope, or at least reminded, Whoa there. Not so fast in your celebrating. There's much more distance to cross. A stuttering start to hopeful things, lightdark.

But it's unfair to hint that this kind of thing happens only in Cairo, the Middle East, elsewhere. For example, I've been remembering an experience I had while traveling in Europe as a student. In 1989, I was on a semester abroad in England. In May we took a terrific 10-day trip through Europe with certain structured meeting points for the whole group scattered throughout a largely flexible itinerary. We had eurail passes and the requirement of being in groups of at least 3 people and meeting at the appointed inns and times for group activities and lectures in Paris, Salzburg, Rome, Florence.

Late in the rotation, I was walking around Rome with two or three friends. Picture me: blond, optimistic 19-year-old Mormon girl from Utah, friendly but not untraveled or unaware. We had learned lessons along the way (don't hold eye contact or you have an uninvited follower, for instance) and felt confident in our navigating and empowered by our adventure.  Suddenly, while we were walking up a crowded side street, I got separated from the others. We had been warned about groups of "gypsy children" so at first that's what I thought was happening. But then I noticed it was a group of young men who were shuffling me over towards a storefront. They shoved me into the narrow entryway to the store. I was trapped, groped and frightened. A couple of minutes later I managed to get away and found my friends. I didn't know how to talk about what had just happened nor what to call it. 

I was traumatized but inexplicably ashamed, too. If I ever talked about it, it was just in sidelong, hazy references. Today I feel differently and know to call it the assault it was. Although my experience was minor compared to the extreme and violent assault in Egypt that lasted a dozen times longer, the similarities evoke complicated emotions: empathy for Ms. Logan, solidarity with women who experience this kind of ugliness, dismay that it still exists and that it is yet another area of disproportionate burden on women in already challenging circumstances, and defiant determination to make it better for my daughters. And yours.  And theirs. This is me, raising my hand and saying this will not do and how can I help it get better? 

Speaking of determination, one lovely and powerful spark of hope in that whole story: According to news reports, Ms. Logan was saved by a group of women who came to her aid. Oh, and Italy? Women are speaking up there as well.  Go, light.

*The title that almost was: The (unfortunate) Sisterhood of the Traveling Hands. Too irreverent? I thought so.

A Modest Proposal ii

The next day I picked up G in his little green car.  He suggested we go up in the canyon for a picnic, his glance darting to the turquoise duffle bag. I had spent the whole night thinking and then early in the morning confided in my good friend next door. My immediate instinct was to postpone the proposal however I could until I got a better grasp of what I wanted.

So we traveled through the canyon, making small talk. I was overly aware of the bag. That stupid bag, that blessed bag.  At Sundance, we parked, grabbed our things (hello, duffle bag companion!), and hiked up the mountain.  We spread out a blanket and chatted about the day, the gorgeous surroundings, school.  In a sudden rush of panic my proposal avoidance system activated.

"Want to take a walk?"  I blurted.

"Sure." G swooped the bag--which had been nestled close to G on the blanket--up to his shoulder.  

We made our way toward a small stream at the foot of Mt. Timpanogos, a wonderfully romantic technicolor scene on this September afternoon.  The mountains seemed to be holding their breath.  G invited me to sit on the grass as he ceremoniously unzipped the duffle bag. [Now I was holding my breath, too.]  This is it, I thought.

He took out two crystal goblets, both wrapped carefully in a frayed blue bath towel, and my favorite sparkling soda.

"What's this, a picnic?" I asked, coyly. And inanely.  As if we hadn't already been calling it a picnic and I hadn't noticed the bag fastened to him all day.

"Uh-huh" G smiled faintly.

We gulped down our drinks, both nervous for our own reasons.  Stalling for time, I asked for a refill and drank it, too.  Do I want this to happen? what's the way forward? Distraction seems much more compassionate than rejection.  And I don't want to reject him. I'm just not sure.  I don't want him to ask unless I'm sure.

"Um...G?"  

"Yeah?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."  I really did.  I was suffering the consequences of the refill. We packed up the bottles and glasses and G replaced them in the bag, careful not to reveal its other contents.  But I thought I could see a bit of light blue velvet.

. . .

Confused? Read the first installment here. There's more to come. Eventually.

Picture taken on my parents' deck, September 1989, on the way to USU's Homecoming.  Oh the hair (both of us!). G's about to laugh and I've got a strange overbite happening. Look at our little young, starry-eyed selves. 

A modest proposal

 Just a little story in honor of my 20th anniversary this week. (I'm a little nervous about this whole heart-on-sleeve storytelling but here goes...) 

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...