I noticed my phone was almost dead and my adapter was gone. Dave was sleeping. I woke him so I could scold him for taking our one remaining charger. It is mine.
He looked at me groggy-eyed and said,
“You insisted I use it.”
Immediately, I stopped myself. I wanted to bite his head off (literally). Instead, I bit my tongue (again, literally), and apologized for jumping to conclusions. Then Dave sweetly apologized for not giving my charger back. I am angry. I am angry at Dave. That is my uncomfortable truth. I am struggling to forgive. For that I am sorry.
FADE OUT.
Almond Milk, Athens, Greece
After twenty-five hours in transit, we arrived in Athens, Greece, I was excited and surprisingly awake. We made our way to baggage claim, picked up our luggage, which included one case of Costco Brand Almond milk. Because Almond milk is not always easy to find, that our experiment worked, which was to check a case of almond milk and have it safely travel across the world. With luggage in hand, we walked to the car rentals, stopping to buy two overpriced bottles of water. Across the way we noted the pharmacy we visited the last time we were in Greece. We were all confidant as we heartedly proclaimed,
“Knock on wood. No one had a strange allergic reaction on the plane. This is going to be a good trip.”
Then we rented our unusually nice car and were on our way. As we drove there was a light rain and sunny skies in the distance.
Our Athens, Greece Rental CarDriving into Athens, Greece
That is when Dave happily proclaimed,
“Look at that exceptional rainbow.”
He was correct. The rainbow was exquisite. It was a beautiful day and we were finally on our adventure. Our Thanksgiving trips have become a lovely tradition. It is Kyle’s senior year of high school, and this may be our last. Consequently, to say I was excited for our time together, is a complete understatement.
Our ferry to Crete was leaving at 9PM. The boys and I would have been ok sleeping, but Dave was determined that we do something purposeful. I suggested some loose alternatives. Nope. Dave needed solid specifics (not like ambling jet-lagged around Athens is a solid play, by the way). Dave won and we drove into Athens. Athens is actually pretty cool and very gritty. It has some of the best graffiti and street art I have ever seen. The food is not bad either. We were there last March 2016. And as cool as the street art is, the boys and I did not want to go back. So again I suggested we do something else. Dave emphatically shot back,
“Like what?”
“How about we find something on our drive to the ferry?” I responded.
“Like what? (He said several more times.)
The warning signs were screaming. I firmly and repeatedly suggested we pull over and look at TripAdviser and Google Maps. It did not matter. I know Dave and knew he would not yield, unless, that is I presented him with say a business plan, a plan that included a Powerpoint presentation with accompanying handouts. I was very tired and finally gave in.
We made our way into the city and was completely relieved a few minutes later when we were unable to find parking. I hoped Dave would follow his typical behavior in these situations, which is to get frustrated and eventually give up. Alas, I completely underestimated Dave’s resolve. The lack of parking only served to fuel his determination. We kept driving. I stopped looking for parking. I mean pulled out my phone and searched for alternatives. Dave’s frustration mounted and I saw an opportunity. For a split second I felt like I might have a chance. I began saying things such as,
“Hey, why don’t we just go for a drive, go to the grocery store and enjoy our day,” and “hey, we are so tired. Athens is crowded and dirty, why don’t we do something more relaxing?”
My words only served to solidify his will. We were now in an unfamiliar neighborhood, a mile from the center of town. That is when Dave found a spot. As he parked I plainly said,
“We should do something else. I do not think this is safe. I think someone will break into our car. This does not feel right. Please. Dave. Please, let’s push pause and just go. Really, Dave let’s not park here.”
In response to my words Dave blurted,
“Well, what else are we going to do?”
Here is there deal. I know whom I married. I am annoyingly flexible and paralyzing considerate to Dave’s steadfast vision. I am truly the Ernie to Dave’s Bert. In truth, we are a great match. And most days my ability to bob and weave is the perfect complement to Dave’s clear focus. Yet I still wonder if Dave knows or has considered why he is unable to easily shift his expectations. Sometimes I fight his fixed determination. Because Dave has great ideas, most days I happily go with it. Ultimately, it was Dave’s clear resolve that built a beautiful home and has spent the last few weeks tirelessly building our addition. Steadfastness is just what he does and a strong resolve serves him well. It serves us all well.
I firmly believe that his steadfastness is an inherited trait. Dave’s mom is a force. She is single-minded and often unflinchingly fixates on an idea or a perception. As a result, when she gets an idea in her head, there is very little, if anything, anyone can do to knock her off course. Because we know this, when we traveled with her a few years ago, for instance, we repeatedly asked her with the kind of directness that seems unkind,
“No. Please do not buy the London pass. We will not use it. It will go to waste.”
Nevertheless and undeterred, she bought the London pass. Of course she was surprised and also very sad when we did not use it. Kyle also shares this same single-mindedness. In fact, I would argue that their relentless is what makes the three of them such a success.
…As we pulled up to the parking spot, my heart sank. Ok. I think I have made the point that Dave is a force. And a jet-lagged me did not have the energy to fight that force. Nevertheless, the neighborhood seemed sketchy so I pleaded,
“I am not sure, but this does not feel right. I do not think we should park here.”
Parking our rental car in Athens, GreeceParking our rental car in Athens, Greece
Dave did not respond. As he pulled into the spot, a dude on a beaten up motorcycle pulled up next to Dave’s car door. It was weird. We all said it was weird. Then Dave finished parking the car. That is when I grabbed our passports and shoved them in my purse. Then I covered my backpack with my black jacket and shoved it as far out of sight as I could. As I got out of the car, I said,
“Is there anywhere we can hide the kids’ backpacks? How can we get them safely out of sight?”
Dave snapped,
“Like where?”
I took a deep breath and asked the boys to hide their packs as best they could.
A screenshot of the Google Map where I marked our fateful parking spot, Athens, GreeceA zoomed out view of the screenshot I took of the Google Map marking where we parked, Athens, Greece
I should have done more. I should have screamed like a crazy person and demanded that we get back in the car. I should have been more kind and willing to deal with Dave’s lack-of-a-solid-plan disappointment. I was tired so was he. Instead, I caved.
Dave shut the hatch or our hatchback our rental car. As I walked around our car, I noticed his backpack up against the back window. Then I saw the bright orange priority labels on the Almond milk case.
“Hey, why don’t we pull those orange tags off,” I said followed by, “I just don’t think that is a good place for your backpack.”
Dave pulled the orange tags off. I should have put his backpack on the floor. I regret that I did not try to shove all the backpacks under the seats. In fairness to Dave, we travel often and all over the world. Most of the time we rent cars. As a necessity and on travel days, we have left our luggage fully exposed. Consequently, logic and experience would dictate we were safe. Alas, it was never about not having a plan. I knew we should not park where we did. My gut feelings (and Dave’s, because later he would tell me he had a bad feeling too), could be dismissed as jet-lag, right? Wrong.
Life Imitating Signs, Athens, Greece
So I let go and on a random Athens street we left our luggage exposed. Then we walked into town. I often walk with Kyle as Eli loves to walk with Dave. Kyle would probably like to walk with the guys, but is always kind and waits for me as I pause and take things in. I am grateful for the care and friendship Kyle gives me. It is often during these times where Kyle and I get real. We had a pretty long walk toward the Acropolis to the neighborhood known as Monastiraki that lies in its shadow. As we walked, I said the following:
“Kyle. I think someone is going to break into our car. As a precaution I put our passports in my purse. At least if all of our stuff is stolen, we will be able to get out of the country.”
He agreed. I continued,
“I hope Dad will listen and trust my witch sense. I hope this moment impacts him so in the future he will be willing to go off course. You know I don’t think we should leave our car. None of us do, but here we are.” Then I paused and said, “I really hope you and Eli do not have to pay for this lesson.”
In hindsight we should have at least paid for parking, Athens, Greece
Just a few blocks from the car, as we were passing a bus stop thronged with tired commuters, a gaunt young man that kind of looked like Charles Manson was bouncing erratically from one person to the next with a menacing air. As we approached, he fixed his gaze on Eli, and reached out to him with his hand, holding a lit cigarette. Dave tried to position himself between them, and hustled Eli along, looking back after they were out of his orbit, to see that the man make a similar aggressive gesture toward Kyle and me.
The antics of this street lunatic left us all a little rattled. Another warning sign?
Half way down the block, we noticed a group of heavily armed policemen on the corner, looking at the direction of the disruptive crazy man. As we walked toward them, we hoped they might intervene, but they just kind of stood around. As we passed them, we noticed a small bulletproof police kiosk on one side of the street, and a large schoolbus-sized riot van, with more cops milling around outside. They didn’t seem to be there for any particular reason, other than the fact that the area was a plaza and public park that seemed to be a decent place for locals to hang out on a Sunday afternoon.
Again it was clear that a neighborhood where 20 police officers just hang around in a group might imply that it would be a sketchy place to park your car.
The rest of our walk to the Monastiraki was uneventful and Athens was better than I expected. We ate at Quick Pitta. I wanted to go back to the car. Dave wanted to keep walking up the hill so we could get an Acropolis view. I love the view and was happy to oblige. By then I figured if the damage was done at least I could enjoy this moment. We walked along tiny roads and paths covered in vivid graffiti. At the top we could see the Acropolis across the way. It was the time of day where the sun is a perfect sepia light. We were amazed with feral cats and tiny churches. We made our way back. I was looking forward to the ferry and seeing Crete the next day.
Athens, GreeceAthens, GreeceAthens, Greece
Kyle and I were walking side by side. As we neared the car, I cautioned,
“I will let Dad walk ahead so if the car was broken into, he can see it first.”
Dave and Eli approached the car. It is painfully comical to recall how many times the boys and I urged Dave not to go into Athens, yet no amount of humor can erase what I heard next:
“They got our backpacks! Mom. Everything is gone.” Eli screamed.
He kept screaming and his screams turned into painful tears.
Note the case of Almond Milk in the upper righthand corner, Athens, GreeceTheft in Athens, Greece
Kyle walked up — stunned. I think he is still stunned. I watched as an eerie sadness enveloped both boys. In that exact second I knew the direction of our trip would change. They had been violated. The things that were most personal to them had been ripped away. I did not stop it. I did not protect them. I should have fought harder.
Eli was pacing and frantic. Kyle was stoic. I was shouting at Dave,
“Dave, I asked you not to park here. I pleaded with you. I demanded. You [insert advanced expletive here] refused. You [insert all caps advanced expletive here] REFUSED!”
“I know. I know. I know.” Dave cried out.
“Why don’t you listen? Why do you get so fixed?” I screamed again. “Why are you so rigid?”
I noticed people walking by and looking at me as I screamed. Our moment is dark and very sad. My boys watched me scream at their dad. They watched their dad comprehend his responsibility.
Eli pleaded.
“Mom! Dad! Everything is gone. Everything.” Eli reached into the car and cut his hand badly on the broken glass.
Dave was now more frantic. Eli was scared and sobbing. Kyle was numb. Then Dave cried out,
“I do not know what to do. I do not know what to do.”
I had no idea what to do either. One of us suggested he find the police. I figured the police would not be able to do anything, but I also understand the importance of a police report.
Dave remembered the police kiosk around the corner, and thought maybe we could ask them for help, so he ran off in that direction, leaving us at the car. As we were sitting there for a long time, Dave was having a frustrating, exhausting, and bizarre interaction with Greece’s criminal justice system.
The cops on the corner at the bulletproof kiosk had no interest in coming to the crime scene, despite having nothing in particular to do. They informed Dave he needed to go to the police station to report the crime. They helped him find it on the map. It was over in the other direction, about a ten-minute walk. Dave ran over, taking several wrong turns on his way, and finally found a darkened building with another kiosk out front, the cop on duty informed him that he should go to the third floor to make his report. Entering the building, there was no lobby: just closed doors and a dark staircase. At the landing of each dimly lit level, there was another closed door and small placards written in Greek. No markings identifying anything or looking particularly police-like. As he entered the door on the third floor, he was in a shabby, mostly empty room, with a hallway down one side and a heavy green door with an opening in it at chest-level. As Dave entered the room, a man’s face peered out of the opening, and he beckoned Dave over. As Dave approached, saying,
“Someone broke into our car,”
he got a better look a the man and saw through the opening that there were several men in the small room behind the green door, he realized that small room was a holding cell. He turned around and walked down the hall, and saw an office that looked just like the set of “Barney Miller” or some other 1970s police TV show, with a couple of hard-boiled middle aged guys in shirts and ties sitting at small desks, and a young woman with a holster on her hip. The woman stood up, and Dave explained why he was there. Like most younger people in Greece we’d met in our travels there, she spoke decent English. She explained that he needed to report the crime at the office of the “tourist police.” She typed the address into Google Maps on his iPhone. The tourist police office was another 12 minute walk in the opposite direction of our car.
When Dave arrived at the tourist police, the man at the desk was a fatherly type with salt and pepper hair. If you wanted to cast a Greek police officer in a movie, you’d end up with this guy for sure. As Dave explained the events of that afternoon, he listened with weary familiarity.
“Athens wasn’t always like this,” he said.
He and his younger colleague gave Dave a stack of forms to fill out. While Dave filled out the forms, he and I had been carrying on a sporadic conversation over text. Eventually, the policeman realized that Dave’s family wasn’t there, and asked where is your wife and the car? He was surprised that we hadn’t packed up the car and all come to the police station together. Dave explained that we had tried to get help nearby, but had been sent to progressively farther-away places. The man suggested that Dave go get his family and the car and return. They would need to take some time typing up the police report anyway. was feeling helpless and panicked, so he just obeyed each time and went to the next place.
In the meantime, the sun was setting, it was getting cold and Eli was calming down.
Kind Strangers Helping Eli, Athens, Greece
Two men walked by and then returned a few minutes later with medical supplies. They walked up, and to clean Eli’s bleeding hand, dumped an entire bottle of Betadine on, then dressed his wounds. Eli’s hand looked much worse than it was. The men did not speak English so they called someone who did. On their flip phone I tried to speak with another kind stranger.
His English was not great. I do not speak Arabic or Greek. I assured him we were ok.
They left and came back with two bottles of water.
Kyle asked if he could go for a walk. I said,
“I need you here.”
People walked by, stared. Some stopped and asked (mostly in Greek) what happened. One woman scolded me, pointed several times, and rolled her eyes. Another man admonished,
“You parked in the bad-est of the bad parts of Greece.”
He could not emphasize this fact strongly enough. We were like,
“Dude, we know.”
Regardlesss, no one seemed to understand that we were robbed. Instead their eyes were drawn to the pool of Betadine surrounded by discarded gauze pads. It did not help that the Betadine looked like a blood bath. A few were kind. All of them were foreigners, that is to say, non-Greek. I know this because they wanted us to know that they were not Greek. I appreciated the respect the showed us as they walked up to Kyle, asked what happened and asked what they could do.
By now Dave had been gone for some time. I was at a loss. Kyle’s phone was dead and their chargers and charger cords were gone. I knew we would miss it so I tried to get online so I could cancel our ferry. It was 8:00 AM in Utah. Eli was calm and helpful. Kyle was still quiet. I decided to text my friend Beth to see if she could get online for me. I sent her the following stream of texts:
“I need help” [send]
“Are in Greece and we were robbed” [send]
“This is Beth Adams [send]
She did not respond so I texted my friend, Emily. I did not hear back from Emily either, and wondered if she was having the same reaction.
That is when I realized Beth would never answer the phone, but instead assume my phone had been stolen. I texted:
“I am going to call you now”
It took two calls for her to answer. And yes, she thought it was a scammer.
She texted me the information I needed. Then I made the calls. While making calls and talking to Beth and now Emily, Eli stood by my side deconstructing our situation. I love Eli’s awareness. He processes quickly and feels profoundly. Because he does, is well adjusted and heals fast.
By now we were freezing. Dave was still gone. Kyle seemed more relaxed as he talked to passers by. The two men came back with more water and checked on Eli’s hand. One of them looked at me and said,
“No English.” Then he pointed at himself and said, “Algeria,” and pointed at his friend, “He too.” Then he pulled up his flip phone again and handed it to me. I told the man on the other line that we were ok. As the two men walked off they said, “Algeria! No Greece.”
After what seemed like forever, Dave came back.
The boys outside of the Athens, Greece Tourist Police StationThe boys at the Athens, Greece Tourist Police StationEli’s injurred arm, Athens, Greece
He told us that the police were making a report and we need to drive back to the station so they could see the rental car. Kyle and I spread hoodies over the broken glass and sat in the back. We parked illegally (as per the policeman’s request), and went inside. As we sat on the couch, the policeman kindly admonished,
“Greece is beautiful. Don’t let this ruin your trip. You get away from Athens and you are more safe.”
As he walked away, I looked at Dave and said,
“He does not speak for us. You know that, right? Of course Dave agreed.
The boys, and Harry the police officer, at the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station
We were at the police station for a very long time. They had a computer and a phone that we could use. Dave quickly got online to cancel the stolen credit cards and try to deal with our reservations at the ferry and hotels. Kyle and I shared my phone so he could talk to his girlfriend and I could text Emily. Emily and Eli have a great connection and her energy is what we needed. At one point Kyle escorted me to the scary bathroom in the basement. Eli passed out on a couch. Dave and I had several tear-filled heart-to-hearts. Both boys pleaded that we get out of Greece. They were afraid. Normally I push through or assure them things would be ok. Somehow, and even if there is a lot of discomfort, they always are. This time I knew making them stay was wrong. I also knew that logistically and financially it would be hard to stay. Just to be sure we were doing the right thing, I suggested several options like making our way to Zurich to connect with our return flights. Sure, I thought that may be impossible, but maybe the airline would take pity on us. Then I suggested we drive out of Greece to another country. I realized with most of our things stolen how impractical either of these options would be. That is when I suggested we see if we could fly home a few days early.
Dave at the Tourist Police Station, Athens, Greece
Dave made the call. That is when adrenaline faded and pure, beautiful emotion took over. I cried as I watched him sob,
“We were robbed. What they took has made it impossible for us to stay.”
I assumed they would give us a few days (like I had planned). The call agent told him there was a flight at 6AM. It was now almost 10PM. Kindly, United Airlines waived all fees and told us,
“We need to get you home.”
Me at the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station
Kyle outside of the Athens, Greece Tourist Police Station
We found a hotel, took showers for the first time in three days, and at 4AM this morning we left for home.
Now we are on our last flight traveling from Chicago to Salt Lake City. It is about 9:45 PM. The lights just came on. Over the loudspeaker I hear,
“We have a medical emergency. Do we have any doctor’s, nurses, medical personal, EMTs, or first responders on board? If so, please ring your call light.”
The flight attendant just made the announcement again. Then I heard a call light from somewhere on the plane. I have no idea what is happening. We heard nothing more. For the remainder of the flight there is an unusual amount of turbulence.
And maybe flying through turbulence is a good place to end. Because life is filled with turbulent moments. When we checked into our Athens Hotel, we told Dimitri, the desk agent about our robbery. He looked at Kyle and I and said,
“You have like nine or ten of these hard (turbulent) moments in your life. The sooner you learn how to move through them, the better you will be.”
Dimitri has a point.
A little family therapy. Us, Salt Lake City, Utah
Now a week out we are ok. Dave and I are ok. The boys are ok. This week has been hard. Nevertheless, I think we are closer. What I like about us is we are both willing to stretch. That is why we have agreed to listen more, especially when someone pushes pause. I love him for that. I love Dave — always.
[Trigger Warning: authority abuse, brief mention of sexual abuse]
I specifically chose not to include the more profound abuse I have experienced. Unfortunately the experiences I included here are quietly commonplace. When I am all alone and safe, the phrase I think of are “culturally insidious, misuse of power and epidemic abuses.” In fact, I think the small acts of petty domination, verbal threatening, and entitled abuses of power have become (almost) ordinary. As a society we are not just guilty of re-victimizing women who have suffered horrific sexual assault. We are guilty of letting casual dominance slide until it is commonplace. My guess is most men who commit sexual misconduct do not start off by raping women. In fact, I would argue that sexual assault may actually be an outgrowth of entitled people throwing their weight around and misusing their power.
…There I was. In a Brigham Young University classroom.
After the professor asked for feedback and promised he was open to whatever we had to say, I spoke up. Class finished. Two classmates and I stood in the hallway talking. My professor walked up. I asked him a question about my upcoming paper. Instead of answering, he asked me to follow him onto the elevator — alone. Obediently I followed. The doors shut. We stood in silence. Several long seconds later, we arrived on his floor. He stepped out and I followed him into his office. He shut the door behind me. I sat down across from him. Before I could ask my question, he interrupted. Assuming he forgot why we were there, I gave him the benefit when he began berating me for speaking up in class. Nevertheless, I was blindsided. He told me it was not my place to give feedback and that I should know better than to challenge him. Several times he admonished making claims such as, “Beth, your words are unacceptable. Do not embarrass me in public again.” On and on he went until his words blurred into one powerful message:
“Beth, you are bad. I am good. Do not challenge my power!”
With my sense of right and wrong knocked off its axis, tears screamed down my face. I needed this to end. Defending myself only incited him further. I was breathless, frustrated and needed him to stop telling me how bad I was. I needed to get out of the room. Instead of realizing I could just get up and leave, I found myself apologizing. My apologies only made things worse. I was trapped. He was angry. I don’t know if it was my wet face or my silence. Eventually he finished. I left. We never talked about my assignment. A month or so later, I sent him an apology.
…Years earlier I was working on the very same Brigham Young University campus at a job I loved. My boss at the time was giving a tour to some outside visitors. I had no idea I was in his way. Regardless, he forcefully grabbed me by the upper arm and held it tight. Then he abruptly yanked me from where I was standing. As I stood there stunned, he looked back and admonished:
“Next, time you are in my way. I need you to move.”
I knew what he did was not right, but I had no idea what he did was criminal battery. I did nothing. Later that semester I withdrew from some of my classes. The secretary at the time asked me to fill in for her for a few hours when her father-in-law passed away. Of course I said yes. A week or so later that same boss sat me down in his office. He asked me not to speak. Here is what he said,
“Beth, by working for the secretary you were deceitful and are unworthy. I could fire you. Instead, I will ask you not to return next semester.”
I make no excuses, yet had no idea that I could not work if I was not a full time student.
…Around the same time, I was dating someone I thought I would marry. Even though we were not having sex, we crossed a lot of lines. According to Brigham Young University professor Brian Willoghby, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints’ stance on premarital sex is the following:
“Although the church discourages ‘any kind of sexual behavior’ before marriage, sex is considered a ‘bonding experience’ once the couple has entered a committed union.”
As a practicing Mormon (at the time), I understandably felt guilty, so I did what LDS members are encouraged to do: I went to my ecclesiastical leader to confess. My Mormon bishop said it would not be easy and that he may excommunicate me. He asked me to make a chart of my repentance progress and then to show him my chart progress during our weekly visits. He said my forgiveness was contingent on how I filled out my chart. He also said that under no uncertain terms that my forgiveness was also contingent on me NOT SEEING my boyfriend, (which he asked me to keep track of on my progress chart). That bishop and I met for several months. One week I was five minutes late for my appointment. He stated, and I quote,
“Because you are late, you are showing God that you do not want to be forgiven. Do you even want to repent? I need to know! I need to know now!” I assured him that I did want to repent. He paused for what seemed like forever. He continued, “Beth, I am not sure. I will have to think about your behavior today. Honestly, I can see you are not taking your repentance process seriously. You may need to be disfellowshipped. When I figure it out, I will let you know what I decide.”
(In Mormonism, “disfellowship” means a disciplinary action less severe than excommunication.) We continued our visits for a few months. I was terrified and began to think I was evil.
After my boyfriend and I broke up I was casually dating a few people. One of them was very well liked member of the Provo, Utah community. One day I stopped by his work to say hello. He said,
“Beth, sit here. I will be right back.”
I was a little confused when he asked the few remaining customers to leave. Then he locked the door. I tried to leave. He insisted I remain where I was sitting. He walked up to the table and sat across from me. As the abuse started, a sort of twisted negotiation began. If I let him do what he wanted to do and told him it I liked it, then he would let me leave. I was frozen, afraid to move. This man is much bigger than I am. I am not comfortable saying what happened next. At the time, I also did not want to upset the community by getting this very well liked individual in trouble. Consequently, I did not go to the police. Instead, I told a couple of our mutual friends. One of those friends told some of this man’s co-workers. Instead of offering me help, validation, or just staying out of it, these co-workers told me I was no longer welcome at their place of business, and if they saw me, they would ask me to leave.
Upon reflection, I can say I noticed red flags in all of these situations. I asked for help and was often asked what I had done to mislead these men. I was also told that I should let it go or just go along with it. As a result, I kept my head down and thought if I were a better person, these things would not happen. After many years and many experiences, it finally hit me: I did not cause the abuse or cause someone to misuse their authority. It was not my fault. Nevertheless, I remained silent.
Regarding the news of: this moments sexual abuse issue, why did it take so much effort to bring awareness, and ultimately action, to the situation? Is it because of silence? Or is it that popular, powerful or even patriarchal people get a pass? Are we the enablers? Is that why pleas for help fall on deaf ears? Because of the sorrow my own silence has caused, I would suggest that our collective conversation can help break these culturally baked-in patterns.
And yes, what the news of [insert latest Sexual Abuse issue here] has done this week is (again) open a dialog. And now we have an opportunity to be different. We can chose to stop reacting off of sound bytes and social media outbursts. In contrast, I think we need talk and keep talking. We need all the voices. (I also recognize that getting people to listen is not always easy.) As I mentioned, I have tried a thousand different ways to begin this conversation myself. Something always stops me. Usually that something is my fear of embarrassing those closest to me. Ultimately, I stop talking, slow down my own healing, and pretend that everything is ok. Usually I realize that my need not to embarrass those I love only serves to enable the abuser. Then something like [insert current Sexual Abuse issue here], wakes me up and I ask myself,
“Why did it take so long for people to speak up?”
Obviously I have already internalized the answer: Embarrassment, shame, fear, or complacency. All of these things kept me silent. I also know that my silence perpetuates the abuse cycle.
I have a lot of rationalizations. I live in a culture where a man is the man and for me to scream is a sign of disrespect, which again enables the cycle: silence. And to fight the silence, I know I need to keep talking, but then the fear of upsetting my loved ones takes over. Even though I know that talking will protect us and that our conversations will teach us balance and discernment. Why I am speaking up now is that I recognize that words are also power. Our conversations will only serve to help us teach our children that they deserve respect; that our daughters do not have to compromise their integrity; and that our sons must be good men, even when society is telling men that they have a role: predator, (a.k.a. teenage boy who wants to touch a teenage girl’s boobs).
I also recognize that patterns are hard to break. I am a wife, a mother, a daughter and a sister. I want to be better. I want to do better. I think we all do. I want my boys to be transparent. I want to model boundaries and I want my boys to have boundaries. And that is why we dialog. I drill consent and talk about the things that are uncomfortable. I think it is also fair to mention that parenting alongside other parents can be muddy. We have dealt with other parents and their reactions to my sons, like the dad who asserted,
“I know how teenage boys think. I was one.”
As a mother, I wanted to disagree (because I do) and scream,
“Why can’t we do better?”
I remained silent. And really I am not always sure how, but I think we can do better. My initial step was to get comfortable with me (not easy still) and next to have a healthy relationship (with a man). And that is why I cannonballed myself into the deep end and dated a lot top notch guys [insert heavy sarcasm here]. First, there was the guy from church who told me I would never get married if I didn’t marry him (I was 19). At some point there was the “upstanding guy” who wanted me to reimburse his expenses after the date because I would not have sex with him; the dude who took his clothes off while I was not looking and insisted on walking to the car naked (even after I insisted he put his clothes back on); oh and the guy who said,
“Beth, you would be so much more comfortable if you took your pants off.”
Then there was the guy who dated me while engaged (he lied to both of us), the guy who liked to come to the door in a towel. As soon as I walked into his apartment, his towel would drop to the floor, and the guy I had a huge crush on. When we finally were alone. He asked me to give him a hand job, but not kiss him. He told me.
“I just broke up with my girlfriend. Kissing you is too intimate and makes me think of her.”
At least he eventually apologized — I guess [insert me shrugging my shoulders]. Finally, there was the seemingly gentle guy who in a firm voice said there was something wrong with me because I did not like Disney movies. What? (He also freaked out and berated me when I tried to end our relationship).
“You will not find anyone better than me.” he insisted.
Dave and I in Castres, France
Thank goodness he was wrong and double thank goodness for Dave. I chose him specifically because he was different than the others. He had boundaries and he respected mine. And here is the good nudge: I chose. I did not sell myself or settle (even though I was encouraged to settle every single day). Instead, I literally decided that I was tired of dating men who treated me poorly. And seriously, by the time Dave and I found one another, most people thought I was not worth someone like Dave (and told me as much). I found my worth from within. And that is what I want to say out loud:
“Learn from me. You get to chose who you love. You deserve a healthy relationship. You get to hold your boundaries. You are not bad if you say no.”
Society does not make self worth easy either. Ultimately, I told myself that I was worthy of a healthy relationship. And maybe that is a first. Consequently, I deliberately turned a corner and there he was. It was not magic. It was so fucking hard. I reminded myself that I was not Dave’s property. Our relationship was not solely based on our sexual connection or manipulation. I did not have to entice him sexually to get him to like me, nor did he ever coerce me to do anything I did not want to do. He did not humiliate me. He respected my boundaries. He liked me, and was delightfully amused that I did not want to watch “The Little Mermaid,” or any Disney animated film, for that matter. Dave talked to me. He held my hand, and he was honest (even when he wanted to break up with me — like all the time).
Even though our marriage can help stop the cycle of abuse, Dave cannot heal my pain or break the patterns, and sometimes he even crosses them. (He is learning.) He also supports me speaking up and healing. As a parent, he does not want to perpetuate unhealthy societal patterns either. That is why he wants his sons to treat others with the respect he treats me with. Again, learn from me, even though you speak up, the pain may remain close and awkward. It is ok. Mine does. I think it always will. Maybe I can use my pain to effect change in a culture that patterns abuse. That is what I am (trying) to do now.
And what happens when we take our conversation beyond this moment? Answer: a lot
Such as, what if your abuser is a relative, a close friend, an ecclesiastical leader, a professor, or your boss? What if the abuser is someone in a position of power or authority? What if he or she is someone you have been taught to respect or revere? What about people who are wrongly accused of abuse? Does that happen? What about the under-reactions, over-reactions, misdirections and inappropriate responses? I know how people freak out over minor issues and how others will take the secret of being raped to their death. I also know that people who actually have been abused do not trust they will be heard. How do we make it stop?
I do not have a perfect answer. Nevertheless, and from whatever lens you are viewing my words, I think the conversation is key to healing. So maybe the answer is to keep it simple. Trust that we will figure it out. Know that you are not alone. Just keep opening your mouth and using your voice. The more we use it, the easier it will become.
Hands down, Dave is a my Best Friend. Here we are at Dyrham Park National Trust Site, Gloucestershire, England
Please do not take it personally. First, and foremost, I LOVE people and my relationships with them. Through years of practice, I have also learned that friendship is not an exact science. Thankfully, I have awesome friends; friends who are cool with who I am (or are super awesome at pretending). And because I am a huge sucker for connection, especially the connection that the word “friendship” or “best friend” implies, I take my role as friend very seriously (like in a for-real blood oath kind of way). I sincerely believe (again, in like in a freakish, overachiever sort of way) that love, loyalty, honesty, transparency, responsibility, integrity and follow-through are friendship’s core values. And like some sort of super-earnest, albeit a little sarcastic, Joan-of-Arc (or just like a very devoted pet) I completely commit to my friends. And in the interest of full disclosure, I also commit to those who insist I am their friend, even those who literally have no clue how to be a friend, like those “friends” who are only “friendly” when they need a favor. And of course I have also found myself sucked into the blackhole of friendship with the occasional narcissist, stridently co-dependent, gaslight-er, sociopath and life-bloodsucker.
Hey and most relationship are cool and balanced, right? It does not take much for me to heed the charge or enable an imbalanced connection. Whereas, when the plane is going down and I should be putting my oxygen mask on first, all you have to do is show me your tangled cord and in the name of “friendship,” I will suffocate. If it means you can breathe, I will lose consciousness. All the while ignoring the fact that had I actually put my mask on first we both would be breathing. My dysfunction is on me. And believe me, the dysfunction goes deep and is probably baked right into my DNA. I love the rush of helping others — sometimes even conflating help (being used) with true and connection friendship. I get it. Feeling needed feels good. Feeling needed, or better, helping is a great avoidance technique.
I really like my kids. And yes, I will go against so conventions and say that I am so glad they are my friends. This is Kyle & I at Levant Mine and Beam Engine National Trust Site, Trewellard, Penzance, EnglandI love these boys! Land’s End, Cornwall, England
The other day I needed to put my oxygen mask on. I was trying to sleep. I should have been sleeping. I was very tired. My back hurt. I was exhausted and catching a cold. The night before I was up past 1AM and then up again at 6AM. I wanted to say goodbye to Kyle. He was leaving for his Varsity Cross Country team run. As luck would have it, Kyle left his cellphone on the kitchen counter. And so it began… Every nine minutes I heard the beep, beep, beep of his cell phone alarm. Because I could not figure out his password, the only thing I could do is hit snooze, which meant I was also up every nine minutes. It never occurred to me to bring his phone into my room, hide it outside, or guess the password (which I actually knew). I was supposed to go walking with my friend Rita shortly. Because I trusted she would kind and empathetic, I knew she would be cool if I canceled. She was. In her text filled with a bunch of heart emojis she said,
“No problem. Let’s go Friday.”
My friend, Rita & I after we finished the SLC Half Marathon. (It was epic.)
Feeling relieved, I went back to sleep. Within minutes I heard my phone beep. I was mad at myself for not putting my phone on “do not disturb.” I felt the obligation to look. Someone did need me. I felt compelled to “be a friend.” It was only going to be a few minutes, but those few minutes also meant I needed to get up, brush my teeth, brush my hair and locate what this person needed. It also meant that I was up. So, Instead of sleeping I said,
“Sure. Come on over.”
Me & Easy E. He puts up with me & is a super considerate human. Man, I love this kid! Snowdownia National Park, Wales
I do not think I am the only one who feels compelled to be a “good friend.” I do not think it is bad to help someone in need either. What I am truly suggesting is balance.
Culturally, I think women are taught to put everyone’s needs before their own, especially in the culture I was raised in. I think this baked-in, I-must-serve behavior complicates true, bonded friendship even further. Many people feel such an urge to please others, even their own friends, that they forget to take care of themselves, or to have boundaries, like I did that morning. Sure, our commitments and obligations are distracting. Time is short. Oh yes, and then there is the whole part about having our “me” time versus our guilt about being a good friend, or at least being seen as a good friend. What complicates the concept of friendship even more is that from my experience, we are all different. And because we are different, there is a no roadmap to perfect friendship.
My friends, Emily, Andi & I, Galilee Grill & Bakery, Lindon, UtahMoe & I, Red Iguana, Salt Lake City, Utah
Because I have made many wrong turns, I hope I can help you avoid the detour by offering you a few directions. I will start with the idea that friendship is not a one-sided service project. Meaning, friends are not a box to check or a badge to earn, someone to possess or a crazy, co-dependent feedback loop. Friendship should definitely not be a status or hierarchical-based relationship. (You can save that relationship for your boss, as a super-fan, or when you move to North Korea.)
In contrast, I would suggest that friendship really is mutual affection. Meaning, we both get to equally dictate the terms of our relationship (high fives to that). Friendship is boundaries and support (even when either is uncomfortable). We do not have to text everyday, talk every week, or even see each other every year. And because we stand by each other’s side, when we are together, our friendship has integrity. We mean what we say. We apologize when we are wrong. We are honest, (even when truth adjusting would be way more comfortable). We are loyal (even when it is not cool). Mostly, we forgive.
It took me a long time to fully digest the concept that for me to be a good and committed friend I cannot possibly be friends with everyone. Ok. Wait. I will push back here to say that Facebook and Facebook friendship is not what I am referring too. So in the Facebook realm, yes, I believe you and Mark Zuckerberg can friend the entire world. In support of my friend-the-world claim, Dave often observes:
“You have a super liberal Facebook friend policy.”
“Yes. Yes I do. I love people.” I respond.
Me & Big Daddy at Levant Mine and Beam Engine, National Trust Site, Trewellard, Penzance, England
Alas, Dave is correct and also proves the fact that the people you acquaint with are not all friends. See, a few years ago, a high-profile-on-the-internet guy friended me. Obviously liberal-Facebook-friend-policy-me accepted his request, even though (once again), we had not met. Of course, like I suspect many people do, I checked out his Facebook page before I actually accepted his request. When I saw his friend total, the smart-ass in me was like,
“Seriously, you 4,999 personal friends? You mean to tell me you know every single one of these people — by name?” And because I am bubbling with dry sarcasm, I continued my internal discussion and said, “How do you have time for all of those relationships [long pause] and your family [even longer pause] especially your wife?”
Well, you don’t. For example, I saw this same dude recently at a Cross Country meet. I literally ran into him. By his long, perplexed stare, I assumed he thought he knew me. His wife looked similarly bewildered. Dave was half way across the race course, so alone, I said “Hello.”
He paused and stared at me for a really long time. That is when I impatiently thought (because I needed to find Kyle & Eli),
“Wait for it. Wait for it.”
“Hi Barb.” He said.
Ok. I am kidding. In truth he said, “Hi Beth,” as I began to lift my hand to give him a high five. Realizing he was not going to make the connection, I quickly & nervously brushed my hand into my hair as if I meant to do that.
Alas, even though he remembered my name, the uncomfortable moment would not end. As I answered, his wife, in sort of a stunned and freaked out way quickly asked,
“well, how do you know him?”
And that is when I gave her the name of one our mutual real-life friends. I know they are real friends because tagged pictures of them spending time together always roll through my Facebook feed. His wife seemed to relax, which was good.
Easy E, Pre-Region Cross Country Meet, Cottonwood Complex, Salt Lake City, UtahKyle a t the Pre-Region Cross Country Meet, Cottonwood Complex, Salt Lake City, Utah
Here is the deal. This dude (bless his heart), despite having met me in person a dozen times since we became Facebook friends, never knows my name. When he stumbles with any sort of recognition, I wonder if he thinks I am a super-fan or a stalker. And because he is the one who friended me, his incongruous reaction always fascinates me. Obviously we are not friends. We are barely acquaintances.
Doug, Dave & Easy E, Buffalo Bayou Walk, Houston, Texas, January, 2017Dave & Ryan Raddon, SLC, Utah
His incongruous reaction, like many others, got me thinking. Has Facebook eviscerated the connection of real friendship? Do we know some people way more than we should? And is there any real-life correlation between Facebook friend totals, real world relationships and imbalanced obligation? I do not know. I think we all Facebook friend differently. Nevertheless, I do belive Facebook and social media are influencing how we friend. Just last week, because a woman who friended me seemed so cool and is a friend of a friend, I accepted her friend request. And guess what? She is cool. And yes, you read that correctly. I accepted the friend request of someone I have never met, or at least do not remember meeting. I know I am not the only one. And because she now owns the title of my friend, should I give her the same friend benefits? Am I obligated to wake up for her when I should be sleeping? I was friended by my friend Letti after knowing her for twenty minutes (and I really like her in real life). (Fun Fact: twenty minutes was the same amount of time I knew my friend Mike’s brother before making out with him.) Moving way beyond my fun fact, I also have friends who I have met once (in person), only to become really great friends via Facebook. Doug Vandiford, we are talking to you. On the other hand, Dave Facebook friends only those he really really knows. In contrast to my interaction, Dave actually knew Doug Vandiford way back when they were in the BYU dorms together (with Ryan Raddon (DJ Kaskade namedrop). And guess what? These three dudes are still real life friends. Ok. I would also argue that there are many sides to non-discriminatory Facebook friend requests (which have absolutely nothing to do with the concept of friendship I began with). That is why I would suggest is that bonded friendship goes well beyond today’s Facebook friendship friending rituals, and that the mutual affection of friendship actually takes effort. I would also suggest that having only a handful of friends is a very good thing. Considering the effort it takes to be a friend, I would like to offer that we may only have healthy space for a handful of friends. Meaning, that the other 4,988 relationships may fall into the category of acquaintance. (I think that is ok, by the way.)
Me & Big Daddy, Venice Beach, California
Think of it this way. An acquaintance can be an ally without all the strings or obligations. I would also argue that if you put most people into the acquaintance category, your disappointment will decrease, your awkward moments at your boys’ cross country meet will not feel like rejection, and that your expectations of reciprocity may soften. And if you see relationships through the acquaintance lens I would argue that your relationships with these people may actually be healthier, more fun, and more fulfilling (or even an serendipitous networking opportunity). I would to think about it this way: An acquaintance is a friend without the loyalty and expectation. Do I care if an acquaintance blows off dinner plans? Do I care if an acquaintance makes up a lame ass excuse for not including me? Do I care if an acquaintance tells everyone I am high maintenance (dude, I have food allergies, get over it). Do I mind if an acquaintance tells everyone I have social anxiety, or that I am too religious, or that I am not religious enough? Nope. Do I care if an acquaintance needs a favor, even though I have not heard from them in years? No. I am happy to help — always (even when I would rather be sleeping).
Our feet, Venice Beach, California
Bottom line: I say learn from me. Figure out how you want to friend, and then trust it — (as long as you are not being a tool and are being transparent).
Dave and I, near St Agnes, Cornwall, United Kingdom
I love traveling. I push my kids to travel. In fact, Kyle has eagerly anticipated our summer travel.
“Mom, I could be gone all summer.” He enthusiastically said.
Then yesterday, day six of our trip, Kyle proclaimed:
“Mom, you know how we normally take like nine day trips? I wish this one was nine days. This trip is too long. I want to be back home with my friends.”
Kyle and Eli, St. Ives, Cornwall, United Kingdom
Alas, Kyle is a teenager. Teenagers and their moods are my realities. Most often it is Eli who wants to be home. This time it is Kyle. Ok. And in truth, so does Eli. But because he knows Kyle is currently riding the “I miss my friends” train, Eli has risen to the occasion. He is pleasant & even grabbed my hand yesterday. (Um and Yes, to hold it.)
Me and Eli, Carn Galver Mine, Penzance, Cornwall, United Kingdom
Guess what? I want to be home too. Well, yesterday I did. Ok. Maybe I did not want to be home. I certainly did not want to be here. I white knuckled it the whole way as we winded through the super narrow high-hedge-lined roads to the town we we are staying in: Dartmouth. We arrived and found an awesome parking spot. We checked into our AirBnB. Then the boys and I walked half a block to the local Marks and Spencer’s. Finally able to catch my claustrophobic breath, we settled in for the night. Oh dear God and then it began! The seagulls! They would not stop. Their squeals are like a thousand crying newborn babies. Add the broken washing machine, the incurable jet-lag, and the super bad wifi, I will admit I went a little crazy. Sure, one would argue that these are sissy, first world and privileged problems. They are. We are not starving. We are traveling. We are seeing the world. Kyle can deal with missing his friends and I can find some drying racks, earplugs, and melatonin. Done!
The boys and I, National Trist Site at Bedruthan Steps, Cornawall, United Kingdom
So last night when Kyle told me he was done being here, my heart really did drop. See, typically Kyle is my travel wingman. When Eli and Dave are all bent out of shape, Kyle will say things like,
“Mom, next time we can travel without them,” or, “I will travel with you as long as you will have me.”
[insert achy throat crack]
My boy is growing up. He needs to spread his wings. And as much as I want to tether these two amazing teen humans to my side, I must let them fly. Still heart achy, I went to bed determined to save our trip. Here is where I will pause to offer a
#Pro Tip: The pictures people post on Facebook may not be an accurate reflection of their reality. ( I am sure you already know that. )
Kyle and I exploring Dartmouth, Devon, United Kingdom
In fact, this moment filled me with growth, you know that kind, where your bones throb because they are growing so fast? In that super-speed-growth moment, I had to chosen to move forward, or to bury my head in my tears. I chose to move. See, I love my boys. I want them to love travel and love our amazing world. And once I got over myself (a little), I realized that Kyle was actually handing me a gift. By telling me he prefers nine day trips, I was able to consider why. And then I was able to push forward and remember how we survived longer trips. In fact, Kyle and Eli often say there very favorite trip is when we went to Italy, Spain and France two years ago. We were gone for 1 month, not nine days. So in essence Kyle’s frustration offered me an opportunity. I thought, “What did I do differently?” Structure. While in Rome, Barcelona and Southern France each day had structure. The kids were doing online school at the time. We always made time for homework. Dave needs to put in a full work day. So similarly, on this longer trip, we have to cut our days short, or better, we have to make space for the less desirable responsibilities such as online school. When Dave is back working, Kyle gets bored and then longs for his friends. I get it. I get bored and miss Dave. Sure, we walk around the town, but that gets boring too. There had to be something I could do. I remembered the boys have summer homework. I also reminded them that we would could not fly home just because they missed their friends. I was definitely a little dark and completely truthful when I told them,
“Hey, this trip has kind of sucked for me too. The high-hedge-lined roads are making me insanely claustrophobic and those seagulls are making me go mental!”
High-Hedge-Lined Roads, Devon, United Kingdom
And that is when we decided to make a plan:
After sightseeing, the boys would work on summer homework. Then we would hang out and see the town or watch a movie, and maybe even work some more. While in Dartmouth, we tried our new plan. During the day we visited two National Trust sites: Coleton Fishacre and Greenway, the summer home of Agatha Christie. We decided that, as usual, we preferred the airy servants’ quarters at the Coleton Fishacre home. We gave the gardens a seven out of ten. We still prefer Lanhydrock and St. Michael’s Mount near Cornwall. As we walked into Greenway, Eli said,
“Dad, I am getting a little burned out on the English country homes.”
Walking into Lanhydrock, Cornwall, United KingdomDave and I talking to a National Trust volunteer in one of the many kitchens at Lanhydrock, Cornwall, United KingdomLeaving Lanhydrock, Cornwall, United Kingdom
I am with Eli. So instead of reading every little placard or examining every blooming flower, we worked our way through the gardens, lost Kyle, who was distracting himself with Pokémon Go, relocated him and made our way to Agatha Christie’s boat house. There were not a lot of shady spots for Dave and I to sit, but there were a lot of rocks for the boys to skip. Our boys love skipping rocks. In fact their favorite memory of the Cliffs of Moher are skipping rocks in a pond on the edge of the cliffs. Homesick-Kyle and overall-meh-Eli needed this moment. Dave and I sat in the sun while the boys gathered as many flat rocks as they could hold. Over and over they skipped and skipped rocks. They held the one rock up. It looked like a cheese cracker and then we said, “this looks like a cheese cracker.” I may or may not have slipped it into my purse. Then I offered the boys a hundred dollars if they could skip a rock far enough to hit one of the passing boats. Done skipping rocks, we found our way back up a long, winding path. It led us outside of the trust site. The people at the front joyfully let us back in. Instead of making them read every sign, or wait for Dave to read every sign, we breezed on through.
“Mom, really. At this point. I just don’t care.” Kyle said as we entered a few steps ahead of Dave.
Agatha Christie’s Boat House at Greenway, near Brixham, Devon, United KingdomDave & Kyle at Agatha Christie’s summer home: Greenway, near Brixham, Devon, United Kingdom
He was right. I heard Kyle. As a result I suggested we see how fast we could make it through Agatha Christie’s house. In reality, I know nothing about Agatha Christie’s boat house and not much more about her country house. I honestly do not think it matters. Further, we have seen so many estate homes filed with tiny beds, table settings and portraits. Really? Who paints all of these pictures? Of course I know if they really want to learn about Agatha Christie, they can Google her. My guess is they won’t. Instead, quickly discovering her creepy doll and obscure can collection, having both Kyle and Eli laugh and editorialize the inaneness of Agatha’s thimble collection, and then comment on her super large wooden toilet, is an experience I cannot recreate. Soon (because we saw the house in like three minutes), we met up with Dave on the first floor. He was ready to go up to the second. I know this because he said,
“Are you guys ready to go up to the second floor?”
We all laughed and said, “Done.” Then I said, “Seriously, take you time.” In all sincerity, I want Dave to enjoy Agatha Christie’s summer home too. He did.
Creepy Dolls & a Teddy Bear in Agatha Christies’s Summer home: Greenway, near Brixham, Devon, United KingdomAgatha Christies’s Summer home: Greenway, near Brixham, Devon, United KingdomThe boys waiting for Dave at Agatha Christies’s Summer home: Greenway, near Brixham, Devon, United Kingdom
And while he did, the boys and I sat outside. Soon Dave joined us. We made our way to the car. Of course I commented on the couple wearing the red shirts. I looked at Kyle and said,
“In this scenario they will be the first to die.” To which Kyle said, “Almost as good as what I said the other day.”
The red shirt surfer,Near St. Agnes, Trevaunance Cove, Cornwall, England
“Mom, when we were near St. Ives, high above the shore, we could see some instructors in yellow and blue shirts. In between them were situated a dozen or so young children — all lined up in the crashing waves for surf lessons. The children were wearing red shirts.”
Kyle was correct. His red short story was awesome!
A view of the tugboat while we were riding the tugboat in between Kingswear & Dartmouth, Devon, United KingdomDave & the boys, Dartmouth, Devon, United Kingdom
Now back at the car and singing along to “Hamilton.” Of course we were also making our way down another high, hedge-lined grass luge run, I mean two-lane road. Dave is a rockstar and finessed his way through the insane drive. We made our way to Kingswear, where we waited in the heat for our ferry to Dartmouth. Once in Dartmouth, we grabbed dinner: end of day half price cornish pastys. Then we made our way back to our AirBnB. The kids are in much better moods. I feel a little less crazy. We realized this is the moment we are in. We all let off steam and let go. I made videos about the seagulls. Kyle went out to the water and worked on his art journal. Eli and I spent a long time filling out his Fitness for Life questionnaire. At one point he had to answer questions about my siblings and Dave’s siblings. Dave has two siblings, I have five. After answering questions about Dave’s two siblings, Eli looked up at me and said,
“For these questions I am going to say you only have two siblings.”
Obviously I supported his plan and suggested,
“Let’s just say that three of my siblings were also wearing red shirts.”
Me in Dartmouth, Devon, United Kingdom
Our new structure worked (at least for today). The kids are sleeping. The seagulls are squeaking and my laundry is drying in the humid air. And really, a big reason travel is completely transformative is because it pushes us out of our safe and comfortable spaces and then reminds us that we can.
The Day Before it all happened: Dave & I at theNational Trust – Middle Littleton Tithe Barn, EnglandThe boys, The Day Before it all happened: Dave & I at theNational Trust – Middle Littleton Tithe Barn, England (What a difference a day makes)
Salt Lake City, Utah, Monday afternoon, July 10: I sat in my doctor’s office. After waiting for more than an hour, he walked into the room. I could tell he was upset and I knew why. Do not worry. There was no devastating news. He merely wanted to chew me out. I let him. Then I paused.
Here is what happened: Thursday, July 6, I was ready to leave for the hospital — so was Dave. It was 9AM. The hospital wanted me to arrive at 9:15AM. Sinus Surgery would start at 11:30AM. As he sat on the couch waiting, I reviewed the places and times with Dave, like I had done over the last few days.
“You will be done by noon, right? I need to be at work at noon.” He urged.
“Dave, the surgery starts at 11:30AM. I do not know how that is possible.”
As the words left my mouth, Dave started to freak out, so did I. Then memories of the week before flooded my mind.
[Flashback. Several days earlier:]
Us in Oxford, EnglandThe boys in Oxford, England
We were in Oxford, England. Dave, Kyle, Eli and I were sitting in our car ready to leave. Dave was in the driver’s seat. In a panic he started the engine and began to drive. As the car began moving, Kyle abruptly shouted,
“Dad, DAD! Stop the car!”Dave kept driving.
Kyle insisted, “No. really. Dad please stop the car.”Dave slowed down and did not stop.
“What? What do you want, Kyle?” Dave demanded.
As I held my bloodied and swollen hand I said,
“Dave. Please stop the car NOW!”
Oxford, England seconds before I fell.
In the middle of the parking lot, Dave slammed on the breaks. Then I asked Kyle what he wanted to say. Kyle wisely uttered the following:
“Guys. Stop. Look around. Just pause. We need to pause. We need to catch our breath. We need to make sure we are not missing anything. Think. Are we missing anything? Take a second and pause.” We did. After a moment, Kyle continued, “Not pausing is how we got here.”
He was right. I took a deep breath. We collected ourselves and then Dave drove us to the hospital.
It was Monday, June 26, and we were near the end of our three week UK adventure. The boys were completely over the trip, their parents and each other. Kyle and Eli wanted to be home. I knew they were on their last legs as I gently urged them out of the car. Eli put his shoes on slower than a snail’s pace. Honestly, it was painful. I was fried and didn’t know how much glass-half-full I could muster. As we locked the car, Kyle complained about how boring the day would be. I assured him it might be. Then we worked our way out of the tiny car park, through a long alley and unto the Oxford city streets. We stopped, looked at our online itinerary (I found a last minute walking tour online), and Dave led the way. Now the boys were both complaining and swatting at one another. I raised my eyebrows then offered up a bribe: Anyone who makes it through 60% of the day with a good attitude will get a prize:
“Dudes and I will pay you cash!” I paused then said, “Dave, you can play too!”
Kyle outside the Tower of St. Michael at the Northgate, Oxford, England — and he is thrilled 😉Dave and the boys in front of Oxford, England’s “CLOSED MONDAYs” Ashmolean Museum
They boys did not care. They continued telling me how much the other was annoying them, and when they were not complaining, they were fighting. When they were not fighting, they were pouting.Dave did not notice. My bribe was lost on the three of them. Guilt had no effect. No amount of telling them how grateful they should be for their super special and blessed lives mattered. Each new landmark became a nuisance, and the museum Dave was excited to see was closed. [insert that hands pulling on the face emjoi here]. Do not worry. I became an active participant in our collective doom. But then I had a flash. Money is not working, how about I bribe the boys with new books? (Please know I have not bribed the boys since they were like three and in the throes of potty training). Nevertheless, I was desperate. So, with my book bribe uttered, Dave and I took the boys to Oxford’s famous Blackwell’s bookstore. Dave encouraged me to buy a book too. (He is also good at bribing.) I fell for it. I knew what I wanted, yet was not sure where to find it.
“Ask the lady for help.” Dave urged (several times).
I finally did.
As the words left my mouth, immediately I recognized the up and down look this young Oxford student was so clearly giving me: contempt. When I asked for books on memoir writing, she directed me to the “self help” and “bestsellers.” Then she succinctly stated:
“the academic books are down here. What you want is upstairs.”
That is when our day turned around (sort of). Kyle witnessed the entire exchange as I said something like,
“You have judged me to be an incompetent, suburban mom, American tourist, haven’t you?”
She nodded.
“You are only partially correct.” I responded.
We purchased a copy of Richard Thaler & Cass Sunstein’s, “Nudge” at Blackwell’s Bookstore in Oxford, England. (We left our library copy in our AirBnB in Devon, England — that is another story for another day.)
By his own admission Kyle was totally impressed with me. From my observation, his elevated mood lasted for like thirty-five seconds. Then he asked if he could go outside to participate in a Pokemon RAID battle. “Whatever it takes to make them happy today” is what I thought.
Moments later we found ourselves standing next to Kyle and like several Oxford college students. One asked me if I would be fighting too.
“No.” I smiled and laughed.
Kyle & Eli standing with a group of dudes (Oxford college students) finishing their Pokemon RAID battle outside of Blackwell’s Bookstore, Oxford, EnglandKyle finishing his Pokemon RAID Battle with Eli and Dave walking ahead to the next “nuisance” landmark, Oxford, England
The Pokemon RAID battle was complete. Eli had his new Douglas Adams anthology in hand, and Kyle was carrying a new copy of a book we lost earlier in the trip. To answer your question: Those books elevated the mood for maybe another two minutes. And yes, it was totally worth it.
Me in Oxford, EnglandMy team players, Oxford, England
We walked. I snapped photos. I wanted to remember this place I have never seen before. Eli was also hungry and so was I. And the bitching only escalated. Thank goodness for bright spots in snotty college towns. The folks at Noodle Nation, where we ate some great pan-asian cuisine, were a dream. I highly recommend this restaurant. The food is great and the customer service is warm and friendly.
Noodle Nation, Oxford, England (they offer student discounts, by the way)
Now fed, the boys could not implore us to leave Oxford fast enough. After buying them some last minute fruit pies (yes, more mood bribes), we found ourselves racing to the car. The parking meter was past due. Dave is 6’2”. Eli is over 6’ and Kyle is just about 6’. I am barely 5’4”. Like I often do, as we left the Oxford indoor Market, I snapped a few more photos. Snapping those photos only put me farther behind. Like Kyle often does, he waited and ran along side me. I watched as Dave and Eli ran across a street. In full sprint, Kyle and I ran to catch up. With my phone in one hand, I heard the beep, beep of a car horn coming from my left. I turned to looked as my feet kept their pace.
Fruit Pies from Oxford, England’s Covered MarketOxford, England’s Covered Market
Before I realized what was happening, my sandal caught the edge of median I had not seen. I extended my right arm. And as Kyle observed (with full arm motions),
“You dropped hard and then you slid — also hard.”
Even though I could see my pants were not ripped (Props to the durability of the Athleta Trekkie Jogger), I could feel my knees swell and see the blood begin to seep through the fabric. My right hand was scraped, purple and swollen. I was mortified as I lay splayed out in the street.
Me wearing the sturdy Athleta Trekkie Jogger the day before in Stratford-upon-Avon, England the day before (the clothes were at the end of the trip too)
Kyle ran to my side, helped me up and screamed for Dave. Within seconds, Dave and Eli were at my side helping me walk. Dave asked me if I wanted to stop.
“Why don’t you sit here for a minute. Let’s make sure you are ok. Really. Beth. Let’s just stop.”
Tears streamed down my face. I was embarrassed. “No. No. Let’s get to the car. I will collect myself there.”
Dave held me up as we quickly walked. The boys were behind us. The crowd was large and moving slow. With each impatient breath, the crowd only seemed to move slower. Within seconds, I grabbed Dave’s left arm, nudging him a little and said,
“Let’s pass these people. They are moving way too slow.”
As I pushed on his left side, Dave stepped into the street.
As he stepped, we heard loud, panicked screams. It was a woman.
“NO! NO! NO!” she cried.
I watched as her bicycle hit the ground as a car swerved to miss her. She kept screaming. I held my hand. The car missed her within inches, continued honking and drove away. The crowd stopped. Now all those slow walking people were screaming too.
“Ma’am, are you ok. Ma’am!” I heard them shout.
Her left pant leg was ripped at the knee. I did not see blood. She was wearing a helmet. Thank God!
“Yes. Yes. I am ok. I am ok. I just need a moment.” She shouted as her tears fell.
People walked her over to the side of the road. Dave gathered her bike from the street. We stood there. We asked. We wanted to know she was ok.
“Yes. Yes. Yes. I am ok. I am just late.” She trailed off.
An older woman in the crowd took over. Within seconds the older woman had the injured biker’s phone and was making calls. And from behind I hear a quiet, calm voice. I turned to look. It was a priest on a bike. He was probably 70 and about my size. He tried to help the injured biker. When he saw the older lady take over, he began to talk with us. We watched. We stayed. We asked. We made sure she was ok. Several moments later and when we knew she was more frightened than anything, Dave quietly asked the priest,
“My wife just fell. We need a hospital.”
I showed him my hand and he said,
“Oh my! Yes you do.”
He pointed us the way. Dave and I said nothing as we rushed to the car. Then we said everything. Mostly we were shocked and completely grateful that the woman was ok. Seriously, I can still see the rapid chain reaction.
This kid has my heart. Eli stood by my side quietly & calmly made sure I was ok. Here were are at Snowdownia National Park, Wales
In the past few days, via an MRI and x-rays, I had it double-confirmed that my hand is broken (a minimally displaced 5th metacarpal fracture and a minimally displaced hamate fracture). My hand still hurts, is still swollen, and my arm is still numb. In a month we will see if there is anything else to address. Honestly, I feel lucky and my guess is everything will heal.
The people I love most, Oxford, England
[Flashing back again to that Oxford, England, parking lot:]
After falling and after the woman crashed, it made complete sense that Kyle was insisting we pause. So last Thursday I wanted to correlate Kyle’s wisdom. When things were falling apart, and it was time to leave for my sinus surgery, I took a deep breath and asked Dave to pause. Then we both sat down.
We caught our breath, readjusted, and re-grouped. Sure, I could have gone to my surgery alone, but it is my surgery, my body and I did not want to be alone. Instead, we canceled my surgery. Then Dave went to his meeting.
Ultimately, Dave and I took responsibility. The doctor goofed up too, changing times and mysteriously canceling the original surgery the week before.
Us, Cecret Lake, Albion Basin near Alta, Utah, Sunday, July 9
[Fast Forward again to Salt Lake City, Utah, Monday, July 10:]
As I mentioned, the doctor asked me to come in. He is a good doctor so I obliged. Nevertheless, even good doctors overstep, and I think that is what he did when he chewed me out. I felt shamed, humiliated and scolded. As a result, I really wanted to have my say. I thought about posting a Google review. I considered saying something like,
“This doctor had to prove he was right. He wanted to punish me. He is immature and self-centered. Be careful.”
Sure. I think he was immature and self-centered. I definitely felt punished. I also have compassion. He is frustrated and my guess is he is not getting the full story. Miracles do happen. As he rebuked, I took a note from Kyle. Instead of screaming, I paused. I apologized for any misunderstanding and offered that I could see another doctor. He said, “No.”
I am no saint. I am human. And because I make a lot of really awful mistakes (especially via my words), I get it. I also appreciate that he was willing to move forward. In reality, it was the chain reactions of the past weeks that remind me to consider all sides. See, in all of this, it was my impatience and self-focus that almost got a woman killed. You know what else? Instead of screaming at me or telling me it was my fault, she had perspective. She was rushing and admitted she was. So were we. She did not scold me. She was kind and she was forgiving.
I am grateful she was not run over by the car. I watched it all. And yes, it was completely in slow motion horror. I do not know how the car did not hit her. Wow! I am grateful for the people who were there to help her. I am grateful for sweet priest on the bike. I am grateful Dave, Kyle and Eli were there to help me up. And when I needed it most, Eli quietly put his arm around me. Then as Dave ran ahead to pay the meter, both boys slowly and sweetly walked me to the car. (By the way, we did not get a parking ticket.)
Even in “lame” estate homes, the boys always seem to make the best of it. I am really lucky to travel with these awesome humans. Wightwick Manor & Gardens, Wolverhampton, England
Bonus: The day was not a complete dark hole of awfulness. After my fall and the bike crash, the boys rose up and regrouped. Then they patiently sat with me in an Oxford hospital as we tried to figure out what to do. They did not complain. They kindly waited and laughed when all we had to pay is 6 dollars US. On our way back to our hotel, we stopped for 3 GBP meals and enjoyed the rest of our night. We are lucky.
My Broken hand with its most awesome fashion splint, Salt Lake City, Utah
And of course there is an obvious moral to our story: If we remember to stop and pause, maybe we would not miss appointments, break our bones, or hurt so many others. I hope it will stick.
Kyle, Eli & Dave, Sugarhouse Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, August, 2006
A little over ten years ago I blogged daily. With an an average of 20,000 daily readers, I was on my way to becoming a well known public voice. I loved it. In truth, I have always written. Sometimes my writing is sloppy and less polished and other times extensively edited. Regardless, I need to get my words out — always. I journaled as a young girl. I spent hours talking and processing and eventually pouring those thoughts onto the page. In high school, I sought out creative writing classes.
“Write out the garbage.” My teacher, Roman Borgerding, would say, and followed with, “then you will find the beauty.”
Us, Laird Park, Salt Lake City, Utah, July 30, 2006
In college I majored in English, where deconstructing and analyzing poetry and prose was my jam. In fact, I found that I am oddly great at deconstructing poetry. Seriously. I was a little shocked as well. And when I went back to college years later, I eagerly and painfully embraced literary critical theory. At first I thought deconstructing Jane Austen, Ngugi Wa Thiong’o, or Elizabeth Barrett Browning was an extremely self-indulgent endeavor. How can literature change the world? I wondered. Of course my assessment was wrong. Because I am stubborn, it took me a minute to correlate that Jane Austen wrote a template for understanding social class, which I would argue we all try to navigate and make sense of. Ngugi Wa Thiong’o addresses language in how it affects culture, even making some cultures go extinct. Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poem, “The Runaway Slave Girl at Pilgrim’s Point,” the concept of sacrifice, articulating what a mother will do to protect their child. The more I read, wrote, analyzed and deconstructed, the more I saw myself in their words. It was exhilarating and painful. Nevertheless, because I am addicted to the human narrative, I did my senior seminar in memoir writing, which I thought would lead me into perhaps writing a self-indulgent memoir. Nope. Instead, I connected. And through connection, I learned that good stories happen when people allow themselves to be vulnerable. In Joan Didion’s “The Year of Magical Thinking” it was her ability to connect and to show courage when her only daughter died. Her vulnerability was beautiful. Those were the words I wanted to write. She gave me a template for making the uncomfortable beautiful, relatable and clear. Further, then I learned to break down these personal stories and push back with my own. It was invigorating.
Me on the North Shore of Oahu, January, 2014 right before I started classes back at BYU (that’s another awesome story)
Tonight I found one of the first papers I wrote when I returned to school a few years after I took CrazyUs.com offline. The paper is on Ted Hughes’s poem, “Daffodils,” a response to his wife Sylvia Plath’s suicide. Here is first paragraph of my paper:
“As I considered the compilation, “Birthday Letters,” which was released in October, 1998, months before Ted Hughes’ death. As I read the poem, I was also distracted by the noise, and found it easy to get lost in the salacious biographical details of Ted Hughes’ and Sylvia Plath’s life. Instead of doing a close reading of the poem, “Daffodils,” I found it hard not to psychoanalyze the doomed couple, which admittedly made the poet’s literary voice challenging to hear. Whether it is Hughes’ own confused and complicated internal voice creating the noise, or the fascinating biographical details, I would move beyond the critics and argue that a solid literary voice exists, and because the voice is a messy grey, not a solid black and white, it is no less real. I will show that these very details when embraced enable a concrete, informed, and close textual reading of Hughes’ complicated love poem, “Daffodils.’”
Me doing college in 2014, Salt Lake City, Utah
Me on BYU Campus with one of my favorite college buddies, the beautiful, Maddie, Provo, Utah
Yes. Messy and grey. That is one-hundred million percent me. You know what is funny? It never occurred to me at the time that going to back to school and writing all those papers was in fact a search for my own voice. In fact the title of my paper is,
“Ted Hughes, “Daffodils:” Is the Poet’s Voice Lost in The Noise?”
And I would argue that the title of my life could be the same: “Beth Rodgers Adams, “CrazyUs.com:” Is the Blogger’s Voice in Lost in The Noise?”
Um and the answer is, “Yes.”
And since August, 2006 (and really since way before that), I have been trying to be a tree instead of the wind. That being said, do not underestimate the power of the wind.
Us driving through Kalamata, Greece, March, 2016
So here it is: Back in 2006, Dave and I were also in the throes of parenting two extremely entertaining and active little boys. Whether it was telling the world how a two and and a half year old Eli could not go to bed until he told us a joke first, or how a three and a half year old Kyle found a screwdriver and unlocked our bedroom door while yes, Dave and I were having mommy and daddy time [wink, wink]. Children are excellent at giving their parents plenty of material, and Kyle and Eli were no different. And really, whatever the story was, in the early to mid 2000s, I could not wait to tell my internet friends about my new highs and lows, including, but not limited to adventure, heartbreak or hilarious crisis. I love human connections and sharing my life experience online was another most valued outlet.
On an emotional level, I loved seeing my words reflected back through the very personal and insightful experiences others were willing to share. Our online conversations lifted me through the day. The online communities we were creating were a natural progression of in-person relationships. And I was experiencing these connections from my kitchen table. Looking back, those relationships and online communities grew faster than the speed of sound travels. We, the early blog adopters, were navigating and creating a new language and space of our own. It was crazy, terrifying, uncertain and exhilarating.
Kyle behind the 15th & 15th Einstein Bagels, Salt Lake City, Utah, March, 2005Easy E, Maryland, June, 2005
Because the word, “blog,” was still in beta in our collective consciousness, when people asked what I did for a living, I would unsteadily answer,
“I am a writer.”
When they pushed further, I would say,
“I have a blog,” which would inevitably be followed by their long eye roll and my self doubt.
I would try to authorize my space by sharing my credentials such as how Dave and I met in our high tech internet careers. I would always follow with the fact that and even had a blog for our wedding. And,
“We were married in 1998. Crazy!”
Me and Big Daddy, Kellie Castle & Garden, Fife, Scotland, July, 2016
In August 2006, I took my blog down. I went completely dark and walked away from a space I worked very hard to stand in.
There is no other reason than this: I took my blog down because I was afraid.
Kyle & I, The Main Square in Liechtenstein, April, 2017
It took me a long time to see that I did not feel worthy of that space. I did not feel like I earned it. I felt shame. I felt less than. I believed I was unworthy. It took me an even longer time to see that I was not allowing myself to be vulnerable. Sure, I had no problem sharing my stories online. I could talk about other moms and how much they suck. With great and specific detail, I could talk about the bad and sad things that were happening around me. What I could not do is be vulnerable. Simply put, I was terrified committing to the uncomfortable and of standing in my truth. As a result, I felt shame. As a result, I will never know what could have happened. Most of my friends who blogged at the time did make some money and did find careers that were birthed via their blogs. Me, well, I was afraid and I walked away.
Forgiveness and healing took me really far. Standing in my own space was a great push. Ultimately, I truly believe vulnerability is the piece I was missing. I am ten years late, but I am here and I am standing. I am willing to invest and I am committed to sitting in this space, even when it is less than awesome, or no one is here. I reject the wind and will be the tree. I will even try to throw in some courage, authenticity, but mostly I really miss connecting in a space I helped create, and for that, I am sorry.
I am sorry I ran away.
Ran-Tong Save & Rescue Elephant Center, Chiang Mai, Thailand, June, 2016
Remember how we picked the daffodils?
Nobody else remembers, but I remember.
Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy,
Helping the harvest. She has forgotten.
She cannot even remember you. And we sold them.
It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them.
Were we so poor? Old Stoneman, the grocer,
Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot
(It was his last chance,
He would die in the same great freeze as you) ,
He persuaded us. Every Spring
He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen,
‘A custom of the house’.
Besides, we still weren’t sure we wanted to own
Anything. Mainly we were hungry
To convert everything to profit.
Still nomads-still strangers
To our whole possession. The daffodils
Were incidental gilding of the deeds,
Treasure trove. They simply came,
And they kept on coming.
As if not from the sod but falling from heaven.
Our lives were still a raid on our own good luck.
We knew we’d live forever. We had not learned
What a fleeting glance of the everlasting
Daffodils are. Never identified
The nuptial flight of the rarest epherma-
Our own days!
We thought they were a windfall.
Never guessed they were a last blessing.
So we sold them. We worked at selling them
As if employed on somebody else’s
Flower-farm. You bent at it
In the rain of that April-your last April.
We bent there together, among the soft shrieks
Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken
Of their girlish dance-frocks-
Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy,
Opened too early.
We piled their frailty lights on a carpenter’s bench,
Distributed leaves among the dozens-
Buckling blade-leaves, limber, groping for air, zinc-silvered-
Propped their raw butts in bucket water,
Their oval, meaty butts,
And sold them, sevenpence a bunch-
Wind-wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave’s stony cold
As if ice had a breath-
We sold them, to wither.
The crop thickened faster than we could thin it.
Finally, we were overwhelmed
And we lost our wedding-present scissors.
Every March since they have lifted again
Out of the same bulbs, the same
Baby-cries from the thaw,
Ballerinas too early for music, shiverers
In the draughty wings of the year.
On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering
They return to forget you stooping there
Behind the rainy curtains of a dark April,
Snipping their stems.
But somewhere your scissors remember. Wherever they are.
Here somewhere, blades wide open,
April by April
Sinking deeper
Through the sod-an anchor, a cross of rust.
The poem is to Sylvia, about cutting and selling flowers in spring with their daughter, who no longer remembers her mother. The collection broke a 35 year silence on Hughes’ part. It is a response to Wordsworth’s daffodils as well – the kinds of memories the flowers conjure here are less those of solace than treasured, fragile moments. The scissors form a beautiful image of violence and vulnerability.”
