The Undercover Introvert

On Doublespeak & Raising Daughters

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The Orwellian way we raise girls — the words we use, how we prepare, warn, and terrify them — upholds each and every component of toxic masculinity.

I say this as a single mother of a daughter, as a perpetrator, and as a recipient of such words, preparations, warnings, and terror. And even in mid conversation with my kid throughout the years, I fully understood how fucked up my words were, but I also fully understood how completely the world was on fire, and that my primary responsibility was to make sure my child wasn’t burned to a crisp the moment she leapt from the nest of my embrace and into the world, her eyes on the horizon, excited to fly solo.

Don’t get me wrong, my daughter and I had all kinds of conversations, and we talked about systemic sexism, the insidiousness of rape culture, and how women had an inherent right to bodily autonomy in all spheres of public and private life. But we still had so many of the other types of conversations — about not being out alone late at night, about not getting too drunk at parties, about not leaving her drink unattended at said parties, about showing up with her squad of girlfriends and leaving with every single one of them, about how I’d pick her up anywhere, no questions asked, if she was messed up (or not) and felt unsafe.

I’d start by saying something along the lines of: you are not responsible for some asshole taking advantage of you and then get into the nitty gritty of how she could avoid putting herself in situations that might increase the chances of rape. The delicate doublespeak of mothering girls. This isn’t your faultcoupled with but here’s how you can avoid the vulnerability in the first place.

I fucking hate the reality of what it means to be a woman in this country. Knowing that at any time, some guy could decide he wants to put something in my drink. Or physically overpower me. Or get me so wasted I can’t say no or fight him off. Or break into my house at night to stand over the sleeping shape of me before striking. These are the scenarios that were placed in my head as a young girl, not just by my mother, but by every adult woman, every movie, every TV show, every news program broadcasting sorry tales of unlucky females who didn’t better protect themselves.

Women are in perpetual danger everywhere we go, and the opposite sex is the culprit. Will the guy you decide to go out with on Friday night ultimately turn out to be as nice as he seems at school? Or, once he has you alone in his car, his house, his friend’s basement, will he refuse to take no for an answer? These are the calculations that go on inside a woman’s head from the moment she begins to see the world clearly for what it is: an involuntary guessing game that runs from cradle to grave, and the prize is never being raped. Or not getting raped again.

Not guessing correctly can be dangerous.

Not guessing correctly can be fatal.

Can I trust him?

Should I walk the few blocks home alone after dark?

Is another drink wise?

Am I safe alone with this guy? Where are the exits?

I like this dress, but is it too short? Does it send the wrong message?

These calculations, this guessing game none of us asked to play, is utter bullshit. I hate it. And yet, I made sure my daughter knew how to make split second educated guesses. I made sure she understood the rules. I passed down the toxicity that was passed down to me.

What other choice did I have?

I couldn’t very well pretend as though my kid, by virtue of being mine, would magically be exempt from the way things are. It doesn’t mean I’m accepting the status quo, but while I do my best to tear down the motherfucking patriarchy, I had to prepare her before she stepped foot out of my house. I had to keep up the doublespeak — you can do and be whatever the hell you want in this world together with keep a lookout in the parking lot and make a fist around your keys so you can strike once and run — because if I didn’t hammer the warnings into her skull, who would?

We mothers of daughters act in good faith, but the tools at our disposal — the careful, desperate, conspiratorial words — uphold toxic masculinity at the same time we busily work to dismantle it.

One step forward, three steps back.

I told my daughter I’d believe her, no matter what an assailant told her in the brutal minutes, hours, or days she was victimized. That she could come to me. That boys should be taught not to rape, not to take advantage of an intoxicated woman, that girls don’t owe them their time, their bodies, their attention.

But I buttressed every feminist affirmation with warnings, shoring up her safety, though the knot in my chest, in my stomach, never unraveled. I worry for her, walking around in this world. But I worry for myself too, of what could happen at anytime and in any place. I worry about friends who take what I was raised to believe are unnecessary risks — going home with someone she just met, traveling long distances alone, wanting to stay at a party when the group has decided to call it a night. Women are raised to worry, to assess potential risks in seconds, to take full responsibility for whatever happens to them if they fail at the guessing game.

How do you change a society built for men? How do you alter the rules for a game you’re playing against your will? How do you shift a narrative that forever places women in the wrong when tragedy befalls them? How do you balance fostering your daughter’s magnificently rebellious spirit with the all consuming need to keep her safe? Will there ever be a time when we can stop worrying for our basic safety? Stop checking the locks at night? Leave our keys in our purses on the walk to the car after dark instead of positioning them between our knuckles, our tense bodies anticipating an attack?

I repeat the words, the warnings, the secrets to staying safe as many times as my daughter will listen, and then again. The knot in my chest tightens, my heart breaking a little more with each word. Because there is no magic to staying safe. There is nothing that can be done to safeguard ourselves from sexual violence, not really. Until we alter the culture, the game, the narrative, the way we raise both boys and girls, nothing will change.

Motherhood is a sword that only cuts one way. You open your wrists, that vital warmth leaving you in a rush as you work to raise them in a manner that eventually eliminates their dependence on you. Worry is omnipresent, an heirloom that just keeps getting passed down from mothers to daughters. But we see it now. That makes a difference, right? Please tell me it makes a difference.

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Let’s Talk About Consent, Baby

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What comes to mind when you hear the word consent? A man and a woman on the precipice of having sex? Him asking, are you okay with this? and her saying yes? Or maybe not really saying yes, but meaning yes? Because, in this culture, the lack of a definitive no is considered a yes. Hell, sometimes a no that isn’t forceful enough is considered a yes. The ever shifting guidelines are murky at best.

The problem with the concept of consent is that we don’t teach the full range of what the word actually means, only the most extreme example, and in a way that skews the reality of real world examples. We should rewind, talk about the basics, and drill them into kids the moment they start to understand the meaning behind words and how those meanings apply to everyday life.

Let’s start with a basic definition. Dictionary.com defines consent as: permission, approval, or agreement; compliance; acquiescence.

Simple, right?

Then, why the fuss over the concept? Why the perpetual confusion over what does and doesn’t indicate consent?

Well, by narrowing our collective focus to sex acts that occur between willing partners, or aggressors and victims, we fail to teach children the depth of meaning contained within the word. Because consent isn’t just about sex. It’s about leaving people the fuck alone if they want to be left alone. It’s about respecting a person’s autonomy over their own time, body, and choices.

These kinds of lessons should start early if we want them to stick. When Grandma comes over and wants to give little Susie a hug, allow little Susie the freedom to decide whether or not she actually wants to be hugged. Forcing kids into situations in which they are touched without their enthusiastic consent only lays the groundwork for future breaches of their bodily autonomy. Though girls are often treated as society’s mobile petting zoos (the amount of times I’m touched, uninvited, in a day is staggering, and pregnant women are like community property), this lesson is just as important for boys to learn. No one should be subject to unwanted touching, nor should they touch others without an unequivocal invitation.

But it goes beyond just touching. Kids should know that they don’t have to give of their time and energy unless they choose to do so. What does that mean? So glad you asked.

In public, men will often start talking to me as though they have a right to my thoughts and feelings, asking personal questions and invading my physical space as they wait for answers. These inquiries fall well outside the realm of friendly small talk. What the hell kind of nerve must you possess to demand another person smile? Or ask that other person why she doesn’t seem happier? Why she’s so dressed up? Where she’s going? Etcetera.

Think of how quickly society would change if we taught little girls that their time was a valuable possession they could spend or keep to themselves as they liked. Think of how the world might shift if we taught little boys that they had no inherent claim on a girl’s time simply on the basis of their biological sex. If we taught kids that they controlled how their bodies moved through the world, as well as the conditions in which others could touch their bodies. If we bred respect instead of constrictive gender roles that nourish toxic masculinity and the heightened sense of alarm that is so closely intertwined with what it means to be female in America.

I’ve had my time stolen, wrenched from my hands when all I wanted to do was venture out in public, safely ensconced within my own head, pondering any number of things. I’ve been touched by men without my consent, shrugging out from under the unwanted weight of muscular arms, or stepping back to stay safely out of hands’ reach, lest my proximity indicate tacit agreement to being touched again. And again.

And some of those overly demanding men — complete strangers — haven’t taken too kindly to my refusal to answer their rapid fire questions, to give freely of my time and attention. Some have seemed annoyed by my obvious discomfort at their unwanted physical contact. I’ve watched for those men as I moved through whatever public space I was inhabiting, trying to avoid another encounter. As I walked out to the parking lot, keys fitted between my tense knuckles, I fully expected them to spring from behind a car, grimly determined to seize what had earlier eluded them. I wondered what might happen when, one day, my no, my complete lack of consent to give of my time and access to my person, would not be accepted.

What then?

So, I like to imagine instead a world where little boys learn to keep their goddamned hands to themselves. To mind their own business. A world in which girls are empowered by the knowledge that they own their bodies, their time, their rich inner lives, and they don’t owe anyone access. Because when half of the population is vulnerable and at risk, mostly from the other half of that same population, it infects everything, and no one is healthy. We can be islands unto ourselves if we like. Or we can consent to allow a ship to dock at our rocky shores. The choice should be ours alone.

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Women: We’re (Not) Frauds with a Capital F

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There’s a kind of Orwellian doublespeak that festers in the dark, hidden crevices inside a woman’s head, a persistent message that underscores everything she does, from girlhood to her elder years. This doublespeak creates a situation in which she finds herself living in two separate realities that should be mutually exclusive but, somehow, coexist like host and parasite. In one reality, she’s wholly able to acknowledge that she’s intelligent, capable, innovative, thoughtful, a good parent, a good daughter, and an overall delightful human being. Yet, because of the existence of that other reality, she’s plagued with doubts about her abilities, her intelligence, her goodness, and is certain that, eventually, everyone will see her for what she is: an absolute fraud.

On the whole, I’ve done moderately well throughout my life. Good grades in school that earned a full scholarship to college, where I also performed well. Decent jobs where I received promotions and regularly took on additional responsibilities, including training coworkers and overseeing large projects. A bright daughter on whom I doted. My present career where, for the first time in my life, I find myself doing work that I actually enjoy a great deal.

And, yet, those pesky ink-black doubts persist…

Not that this is anything new. I’ve always felt less than sure about my footing, even when the more logical part of my brain tells me I’m standing in just the right place, sometimes even the best place. And these feelings of inadequacy don’t stem from a parent who was critical to the point of cruelty. Or sustained bullying in school. Or an ex who chipped away at my self-confidence until only a shivering skeleton of the person I had been remained. Overt outside judgment has very little to do with the blossoming of this doubt. Funnily enough, if anything, the external feedback I’ve received over my lifetime has been consistently positive, which only seems to make things worse, deepening the rising dread that I’ll eventually be found out, exposed, and then what?

This brand of trouble starts and ends inside my own head, where that opposite-facing commentary runs along doggedly for however long I’m awake, the criticisms and self reflection cripplingly intense. I am a master at taking my own inventory, at receiving compliments and finding a way to twist them into criticisms, at wondering just how long it will be before someone figures out my long game and exposes me for exactly what I am.

A fraud.

If only you could be seen for what you really are, that nasty bitch snarls from the comfy nest she’s built inside the shadowy, inaccessible area near the back of my skull. People wouldn’t be so quick with the compliments, now would they?

Before I can respond, that howling dread metastasizes, and the bitch continues, throwing poison tipped knives that hit extremely close to home.

Not a good enough mother: your daughter was the last one waiting at pickup, WTAF?

Not smart enough to pursue this particular degree: you might be doing fine in class, for now, but how many times did it take you to read through this analysis before you finally understood it?

Not working hard enough to deserve this promotion: there’s no way in hell you’ll be able to handle all of this extra responsibility. Good luck getting fired!

Not a decent human being in any way, shape, or form: good god, if ANYONE could tap into some of the commentary running through your head, you’d be ostracized, blacklisted, and held up as a cautionary tale for impressionable children.

Here’s the thing: fuck that bitch.

I’m far from perfect, but I know I’m not a fraud. I’m damned smart (and modest, can’t you tell?). I work hard, and that’s really the key to all of my successes, large, small, and in between. If a situation needs some elbow grease, I just so happen to carry an extra large can of WD40 in my purse and I’m prepared to grease away. I gauran-damned-tee you won’t outwork me, and I’m fan-fucking-tastically quick on my feet. Put me in a corner, and I’ll come up with a way out of it. Give me a problem to solve, a tight deadline, an impenetrable text that needs deciphering. I. Am. Here. For. It.

So, why the persistent black cloud of doubt traveling over my head, ready to spill rain on every single one of my flashy parades? Why do I listen to the nasty bitch in my head? Why does she wield so much power?

Welp, little girls are born into a society that values them less than it values little boys, that teaches them to keep their options narrowed so they’re still well within range of the realm of home and family, that informs them they just aren’t great at things like math, science, leadership, sports, and the like. Those little girls eat up all that garbage, and that just so happens to be the kind of cuisine that best feeds the nasty bitch setting up shop inside their heads, infecting their every move with doubt.

Are you sure you should tell everyone your opinion? What if you’re wrong?

No one will like you if you run for Student Body President. Leave that to one of the boys.

Awfully bossy and full of yourself, aren’t you?

College, sure, but this degree will put you waaaaaaay out of your depth, sweetheart.

And on, and on, and on, the bullshit piling up as the years proceed.

Even in these more ‘enlightened’ times, the inequities persist, and we internalize the hell out of them, ladies.

I’ve watched men to which the label of ‘mediocre’ would be an overstatement of their actual abilities conduct themselves with rock solid confidence as they bumble through life, pulling a reverse King Midas as they turn all they touch into complete shit. These men are routinely rewarded by society and called leaders. They certainly receive higher salaries than the more accomplished and better prepared women around them.

The game is unfair, the playing field far from level, the rules rigged in favor of anything masculine, deck upon deck stacked against us. So, what’s a woman to do?

Glad you asked.

First order of business: punch that nasty bitch in the throat whenever she dares to whisper those untruths at inopportune moments. You don’t need that shit. She’ll STFU if you hit her often enough. It’s gonna take time, though, so don’t give up after the first thousand hits.

Second order of business: ask yourself WWMWMD?

What would mediocre white man do?

It’s a valid question, because these are the fellas who can best skate through life by virtue of their sex and skin color, gliding over paths made just for them, usually on the backs of people of color and women. These are the guys who breeze in late, interrupting your presentation to ask a question you already covered in the beginning. When you make a suggestion, no one hears it, but when MWM repeats what you just said, everyone claps him on the back for his originality and ability to problem solve. Also, he’s your boss! Or, he answers to you yet makes more than you do. MWM never worries about reading the assignment before monopolizing the conversation during the philosophical seminar. Waiting one’s turn is for other, less white, less male rule-following suckers. He has things to say! He’s the fella who takes all the credit for the preparation and sweat equity you put into the project to make sure it’s a success. Only 20% qualified for the position? MWM will apply for it anyway and actually get the job! Meanwhile, you’re taking online leadership courses, learning the second language the position suggested applicants know, and not lying on your resume…oh, you’re also seething with soul-destroying rage at this guy’s audacity, as well as his consistent, inexplicable success despite obvious incompetence.

You aren’t going to beat the mediocre white men rocketing through life on hopes, prayers, and a kickass combination of white male privilege — this is his game, after all. But you can join him by asking yourself: WWMWMD?

He wouldn’t let doubts keep him from reaching for stars he has no business even craning his neck to stare at. He leaps first, looks later, or not at all. Not qualified for the job? Who the fuck cares? That’s what learning while doing is for. Or, better, delegating it to a lower level employee and then taking the credit. I don’t suggest being an asshole to reach your goals, but do try on some of that mediocre white male confidence for yourself. It feels pretty damned good. And after walking around encased in it for a while, you’ll find yourself making it much more than you’re faking it.

This was a lesson I finally learned the hard way last year, surrounded by men who should have known better than I did based on length of experience but didn’t actually appear to. It suddenly dawned on me: I can do this better than they can, yet I’m letting the nasty bitch inside my head hold me back. I’m competent, hardworking, intelligent, and tired of putting up with this absolute shitshow. Thus, WWMWMD? was born.

Go ahead, ladies, drape yourself in that unearned, audaciously scintillating confidence, and stride into any situation life presents as though you own the place. You might feel like a sheep among wolves at first. But I guarantee you that wearing that rich, warm coat of stolen fur will quickly turn you into a wolf yourself. And then? Sky’s the limit.

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Sexism 101: the Benevolent Misogynist

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Women have a strange relationship with compliments, mostly because so many come unsolicited from strange men whenever we venture out in public. But there are other kinds of compliments that are more backhanded than creepy, and the men offering them aren’t the folks you might expect. These guys respect their mothers, love their daughters, and would take a bullet for their sisters, wife, or girlfriend. Oftentimes, these are men we know and with whom we have close relationships. We love them and they love us…but they are also perpetrators of the deepest, most insidious brand of sexism.

These men are products of a society that forever tilts in favor of the masculine. They are raised to respect women while also reinforcing a women’s biological limitations. They are well versed in gender roles, and the sexism they exhibit upholds and validates those societal norms, taught from cradle to grave, to all children, regardless of race or socioeconomic background.

This kind of sexism works like a lullaby. We walk through life hearing this soothing music, and it doesn’t occur to us until much later that there might be a problem with the underlying melody…if it ever occurs to us at all. Many of us simply internalize the music and it provides the persistent soundtrack to all of our life decisions and movements in the world.

The benevolent misogynist, always marching to the beat of this insidious tune, delivers his gentle oppression by way of a complement:

Women are just natural born nurturers.

That seems like a harmless observation, right? Maybe even a good thing? But let’s unpack the statement.

What roles do nurturers play in our society? They typically concern themselves with the raising and teaching of children. They take care of elderly relatives. They nurse folks back to health. Most importantly, they remain in positions devoid of power while others take care of running the world.

Think about it.

What kinds of ‘compliments’ have you heard about women’s perceived skill sets in the past?

Women are better at raising children.

Women are the backbone of the family.

Women are better at managing a household.

There is nothing inherently wrong with these statements. But, beneath the sparkly pink veneer, they perpetuate stereotypes about women and their so-called limitations. They turn a weakness into a seeming strength, creating a gilded cage that doesn’t simply keep women from rising too high in society, but actually keeps them from wanting to escape the cage in the first place. The cage is good, because women are just the kinds of creatures that must be contained and, therefore, thrive in such places.

Women are biologically equipped to birth children, but that doesn’t mean they should be the sole source of childrearing. As a group, women have come a long way in the last 50 years, but society still expects them to be the primary caretaker of home and family. Wanting more is seen as odd — a woman woefully outside of her element.

Men who reinforce these stereotypes are part of the problem, whether they intended to hold women back or not. Misogyny is systemic, y’all, which means it underpins every institution in American society. We’re all raised with sexist ideas about gender roles and what men and women can and can’t do. And not just can and can’t do, but should and shouldn’t do. Despite the advances in the workplace, things still look like the 1950s inside the home, with women doing the majority of the heavy lifting even if they are employed elsewhere full time. As with most forms of widespread oppression, these kinds of stale ideas hold back both women and men.

Benevolent misogynists seem supportive, and they probably think they are supportive, but they are actively upholding outdated stereotypes about ability on the basis of gender that put unnecessary limits on the women around them. When a man tells a woman she shouldn’t seek full time employment outside the home because he can’t soothe their child as well as she can, that’s not a compliment. It’s a way of keeping her wings clipped, but nicely, so she might not even notice she’s lost the ability to fly.

Socialization plays a huge part in this, and we’re all victims of it as well as perpetrators. Step one is to stop listening to the lullaby. Wake up and be intentional in your words and actions. And never accept a boundary masquerading as a compliment, no matter how nicely it’s offered.

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Why She Waited So Long to Report

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The short answer? She didn’t.

Growing up, I had a creepy, handsy cross country coach who made all the girls on the team uncomfortable. For months, we all talked about it, but no one did anything. I told friends and the boys on the team. Finally, I went to my mother. We ended up talking to the vice principal who made it clear this wasn’t anything he cared about. The coach was only removed from the team after massive, prolonged pushback from my mother. If not for that, he’d have continued to coach our team for the remainder of the season. He still coached the girls basketball team in the winter, though, and also stayed on as a special ed teacher until, years later, he was caught abusing one of his students.

Here’s the thing, besides this article and one other I wrote about this asshole, I haven’t spoken much about this incident, or any of the other men who have made me uncomfortable or touched me when I gave them no permission. But I can guarantee you that if I saw one of these fuckers running for political office or up for a Supreme Court appointment, I’d be on the phone to any media outlet who would listen. I would shout what happened from the rooftops. And people hearing my story would likely wonder:

This was years ago. Why did she wait so long to report?

Well, I didn’t. I just happened to be born female in a world that neither values women and girls nor believes their claims of assault, cruelty, or rape when reported.

I can’t count the times a friend has told me about an incident in confidence that ends with: I told my mother/father/uncle/aunt/friend/teacher and wasn’t believed.

It happens ALL THE TIME.

And sometimes you are believed, but you’re shamed into not telling anyone else. Think of his family. His future. Are you sure you didn’t ask for it? Were you drinking? What were you wearing? Did you say no forcefully enough? And on and on.

The grown ass vice principal sat across from 16 year old me and had the balls to tell me he hugged students all the time after I told him this coach continued to touch me after I asked him repeatedly to stop. I don’t know what I would have done if I’d gone to my mother and she hadn’t believed me. Or, worse, if she’d believed me but told me it was no big deal. Actually, I do know what I would have done — I’d have sucked it up and let it go.

And that’s society’s message to women and girls: suck it up and let it go. It’s not a big deal. Boys will be boys. Locker room talk. He’s only pushing you because he likes you. Over and over again from cradle to grave. Women are discounted and their experiences minimized. We’re told to be grateful for male attention, no matter the form, no matter how unwanted.

So, I don’t ask what took so long for a woman to come forward. I know that, in some way not evident to the general public, she already told her story to someone. Not every unwanted ass slap and rape attempt results in a criminal conviction or police report. For some reason, we as a society equate that to the objective fact of the incident’s occurrence. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. These things happen every day, and no one is brought to justice. No one is prosecuted. Women and girls suck it up. They let it go.

The next time you start to wonder aloud about why a woman waited five, ten, or twenty years to report an assault, just STFO instead. Because speaking up is hard when you live in a culture working every day to silence you. Talking becomes a revolutionary act, and the punishment for opening your mouth is severe. Remember that before you heap on scorn and disbelief. Just listen. Hear her. And believe her.

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