One Powerful Voice – Thank You Dr. Ford

Christine Balsey Ford slipped out of Washington after her testimony. I presume she went somewhere to be safely obscured from prying eyes and dangerous threats. Wherever she is, I hope she feels safe. In the face of her life’s upheaval and a likely uncertain future for her. I hope she feels relief in telling her story.

Although the nah-sayers and bullies grabbed the megaphone to taunt her and despite the outcome in the Senate, I hope she heard the voices crying out “You are heard.”

I hope she feels some peace knowing with one powerful voice. . .

SHE. WAS. HEARD.

I do hope she is finding some peace where ever she is, but I must admit, I am not writing this pseudo-open-letter for her. I am writing this for me. A melancholy seized me this past three weeks.

Dr. Ford left an indelible impression. Not just on me.

I hear her voice echo in the conversations over coffee, in my stories at my writing group, in the posts on social media, in the text messages with friends. People, mostly women, recount their own sexual assault experiences. Where details of rapes, sexual assaults and near misses are seared into details that women share. They may not remember some of the external details, but what they do remember is the fear, the pain, the humiliation and the anger. They remember the moment the act went from panic to violation.

“I believe her because I believe myself,” rises a chorus of voices.

And here, with words, I try to sort out what is overwhelming me. As I felt the blanket of melancholy wrap itself around me, I started wondering why I was so deeply wounded by this chorus of voices.

I thought to myself, “I have not been sexually assaulted.”

Bullshit.

Scratch that. It is a lie.

In high school and college, there were times when I have “given in” to sex because I knew it was inevitable whether I wanted to or not. I’ve said to myself, “Just get this over with, so I can get on with my life.” Then, I later shamed myself for “letting that happen.” Was it sexual assault? No. Did I feel like I had ownership of my body? No. So, I built a thick skin and got on with my life.

As a waitress in a bar, I was groped while on the job. Hands up shirts, on asses and tits, and down pants were “part of the job”. I didn’t want to risk my job or my tips. Back then, no one would have cheered if I had been this waitress body slamming a dude for any of that stuff. I figured putting up and even playing along with it made me tougher and stronger. So, I built a thick skin and got on with my life.

I once finished an impressive engineering presentation. When I returned to my seat a colleague, a peer, a man wearing a tie and a pressed shirt, leaned over to me and in broad daylight at a professional meeting, he winked at me and said, “I got a hard-on after watching that.” I told myself, he was impressed with my intelligence and it was my brains turned him on. So, I built a thick skin and got on with my life.

Time and again, I built a thick skin and got on with my life.

Externally, that thick skin is a strong, self-possessed confident women who owns her sexuality and makes no apologies for the things I’ve done. It is who I want the world to see.

Internally, I have felt shameful, weak, cowardly… helpless. I have felt inadequate. And these feelings have weighed heavy on me.

The thickness of my skin feels both burdensome and insufficient. It can neither protect me or contain me. It is fake and overwrought.

So, I shed my thick skin and I add my voice to the chorus.

A Chorus of Powerful Voices. Thank you, Dr. Ford.