Happy New Year, Happy Birthday, Happy New Digs

My kids got their own rooms for the first time in their lives tonight. Kids in the city don't have their own rooms. It's just not how it's done. No one has enough space. Except the VERY wealthy. And even then, the kids often share because if you have a house in the city, even a really expensive one, there simply aren't enough rooms to go around. But I decided that the room that has been empty (except for the boxes and books and suitcases I've been storing in there) since I moved in a year ago, might be better put to use as Wyatt's first solo bedroom. It's a little cramped. But he loves it.

I think Virgil is pretty pleased with himself to have his own pad as well, on this, the eve of his 11th birthday. How did he get that old? I was in labor at this hour eleven years ago. I'd been married just over a year. I'd been working at Levi's just over a year. My how things change, and don't, all at the same time.

Happy birthday Virgil. Happy new rooms boys. (Check out Wyatt below.) Happy New Year to my Jewish friends. May the year ahead be filled with self-discovery and light. Shana Tova.

What's next?

While I'm encouraged by the fact that the women who were sexually abused by their coach more than 20 years ago have come forward to tell their stories, I'm anxious to see where the conversation goes. It isn't enough to run a few stories that appeal to people's sense of horror and prurient outrage. They have to lead to something. A discussion about why this is prone to happening in the sport, for starters. Some commenters take the position of: well, so what. The percentage of pedophiles in the gym community is the same as the percentage in the general population. To this I say: pishaw. I don't think so. I'll admit, I haven't done a quantitative assessment. But think about it... girls in leotards, trusting of authority, needing to be spotted by eager coaches. Ogling and fondling can be said to be part of the gig. It's no wonder the sport draws some pedophilic men. This isn't to say that they all are. Make no mistake. Most, by a LONG shot, are NOT. But as far as percentages go... I'd be willing to wager that it's higher than the population at large.

More importantly, what is the sport's governing body going to do about it? A list on some website won't be enough. Rules are required. Rules around parents being present, no traveling alone with the girls, a promise to pursue the offenders to the fullest extent of the law. Not just place them on a banned list. And, by the way, the list doesn't prevent coaches from coaching again. There are those that have found their way back into gyms that simply don't give a damn. (I believe part 2 of the OC Register piece will touch upon this very issue.) And there is no punishment for a gym that employs an offender. So what's to stop a guy?

Parents have the final accountability for their children. No doubt. But there should be basic levels of protection afforded to children in educational, developmental and recreational settings. We expect it in the schools. In the pediatrician's office. And in any government sanctioned and/or funded organization. So why not here?

Finally, will anyone ask the question of whether or not the sport creates the conditions for abuse that is more diffuse and widespread - broader and more varied - than sexual abuse? The power dynamic, the youthfulness of the girls, the willingness of the parents to hand over responsibility for the chance at medals, the lack of regulation? There is emotional manipulation and abuse, physical abuse as well as sexual abuse, that has long lasting affects. It is insidious and destructive and absolutely cruel. 

That's the critical conversation to be having. Do these examples represent something bigger and more widespread? What do we as parents, protectors of children in general, expect to happen within sports in general to ensure that our children aren't hurt, abused? Rather they derive the full benefit of sport - healthy bodies and self-esteem. And maybe, just maybe, a medal. And even better, if no medal is at the end of the road, a strong work ethic, a great sense of sportsmanship and an understanding that winning is perhaps, not everything. 

Love the comments

DYNAMICINSIGHT

8:47 AM on September 25, 2011

"It would seem that he really got them to perform at their highest potential. Maybe his techniques work... He did bring us Olympic gold and isn't that more important?"

Yes someone wrote this in response to the story about Don Peters, the former coach of SCATS and the national gymnastics team coach for much of the 1980s (including the 84 Olympics). I'm not sure he/she is serious with this insidious comment. Maybe it is intended to be facetious? I sure hope so. 

Ok I think maybe he/she is kidding. Obviously people can't think that. Right? 

I'm not going to read the gym blogs. 1) I think I am blocked from many of them (or was back when my book came out). Or maybe I'm just too dumb to figure out how to get on (a distinct possibility); 2) I've learned my lesson. It doesn't help to troll the comments. People who write mean-spirited, ignorant things on blogs, people that spew venomous hate blaming children... yes children! ... aren't worth my getting upset. So I won't read what they are saying. About Doe. Or me. Or the other unnamed girls. I know what I've said is true. I know I've spoken up with the truth as the priority because it will be the thing that helps the girls that still do the sport today. It will be the thing that helps the sport itself! But I've always considered Doe in this. Because she needed to tell this story herself. She didn't need me to speak for her (but man how I wanted to over the years). 

There is no money in this for anyone, as some commenters indicate. Gyms don't have money (do they?). There is nothing to be gained. And I don't think these women want anything other than peace of mind. I think they'd like to know that perhaps the USAG will look a little harder at these issues going forward. That a serious conversation will ensue about why these things happen and how the girls who ARE the sport will be protected in the future. 

Teachers leave classroom doors open when talking to students. Pediatricians have the parents in the examining room for the same reason. Coaches aren't governed by anyone or anything. They aren't teachers. There are no rules. The bad ones - and there are A LOT of good ones by the way - do as they please. They find ways to be alone with girls and boys who are unprotected. They exploit the vulnerable whose parents aren't around because they work 3 jobs to pay for life and gymnastics classes. This is what sexual predators do. They hide their predatory behaviors from those who seem risky (meaning: those who might tell) and they corner those who, they believe, won't speak up. They use the power dynamic - and lets face it, young girls are fragile, figuring out who they are, desperate to please, and will do anything to fall into the good graces of a coach/teacher/mentor - to get what they want. They shame the vulnerable. They attack the exposed. 

I am inspired by the courage of the women who finally spoke up after all the years of silence and shame and anger and fear.  These women whose trust in authority was violated. And for whom this must still play a role in their view of themselves.  Kudos to you all. Clear eyes full hearts can't lose.

Now let's start the real conversation about what happens next...

A gymnastics story

An article came out today about the sexual abuse in the sport of gymnastics. The primary story line is about a very close friend of mine, Doe. One of the gentlest, loveliest people I know who has suffered immensely over the years as a result of the abuse that went on in her gym. The sport has been slow to respond to allegations. Protecting "the sport" vs the girls who are the sport.

I feel relieved (and anxious) to see this in print. I suspect hate mail is forthcoming. For me and for Doe and the others who are cited in the piece. In my case, they will state that I'm making these accusations to sell books. Which is so absurd to me. I would have spoken of this more overtly in the book if this were the case. I could have written something salacious and ugly. I could have written of the other abusers I knew to be out there. But I wrote the book to write not to expose anyone or anything. I sold very few and that was just fine. It wasn't the point to begin with.

I was always concerned with my friend since the day she revealed pieces of her story to me. I wrote nothing she wasn't comfortable with (and this is a very small aside in the book), as this was never my story to tell. Despite my anger over the years as she told me of what had happened, I remained supportive of her. I wanted to scream it from the mountain tops. Support for my dear friend took precedence, which perhaps was a mistake. But I felt I'd do her more harm than good if I were to scream about it before she was ready to contend with the fall out, the aggressive questioning. It was a conundrum to be sure but I chose her.

But I do feel guilt. If I'd come forward sooner perhaps there were other girls that would have been saved from abuse at the hands of this man. She was my first concern though. Supporting her, getting her to the point where she felt she could come forward in whatever way she felt comfortable. Even if just to her family.

Love you Doe. I'm awed by your courage.

http://www.ocregister.com/news/peters-318708-yamashiro-gymnastics.html

The end of approval seeking? Sometime?

I had a lovely Sunday with my friend Shannon. Saw a bad chick flick (I don't know how she does it - does Sarah Jessica have only one mode? It was charming as a young New Yorker for a while, now, it's somewhat cloying). And we had a lovely lunch in the Indian summer sun. She seems to find a way of therapizing me - she's a therapist - that isn't too much. Feels like being a friend. But more insight. And there is a kind of professional empathy that goes along with it.

She encouraged me to take this moment - this alone time - and figure out what the hell is wrong with me. She said it nicer than that, of course. Why do I continue to be such a pleaser. Why is it that I can be grateful to be on my own and know in my head (with my brain, not my heart) that my marriage was a match that was doomed, that I felt disrespected and disregarded in; and at the same time, I feel it was my shortcoming ONLY. Somehow. I know that isn't true. I don't feel it though.

I apologize profusely, still. To the sound of silence. No response. Certainly no acknowledgement that we both had a role in the ugliness.

And I continue to seek the approval of others. And the granting of that approval is all the more desirable if they seem unwilling to give it. How fucked up and dumb is that? Yeah it's all cuz of gymnastics. I had coaches that not only withheld approval but aggressively dished out criticism. It was enough just to have the screaming and name calling stop. That felt like endorsement! But really, Jen? You know all of this. And you're not over it? Apparently not.

I do it at work. I chase it. The one guy, the one leader, who won't willingly and cheerfully acknowledge my contributions... well, that's the guy I am desperate to please. And never will. I had one boss, once, that didn't make me chase it. He said up front: You're the best at what you do. You're smart. And I certainly don't want to have to debate you. And then we moved on. We debated, we argued, we agreed... and I never doubted my worth. Now, why I'd debate my worth pending anyone's approval is the real question. But, I needed the confirmation, he granted it and then we moved on. Is it possible to have this in a relationship? I believe so. But not if I keep chasing the bad kinds.

I don't really continually chase them. I chased one. For 16 years. And I still feel tied to him (I am). And I still feel somehow at fault. If I were "better", if I could have "taken" more, wouldn't it all have worked out? At my expense, perhaps, but it would have worked out.

Ok...I know I've said it before. And I'll say it again. Lets do this. Lets stop the approval seeking. Lets work on just approving of myself.  I suppose some therapy is in order. Some more, I should say. And on we go.

Jdate, match.com and growing old

I switched from match.com to jdate.com recently. I've never dated a Jew in my life, despite being one - culturally if not religiously. What does that mean? Well, I like rye bread, empathize with Israel (but not excessively), use Yiddish words sporadically (I'm schvitzing!), love Philip Roth and Woody Allen, never eat mayonnaise with my corned beef, prefer bagels and smoked fish for brunch over most anything and am not ashamed of using the word "intellectual" as a positive attribute to describe those I respect. This might not be the real definition of culturally Jewish but it's mine and I'm sticking to it.

I've always loved a Jewish man. My dad and my brother are both Jewish men and are smart, funny, sarcastic but not debilitatingly so, empathetic, good (make that great) husbands and proud intellectuals who like reading the New Yorker and debating cultural and political issues with gusto. I like these things! One could argue I married a Jewish man in a black man's body. He's neurotic (in a lovable way), can recite Manhattan verbatim, is smart beyond what might be considered even useful. He's got better rhythm and style than some Jewish men, but let's just say he got the best of both worlds. (There's bad stuff in there too, but we're not talking about that just now.) He does like mayonnaise beyond what makes me comfortable and has even been known to use Miracle Whip (egads!) but other than that, he could pass for pretty Jewish. I digress...this is not why I started writing.

I switched to jdate because I thought, in general, the smart factor might be higher here than on match. This is a total prejudice - in a positive way. I doubt Jews are inherently smarter but there is an emphasis placed on education and intellect that perhaps drive a greater comfort with claiming it and a greater intellectual curiosity than the "general market". Maybe not. So what. It's what I assumed.

I have nothing to report yet - no dates as of this Tuesday morning - but I will say this: they believe just as much as Goyim that it is their right to date women MUCH younger than they are the second time around. AHHHH! Really? Because I'm a 42 year old woman probably on the outskirts of being able to have a kid (let alone want to), I should have to date a 65 year old? That is only 3 years younger than my dad, by the way. It's old. Too old for me, I fundamentally believe. We might only have a few years together if it were to work out. The average lifespan for men is what? 72? That would give us 7 years. Just in time for the itch to set in. And I'd have to get past sheer oldness.

I imagine "old" looking when you've grown old together is just fine and dandy. I look at my husband - almost ex - who looks undeniably older than when I met him (gray hair, thinning, gray beard, no belly though) and I don't see old. I see handsome and distinguished. But if I met him now, would I? Maybe. He's pretty handsome. But my point is, you carry the younger man with you in memory as they age, and you can see what they looked like before. This makes meeting later in life challenging. But I think we are fundamentally wired to be attracted to people of the same age. Unless "we" are a man. Apparently.

I am inundated with emails and "flirts" (the jdate equivalent of a match.com "wink" or a facebook "poke") from old dudes. Yikes. And then just this weekend I met the new girlfriend of a guy I know, a guy about my age, and she appeared to be no older than 22. More than 20 years younger than he is. Ahhhh!!! If he thinks he should date her then that means I should date 65! Not gonna do it.

This is the male equivalent of Botox. It is fighting death and aging. The logic (or lack thereof) must be: If I can date someone 20 years younger than myself maybe I'll actually appear 20 years younger. Maybe I'll actually BE 20 years younger. Women pump their faces with poison instead. If I can eliminate "the appearance of fine lines" maybe I'll actually appear younger. Maybe I'll actually BE younger. No you won't. You won't even appear younger. You will appear to be an undignified, ashamed 40-something who isn't comfortable in her own skin, with where she is in the trajectory of her life. You will appear to be a 45 year old woman who gets a lot of Botox. Period.

And gentlemen, you will simply appear to be old men fucking young girls trying to fuck your way back to youth which, I don't need to tell you, is impossible. And she's probably going to want to screw more than you can handle, but of course, I forgot about the little blue pills, so never mind. But you still won't be young. You won't be 20. And you certainly won't have any interesting conversations.

What's the Secret?

One of my least favorite things about California is all the self-helpy bullshit. All of it. EST, Scientology, Hoffman, blah blah blah. And for all their "depth", all the people that I meet that are into this stuff, it's all they can talk about! No other outside interests? How long can one discuss self-discovery? It gets pretty boring (for the listener) after a while. And they are soooo serious and shallowly profound about having found the "secret to life". Phht.

It's not that self-discovery doesn't have value. It does. 100%. OF COURSE. We all need to find our zen, our mojo, our peace. I want nothing more than peace of mind. And I definitely do not have it just yet (I know...who am I to judge those who've found it then?) I just fundamentally believe that I am not going to find it by paying boatloads of cash to some guy who loads us into auditoriums by the thousands, collects our hard earned paychecks and then buys horses and mansions with his loot after spewing shards of half-baked, faux Eastern religion wisdom at us for a few days or hours or months, depending on the program. I think we have to come upon it ourselves. It may take longer, it may be cobbled together from loss and joy and boredom and the beauty of books and words and art, but it's ours and in this, has more profundity. No? I think we can share our insights in bits and pieces and then go on to enjoy the spoils of those insights - LIFE. Life is not talking about how insightful we are. It's laughing. It's playing. Enjoying a beautiful book (that doesn't have a title like "Ten Easy Steps to Happy!") with perfect lovely sentences that move one to the core. It's spending time with our kids, our friends. And yes, it's being lost from time to time. But maintaining a sense of humor through it all.

These people - the seekers, I'll call them - never seem to laugh. Not real hearty belly laughs. They may chuckle. Or smile and say: That's funny. But whole-hearted laughter? Not so much. They live in unfunniness. I don't think they like humor, at all, in fact. Because sometimes humor points out ugly stuff about human nature. About us. Sometimes humor is mean. Sometimes humor isn't joyful. But it's funny. And full-hearted, full-bellied laughter, the kind that makes you weep...well, that's kind of it for me. So if finding dark humor that sheds light on people's worst qualities from time to time (our insecurities, our meanness, our stupidity) is off limits, then spiritual seeking is not for me. For now.

Who knows...maybe one day you'll find me standing shoulder to shoulder with other lost people looking for answers, gobbling up expensive pseudo psychological hocus-pocus thrown at me by some non-doctor who either just wants my money or had a spiritual epiphany of his own after tragedy struck - cancer or divorce or a lifetime of general malaise. But for now, I'm content (well, sometimes not so content) to cry when I'm sad, and watch Louie CK when I need to laugh, or visit with my friend Steve when I need to laugh and cry - all at the same time.

And I think, if I really need it, really need guidance in a group one day, I'm more likely to go the route of traditional religion. It's free. Time tested. And if you pick the right one, there's singing and dancing and happiness that comes with all the guilt and God-fearing. That could work one day. Perhaps...

Hmmm...

Ok that last post sounded bad. Selfish and horrible. Perhaps dating B was just that. Selfish. Not ready. But how to get ready without trying it out? Why did W fall in so quickly? How could he forget so readily? In love already. Just a few months after we split. I'm dating trying to forget and it just makes me remember more.

Men are different. They decide to be done and they are done. And he is done with me. And I can't be done. Not yet. For all the bad stuff, the controlling behaviors, the no you can't do that, that's bad, you're bad, you're competitive and everyone must hate you no vacation no moving no more babies...for all the terrible things I did, the resentment, regret, lying, avoiding, falling falling falling...for all of that...I miss him. His big brain, his laugh, his wryness, his intellect. His face. I miss him.

Pluck Continued...

I acted quickly. My first true act of pluck took place yesterday morning. I think that I behaved with honesty and kindness, but did what I needed to do for me, rather than concerning myself solely with the other person in the equation. I ended a burgeoning relationship. We'd been dating for about 2 months. Generally the unspoken agreement on match.com is that you can just sort of wander away without explanation if things aren't gelling appropriately. But if you're 2 months in, texting and talking on the phone regularly, and the other person is saying things like: "I think I'm falling in love with you" (which I think means he already is but is testing the waters to see what the response might be).... well when all of these things have happened, you have no choice but to perform an actual break up.

I don't think I've ever actually broken up with anyone. Not as an adult anyway. I suppose in high school, I did. Nearly three decades ago I told Jimmy Groeling, my first boyfriend during freshman year in high school, that I wasn't ready for a relationship. That I still preferred hanging out at home with my family on Friday nights over going to keg parties (this is what compromised a "relationship" at Haddonfield High School in 1984). And it was true. I hated going to parties where drunken couples groped each other, lined up 3 or 4 in a row on a couch in someone's basement. It all seemed so gross and terrifying to me. I can only hope against hope that my two boys might feel the same way as they approach 13 (I doubt they will).

During my senior year in high school, I broke up with Mike, a real boyfriend. My first love. That one was tougher. It was a confluence of circumstance that drove me to it. I was falling apart, my gymnastics career careening to a not very graceful or dignified end. My parents not wanting to notice, and continuing to drive me forward to an Olympic spot which was clearly not going to happen. And even though Mike made it all better I just couldn't hold him in my chaotic life. And he cheated. All the time. But I wouldn't have sex with him, holding tightly to my virginity for some hard to classify reason. And because I wouldn't sleep with him I didn't really blame him for sneaking in some nookie on the side. I knew he loved me. He did. But the cheating was an excuse to expel the unmanageable chaos from my life so that I could focus on my failing gymnastics career, my anorexia and my parents who seemed to hate me. Fun. I broke his heart and mine. My first experience with love sickness. No fun.

In college, no boyfriends therefore no break-ups. Post college, no boyfriends. Then I met Winslow. We met, we dated, we moved in, we got married, we had kids. We got divorced. A modern day love story. So I suppose getting divorced counts as a break-up and I initiated it. But it unfolded after years and years of struggle and fighting and counseling. It was the inevitable end. It revealed itself and had to be embodied. I stepped into what was already there. Still, there's no getting around the fact that it was hard. The hardest thing I've ever done. Makes sense that I would avoid doing something similar, though far lighter and less fraught with history (and children).

B was nice. Chivalrous, optimistic, kind. But at the end of the day, it was a cultural mismatch. We don't enjoy the same things. Our senses of humor are severely misaligned. He asked me if I'd ever heard of a cool movie called The Princess Bride. That he'd just seen. (I know that doesn't sound so bad - but having watched it gazillions of times, it seemed indicative of something.) He's never been in love. Does he know how to be? I think maybe he just decided to be and I was in his sights. He locked in. We'd had a conversation recently about heartbreak and lovesickness and he had no idea what I was referring to. Huh? How do you get to be 42 and not know what that is? He didn't really understand how I could be heartbroken over my divorce. He said: well, if you get divorced, I just figure there's a good reason. So it's all ok. No. It's not all ok. It sucks. There may be a million great reasons but IT IS NOT ALL OK. What kind of person would be ok with walking away from 16 years, 2 kids, shared hopes and dreams, a future, without what feels like unmanageable sadness? Not me.

He wasn't the guy. Clearly. I could enumerate the reasons but suffice it to say that he taught me there are kind men in the world who want to take care of women (I don't mean this in a 1950's way, rather in the sense that a person's heart is meant to be cared for). There are men who take a protective stance in a relationship. I like this. But it's not enough to overcome hearts and heads that don't connect. Strangely he felt we were connected, but as I've said, I'm not sure he knows what real connection feels like. When pressed on the heartbreak question, he recanted and said his heart had been broken in 1st grade. True heartbreak, he insisted. No. Sorry. Doesn't count.

I called him. Rather than have him drive all the way over to my place so I could stick a knife in his belly. He said: what do you want to do tomorrow? I said: I don't think we should see each other anymore. It feels too imbalanced. That can't lead anywhere good. I really like you but I'm not going to fall in love.

Silence. And then... "I don't know what to say, but I understand." Or something akin to that. Some chit chat - please stay in touch, lets take a break and let me know if you change your mind. And then goodbye.

And done. I felt awful. But relieved. And sort of empowered that I'd done something for me and hopefully protected him from greater heartbreak in the end. And I felt a sigh of relief to be alone in the world. Again. This made me appreciate single-hood. It's far better than a mismatch. There's peace in it. There are no awkward moments. Or hoping to get out of dates and evenings together so you can watch Louie CK.

Now I just need to get to seeing my ex this way. If I can only feel, really feel, that it is better to be alone, than with him, I will have made some actual progress.

No More Pleasing

I am a pleaser. I can't help it. It's what I do. I seek approval. I do it with a degree of grace and discretion. I'm not crawling on the ground, obviously supplicant, begging for scraps of love. Well maybe I am. My fall back setting is: make others happy. Impress them. Put your own needs second - no make that last - in order to ensure that others approve and feel like their needs are met first. A few examples:

1. My Marriage: I never, not once, said to my husband: get a job. It isn't fair. You need to work. I knew it would hurt him. I knew work was hard for him. Dealing with the world, with corporate America tarnished his pure soul. Mine isn't pure so it's ok for me to sacrifice myself to "the man". But not someone as sensitive and special as he is/was to me. So I slogged. I wanted a break but didn't ask for it. Now I wasn't perfect. My resentment and anger surfaced in ugly ways. But I didn't feel I had the right to say: Go to work. I'd like to take a rest for a while. I just didn't think I deserved it. And I knew I could handle whatever it was that needed to be handled. I buckled down and did it. But not without detriment.

2. Work: There isn't a specific example here. It's the constant petitioning for approbation. Trolling for a pat on the back. For what? I'm an adult. Can't I grant myself "ok status"? I should be able to, I suspect.

3. My Divorce: I still want his approval. Still. I walked out the door, I said "I can't take it anymore!" and yet I still find myself soliciting forgiveness. Big "F" forgiveness (please tell me I'm not horrible for wanting out even though I was passive aggressively shoved out through controlling and obsessive behaviors ; never mind that those who leave aren't forgiven, not ever, so I really should just accept this and stop striving for it. I mean, if you leave, aren't you basically saying: I don't care what you think anymore? No. I realize the answer to that is "No" if you're me.). But also little "f" forgiveness: I couch everything apologetically. "Could I maybe see them early next weekend? I mean, if it's not too much trouble."; "I have to go away for work next week. I am SO sorry. It's the last time I promise." ; "Do you think maybe it would be ok if we maybe possibly traded a day 3 weeks from next Wednesday? If it's not too much trouble and I'm really sorry!" Can't I just ask without acting like I'm asking for his kidney?

This has to stop. No more. Well, maybe some more but I'll work towards no more. Someday. It's going to be a hard habit to break. I've been doing it for almost 40 years. It's pretty firmly ingrained in who I am. A few first steps might include: not dating someone I don't like (yes I do this now to avoid hurting feelings; it doesn't work very well. I hurt their feelings eventually); doing my job and leaving it at work; telling W what I want/need rather than begging forgiveness for it.

This is going to take some real effort. Might be the supreme act of courage in my life. I get all tingly thinking about it. I'm sure it will be liberating, if I can pull it off. Sounds lame to call it "courage". People do really courageous things all the time - things like rescuing people from burning buildings, joining the army, teaching at risk kids in violent drug addled neighborhoods. I don't feel comfortable calling my new outlook courageous. But, given that I'm scared to try it out, it will certainly require a bit of pluck. Yup. That's what this will be. My act of pluck. That sounds better. Pluck sounds fun. It's much less austere than "courage". I can do "pluck". Pluck here I come.