The Taker of Innocence

She stepped on the grass, still moist from the morning dew, the dried leaves beneath her feet made small crunching noises with every step she took. The sky was a majestic blue with a few white clouds and the sun peeking through offering the beginning of the heat that would permeate throughout the day. Dressed in a white and yellow dress, ruffled socks and black patent leather shoes, her hair swept up in two ponytails tied with ribbon, she was the vision of innocence. Led by the hand they continued their walk to their secret place, a place where he would sit her down and tell her how special she was.

His name was Sam and he was her uncle, everyone’s favorite son, brother and best friend. Sam had a charisma about him that melted everyone he met, he could do no wrong and his touch was truly recognized as golden. Nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters, they all adored him and always poured the accolades his way. A sharp dressed man, a connoisseur of all that could be considered the finest, a collector, a giver and a taker.

He took her innocence, that little girl with the ponytails and the wide eyes. Her desire to be loved and shown affection was her downfall. He preyed upon her, showered her with little tokens; he was the big bear of men that always was ready for a hug, a tussling around on the floor, a piggy back ride, a game of hide and seek.

Her mind blocked the beginning of time; she had no recollection as to when it started, but the memory of being under the covers with him as they lay on the sofa in a seemingly adult pose. Like spoons in a drawer they laid side by side, he stroked her hair, her shoulder; slowly his hands moved under the covers and found their way between her legs.

At the age of five she had the knowledge that what was happening was wrong, it felt good, the touching, the closeness, the sweet nothings whispered in her ears. She was beautiful, she was special, she was his favorite, he knew what he was doing, was she his first victim, was someone else before her in the same spot as she was, hearing the same words, being told she was the one, the special one.

As they continued to lay there under the covers they were interrupted, her look at the intruder was one with a plea of help from her round big tear filled eyes. He was commanded to stop and let the girl out from under the covers. SHE knew what HE was doing. SHE knew. And just like that she was rescued from HIM.

A couple of years passed, a call in the middle of the night came with the news that Sam had been killed. That little girl felt a sense of sadness, but beneath that sadness came another feeling, a much stronger feeling. Relief, relief that he would no longer be able to touch her, touch anyone else. That little girl knew she wasn’t the only one; there were other little girls younger than her. She often wondered who else he touched in that special and loving way. She would never know, that was their untold secret.

Her joy at his death cost her dearly, a price she gladly paid with tears. When she was unable or unwilling to show the proper emotion of sadness at his passing she was punished. That big leather strap came at her, not once, not twice, but many times, each time it came in contact with her bottom she was commanded to shed tears, the tears finally came, but not because she was sad. The tears came from the pain being inflicted upon her. And just like that her walk along life as a victim would begin.

~Ruby Cantu

Back-to-School Shopping Lesson

Long before “Tax-Free Weekend” became a component in our Back-To-School ritual, my mother used the August clothes-shopping ritual as an object lesson in fiscal responsibility. This particular lesson was probably the most valuable financial lesson she ever taught me.

I spent most of my time growing up poor. With the few exceptions of particularly lucky years sprinkled throughout my child- and teenager-hood, back-to-school meant endless hours sifting through used clothes at the local Goodwill or Salvation Army supplemented by sifting through trash bags of hand-me-downs my mother would bring home from neighbors/co-workers or my father would pick up near Dumpsters. The vast majority of cash was usually spent on actual school supplies: Paper, pencils, pens, and folders. Even though my mother would stock up on the actual supplies, taking advantage of the once-a-year sales, I often didn’t have the “required” school supplies.

In fact, here’s the 2009-10 list of Eighth Grade school supplies for the district from which I graduated high school, with the items I would not have taken with me marked with *. The bracketed comments are mostly things my mother would say:

2 packages of notebook paper (to be replenished throughout the year)
*6 spiral notebooks [You’ll get one 5-subject and deal with it.]
3 brad folders with pockets
2 pocket folders
*12 pens (to be replenished throughout the year) [You get five, and if lose ‘em, you deal with
it.]
*1 package of highlighters [Use the map pencils.]
*2 packages of map pencils [You only need one, and you don’t need the big
one. Five colors is enough.]
*1 hand-held pencil sharpener [There’s one bolted to the wall in every classroom. Use them.]
*1 personal hand sanitizer [No one outside of the medical community even knew what this meant when I went to school.]
*1 stretchy book cover [Use the ones the school gives out. I don’t care what the list says.]
*1 composition notebook [Here’s another brad folder. Put notebook paper in it. Don’t look at me like that, we are NOT the VanAsterBuilts!]
1 package of graph paper (1/4” quad-ruled)
*1 spiral set of 3x5 index cards [Here’s a rubber band to hold these normal index cards together. You don't need the fancy ones.]

The summer before my Eighth Grade year was happened to be in the middle of a lucky stretch. Both of my parents had decent jobs, and money wasn’t as tight as usual. My mother saved every dime she could for four whole months to give me a great experience: back-to-school shopping for new clothes. New! Hot damn, here we go!

My mom, at the last minute, decided use new clothes shopping as a learning experience. As we sat at the Waffle House across the parking lot from K-Mart, we made a list . . . Shoes, check. Underwear, check. Socks, check. Jeans, check. Shirts, check. Barrettes and ponytail holders, check. Light jacket for fall, check. Backpack, check. Belt, check. Winter coat, hat, gloves? After-Christmas sales.

All set? Good.

Then she handed me what seemed like an un-Godly amount of money and said these words to me . . .

I think you’re old enough to do this on your own. Remember, what you buy now, you’re stuck with for the rest of the year. Be smart. If in doubt, don’t buy it.

I was stunned. I had no idea what to do. I shoved the money in my pocket, keeping it in my fist and my fist buried so deeply in my pocket that I almost pushed my shorts down, as I blindly wandered across the parking lot to the front doors of K-Mart.

What I sight I must’ve been! That I never thought to ask her whether she watched me go and look back two or three times is a shame. She died before I thought to ask.

I’ll spare you the details of a prospective Eighth Grade girl’s first solo shopping expedition. Suffice it to say that by Christmas Break I was crying for a hell of a lot more than just winter gear . . . I’d either not bought enough of one thing, or too much of another, or cheap versions that fell apart or shrank so much as to be unwearable because I had no idea how much I needed of anything or what might constitute a good purchase or a bad one. I bought things that didn’t match, didn’t fit, and didn’t hold out.

By the time my mother asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I’d already been borrowing her socks for two months and had stolen her work-worn oldest jeans, cut them off at the knees, and hemmed them myself. Years before workman-chic became the rage, I’d pulled my dad’s ruined light-blue uniform button-ups out of a trash bag, had a friend draw pictures over the stains (with a black Sharpie, the only kind then!), and covered his company patches and embroidery with music band logos from other people’s torn-up concert t-shirts salvaged from another Dumpster.

Needless to say, all I wanted for Christmas was, “Clothes! And you’re coming this time!” Christmas break was a thrift-store bonanza. And good God, was I was happy for the opportunity. I never went shopping with her again, for anything, without paying close attention and asking so many questions that she would eventually have to give me “The Look” to shut me up.

We didn’t have uniforms in public schools back then, so there was no “financial assistance” to purchase back-to-school clothes during the other years when we really could have used it. I wonder what kind of changes going to “uniform schools” would have made in my life, if any at all

~Riot.Jane

Help Needed

Hello Janes!

As you may have noticed we’re slow lately. Very slow. We need your help to keep going! We need all of you readers out there to send us submissions!

Please, consider writing something up for Jane, send our link to your friends and family and encourage them to do the same. You’re needed to make the Jane Project an active and positive place for women.

The Jane Team

Abuser Psychology?

When it comes to abusive relationships, I think I understand the psychology of the victim, and how the abuser ends up psychologically cornering the victim into not leaving (or delaying leaving).

What I don't understand at all is the psychology of the abuser. Maybe I'm missing the piece of my brain that such behavior appeals to, but I can't understand why abusers do what they do, especially the escalation process.

So, understanding that much of the Jane community has lived and/or researched such things, I address this question to you:

Can someone explain or offer insights into the psychology of the abuser in abusive relationships?

~Jo Jane

And You Thought YOUR Room/Office-mates Are Jackasses!

I'm not really sure who's the bigger jackass on this one . . .

The person who's ignoring the need to clean up after themselves or the one who wrote this note, the likes of which we've ALL had the urge to write at some point . . .

The phrase "Let's call him Frank" has just entered my personal vocabulary as a snarky statement on unhygienic matters such as this.

Here's a hint for SkyNet.

As always, click through for the original, larger version.

~Riot.Jane

The Nature of Jesus and the Point of Christianity

Something that's bugged me on and off for a few years now is a theological question upon which I'd like to receive Jane input . . .

What is the appropriate name/label for someone who generally believes in the teachings of Jesus and tries his best to follow them, but who cannot for the life of himself buy into the physics of the literal Resurrection? Someone who can't bring themselves to believe in the joint divinity/humanity of Jesus, and who thinks the Holy Ghost concept is strictly symbolic?

Since the early followers of Jesus were simply Jews who followed an eccentric Gallilean preacher and the Gnostics (an early Christian sect) thought that God's divinity shone within us all, is it possible to have a modern interpretation of Christianity that does not involve the divinity of or the literal physical resurrection of Jesus?

I've asked this question of intelligent people over the years who are well-educated in at least one Christian denomination (some in several). The interesting answers I've received over the years include:

I don't know what to call him, but he's not Christian. Jesus is nothing if not the Son of God.

An apostle.

The whole point to being a Christian is that your path to Salvation is given, not earned. To profess with your mouth and believe in your heart that Jesus was born in the flesh died on the Cross and, most importantly, rose from the dead to ascend to Heaven to take the right seat next to the Father is Salvation. No man may enter Heaven but by accepting Christ as their Savior, and any other interpretation is disinformation.

We'd probably call him an Episcopalian. ;-) Seriously, such a person technically still wouldn't be any sort of Christian. Belief in the Resurrection of Christ as a historical event is an entry requirement. He'd be closer to some Jewish splinters than a Christian of any sort. If you want big-tent Christianity as a warm fuzzy blanket of humanism and optional belief in the tricky bits, go US Episcopalian, not Anglican.

A secular theological scholar.

Anyone interpreting the teachings of Jesus and the rest of the Bible as simply some sort of New Age-y handbook of how to be a good person or some Ghandi-esqu guru instruction manual about being nice to your fellow man is dramatically misinterpreting the larger point of the Bible. There is no Salvation without the Resurrection. They go hand-in-hand.

An agnostic.

There's always been a healthy amount of room in certain parts of the Church for people who don't eat the dogma right up without a side of crow. I firmly believe that God loves nothing more than a doubter, and it's documented all throughout the Old and New Testaments -- from Job to Doubting Thomas. This is probably where we inherited our very human need to say, "I told you so!"

The very nature of Christianity involves the fact that no other religion has a "risen" Saviour. It is not a "works" based message -- You can't do anything to Save yourself. Only faith in Jesus Christ, who, through the power of God, was raised from the dead, can you be Saved.

I believe there is a higher power that we mere mortals will never understand, but if such power exists, why would it care whether we worship it or not? I do know darn well that whether I am happy / sad / rich / poor has nothing
to do with God.

As you can see, there's a dramatic variance among American Christians (not all do to sectarianism) as to the answer to the root of my above question:

Is it possible to have a modern interpretation of Christianity that does not involve the divinity of or the literal physical resurrection of Jesus?

I'd welcome your interpretations, thoughts, comments, and discussion.

~Riot.Jane

Hair Coloring & a Likely New Use for Chapstick

My current psychology is evident in my hair. It grows longer and then I hack it off with seasonal frequency. Every few months or so I color my hair from a drugstore box of dye. I'm an old pro at dying my own hair, short or long, having done it with varying frequency since I was 14. Some years I'd do it every four-to-six weeks for root touch-ups, other years it would be dramatic color changes every few months.

In high school, my friends called me "Jane of the rainbow hair" because I had below-the-shoulder hair and wouldn't always focus on full-coverage during dramatic color changes. I called my sometimes four-color streaking "trailer highlights." Eventually I cut it all off and died the stubble platinum blonde. I bust out laughing now when I think of it.

Today I colored my hair again. Since I was going darker instead of lighter, I knew I was going to have to circle my hairline and cover my ears with Vaseline so that my skin wouldn't stain. My main irritation with using Vaseline is that it's a bitch to wash off -- I sometimes have to resort to dishwashing liquid to cut through it if I use too much (and I usually use too much because I've seen other women who stained their skin, and it just looks nasty). Needless to say, my face, ears, and neck do not respond well to dishwashing liquid.

The other irritation about using Vaseline is that, when I try to put it around my ears and the sides/back of my neck (i.e. places I can't see), it's difficult to get the Vaseline right up to the hairline and not on the hair. I've screwed it up both ways in the past -- I've had both lines of skin staining and lines of undyed hair around my hairline. Neither is great, but at least I can dye my hair again to fix the undyed hair.

When I bought my box of dye this time, I saw a new product. Called +Repelle, it bills itself as a product that keeps skin-staining from occurring and is very easy to wash off. It was in a small tube, and the instructions were straightforward: Apply it around your hairline and on your ears, color your hair, and wash it off when you wash out the dye. The cost? $5.00 @ CVS. I bought it.

The +Repelle worked as advertised: Easy to apply, easy to wash off, no skin staining.

While I was applying the +Repelle, the idea that it applied like a soft Chapstick occurred to me. That makes sense -- Vaseline, Chapstick, and +Repelle are made of the same sort of stuff (as far as my hair-coloring needs go). I'll use the rest of the stick of +Repelle, and after it's gone, I'll try normal Chapstick heated in a glass of hot water.

After all, a stick of Chapstick is a lot cheaper than +Repelle. :-)

I'm really proud of this find, and I'd love to know about yours. Do you have any tricks, tips, or alternate uses for common items?

~Riot.Jane

ADMINISTRATION NOTE: The Jane Project does not agree with or participate in blogola. Brand names listed in any post are for clarity and information only and should not be considered editorial endorsement.

Woman "Not Guilty" should Son Rise from the Dead

Baltimore, MD -- A former religious cult member has agreed to an unheard-of plea deal: She has plead guilty and will testify against four others in the starving death of her 1-year-old son but reserves the right to rescind her plea if her son rises from the dead.

Ria Ramkissoon, 22, a native of Trinidad, is the prime witness in the Maryland's case against Queen Antoinette, 40, who purportedly lead the now-disbanded One Mind Ministries religious cult out of a Baltimore row house. Prosecutors allege that Antoinette instructed cult members, including Ramkissoon, to deny the child, Javon Thompson, food and water as punishment for the child not saying "Amen."

Prosecutors allege that Antoinette, believing that Ramkissoon would be weak and feed the child or give him water, instructed Javon be given to another cult member who followed her food-and-water-denial instructions. After the eventual death of the child, the cult members prayed over the body and the mother danced around it. When that didn't succeed in raising the child from the dead, two cult members purchased a wheeled suitcase in which to carry the child. Ramkissoon's attorney said that the cult believed that the child could be raised from the dead at a later date if they could carry the body with them. The cult moved to Philadelphia and asked a men they'd befriended there to store their luggage, and police found the body in a shed behind the man's house.

Javon's father, Robert Thompson, did not attend the plea agreement hearing due to illness, and is reported to have been incarcerated at the time of Javon's birth. Court documents indicate that Ramkissoon joined One Mind Ministries after Javon's birth. Ramkissoon left her parent's home with her 7-month old son, joined the cult, and moved into their house at the age of 19 because (according to her attorney) she didn't want to work or go to school but wanted to raise her son full-time, in Christianity, and the cult offered her this opportunity. At the time that Ramkissoon joined the cult, it had approximately a dozen members. Reportedly within the cult, cell 'phones and discussion of one's family were banned and marijuana smoking was common.

Prosecutors are charging Antoinette and three other cult members with child abuse resulting in death and first-degree murder. In a March 30 hearing, Ramkissoon plead guilty to the first charge (abuse/death) and agreed that she will testify truthfully against the other four. Should this occur, the prosecutor's office will recommend sentencing comprised of release from jail, a suspended 20-year sentence, five years probation requiring mental health assistance (including "deprogramming" treatment with a specialist in cult behavior). Sentencing is currently sheduled for August 11.

A prosecutor's office spokeswoman said that, regarding the child rising from the dead, the fine print of the plea agreement states, "This would need to be a Jesus-like resurrection. It cannot be a reincarnation in another object or animal."

"She [Ramkissoon] certainly recognizes that her omissions caused the death of her son," Ramkissoon's attorney said. "To this day, she believes it was God's will and he will be resurrected and this will all take care of itself. She realizes if she's wrong, then everyone has to take responsibility ... and if she's wrong, then she's a failure as a mother and the worst thing imaginable has happened. I don't think that, mentally, she's ready to accept that."

Ramkissoon's attorney also said,

"On one level, she certainly is competent to stand trial, because she does recognize that as far as her legal entanglements are concerned, this is a grand-slam resolution for her. On the other hand, she's still brainwashed, she's still delusional as far as the teachings and influence of this cult, and she certainly is going to benefit with professional help and deprogramming."

The current disposition of the four other charged cult members: (Leader) Antoinette, Trevia Williams, and Marcus Cobbs are currently incarcerated without bail. Steven Bynum is, for some reason, free on his own recognizance.

Source documents available for review.

~Riot.Jane

Now I can Say Nothing

First, they came for the "child molesters," but I was not a child molester. So I said nothing.

Then, they came for the "terrorists," but I was not a terrorist. So I said nothing.

Next, they came for the "conservatives," but I was not a conservative. So I said nothing.

Finally, they came for the "middle class," and I found that I am middle class. Now I can say nothing.

~Riot.Jane

Sudanese Women Flogged for Wearing Pants!

KHARTOUM, SUDAN -- Journalist Lubna Ahmed al-Hussein was one of 13 women arrested in a restaurant for wearing trousers this past Monday. The usual Sharia punishment for wearing "indecent" dress is 40 lashes. 10 of the 13 women plead guilty and agreed to accept a 10-lash punishment quickly in order to resolve the situation quickly, the three others are fighting the charges.

Khartoum, in northern Sudan, is ruled by Sharia (Islamic) law. Southern Sudan is not. Sharia law is not supposed to apply to non-Muslims, but the public order police nonetheless arrested the women in a restaurant that is popular with foreigners and journalists.

"I was wearing trousers and a blouse and the 10 girls who were lashed were wearing like me, there was no difference," she told the BBC's Arabic service, "I didn't do anything wrong."

Al-Hussein and the other two women who contacted lawyers instead of pleading guilty are awaiting their fates. Al-Hussein has printed and sent invitations to public officials and other press representatives to attend the expected trial in order to publicize the wrongdoing.

~Riot.Jane

After the Rain

I am not a feminist. I have no problems with feminism, it's just a little rigid for me. I have always admired feminists, and have no problems with them, but I believe that I'm more for equality across the bored . . . except for assholes . . . but I digress. Not. A. Feminist. I just wanted that out of the way.

So, you won't be too disappointed in me when I say that I'm lonely. I'm not alone at all, and I have plenty of companionship, but I am lonely for a husband . . . or maybe an ideal . . . I'm not really sure. Let me tell you a story:

A long time ago, I fell in Love. I'm not capitalizing it out of some sappy ideal or stupid unrealistic idea about life, I was actually head over heels, having serious co-dependency issues, goofy in Love. He was The One, my everything. Problem was, he only loved me, and, therefore, he could live without me. Too many years have passed for me to untangle his motives out of all that, suffice to say that he was resolute enough in his beliefs that he ended it despite my begging him not to.

I fell apart a whole lot. I don't know what I would have done if a friend hadn't taken me in. I found that I tend to hyper-focus on lyrics* when I'm upset. I remember really agonizing over some doozies like:

Well, I guess you left me with some feathers in my hand
Did it make you any easier to just leave me where I stand?

or

If I could be with you again,
I would fall all over you like rain

or

You look like shit, what's your problem bitch?
Your legs feel like sandpaper, you can't do anything right

Cheerful stuff, right? Let's just say that I was a wee bit bitter. Regardless, the lyrics from one song really stick out in my memory from this period:

Stay by my side,
Stay here forever,
I'll be your heart of hearts,
You'll be my spring.
Don't you leave me alone,
Don't you leave me forsaken,
To hold you tonight, I would give anything

The song, by a band called Celtic Thunder, really captured my confusion, indignation and desperation. Over and over I listened to that song, to the point where I have it memorized backward and forward. I got even more indignant, I moved on and I built myself a life, brick by brick, with the help of my family and friends.

Fast forward a decade, and there was a tragedy. Most of those that I grew up calling family disappeared out of greed or cowardice; I don't know which to apply, and I don't care, the ones that count stuck around. I found myself longing to start a family of my own, to find a partner, and have some rug rats to give me gray hairs.

It's harder than it sounds, but I'm trying to figure it out bit by bit. The first step is getting over this concept of "one and only." That's when the last and most important verse of the song popped unbidden into my mind:

They say that true love comes once and once only,
And the way lover's start is the way they'll remain,
But I've got my eyes open,
In my heart I'm still hopin',
That the sun shines the brightest after the rain

I hope that's the truth, partially because I'm lonely, partially because I'm lazy, and partially because I really love kids, and would love to have a whole bushel of them. I just have to make some room, but that's do-able. Wish me luck.

~Lolly "Just Found the Sun" Pop

*Song lyrics were from memory, but they were, in order, Angels of the Silences by The Counting Crows, Mandocello by Concrete Blonde, That Day by Poe, and After the Rain by Celtic Thunder. I have no right to these songs, nor affiliation with the artists, just a deep and abiding appreciation for a good turn of phrase.

This Week's WTF Moment

I bring to your attention (and hope for you discussion!) this StrangeNews tidbit from the St. Petersburg Times:

TREASURE ISLAND — A woman has been arrested after accosting her live-in
boyfriend with a pink sex toy.

Kimberly Lynn Calvert, 45, [address redacted], was arrested Wednesday on a charge of simple battery.

Police say an intoxicated Calvert first yelled at John Anthony Gonzales,
with whom she has been living for five months, then "began poking" him "in the
groin area multiple times" with the sex toy.

Gonzalez called 911.

Is it possible for a woman to demand "Pay more attention!" any more strongly than poking him in the groin with her dildo? Why did he feel the need to call 911 for being poked? Poked!

And WTF is the reason for printing their complete address, including apartment number? The only purpose I can see is to shame her (or him, or both).

~Riot.Jane

Hush Child, or We’ll All Be Killed (updated)

We are thankful for the effort that two Janes expended to collaboratively create the following contribution. The opeing paragraph (in italics) is a foreword from the Janes themselves.

<--->

This is a story of a life with an alcoholic father. It is a combination of many womens’ stories. It is more frequent than we like to admit. My friend Rhonda and I worked on this together. We consider it the first of many memories coming from many women’s lives. We will continue to share these stories as time permits… Please read them and comment.

<--->

"Hush Child, or We’ll All Be Killed"


DEEANNNAAA! BAM! BAM! BAM!! OPEN THIS DOOR!!!!

Suddenly the tranquility of the afternoon at my grandparents' house erupts into a nightmare again. My father begins to beat his mother's front door violently with his. I believe the whole thing is, at any minute, about to come crashing in he is striking it so hard. All of us - my whole family, brothers, sister, mother - petrified inside. My grandparents run wildly, securing additional doors and windows to prevent another way in. A familiar drill. Familiar, but no less terrifying.

“He’s drunk again” the grown ones whisper. He’s drunk again. Oh God…

BITCH!!!!! SLUT!!!!!!! WHORE!!!!!!! WHO HAVE YOU BEEN FUCKING BEHIND MY BACK!!!!!!!

My three tender years of experience cannot understand what "Johnnie’s drunk again" means really. What I do understand is that Daddy being "drunk again" means violence. It means my mother being mercilessly beaten for imagined crimes against him. It means police and hospitals; and oceans and oceans of tears. In the aftermath comes the strange silence where no one speaks of it. All pretending the nightmare events of "Johnnie being drunk again" never occur. Daddy himself sheepish, or disappearing all together. Mother battered, bruised, weeping, and the family gathered in strange silent vigil.

BAM! BAM! … DDDDEEEEEEAAAAAANNNNAAA!!! YOU BITCH!!!! BAM! BAM!!BAM!!! I HATE YOU, YOU BITCH!!! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!!!!!!


“He’s got a gun!” my grandfather shouts from the door. “Johnnie!” my brave Papa shouts, “put that gun away! I’m calling the police! You aint comin’ in here drunk!”

FUCK HER!!!! I AM GOING TO KILL THAT BITCH!!!!! BAM! BAM!! BAM!!!

I wet my pants. I begin to scream. My Grand-Mama grabs me up and whisks me to a closet under the stairs. She crawls to the very back with me and covers us with blankets in the pitch black. “No matter what, Lucy, you stay here. Don’t you move” she commands me. “Grand-Mama loves you. You stay here no matter what happens. Hush child, or we’ll all be killed”.

DEAAANNNNAAAA!!! BITCH!!! YOU SLUT!!!! YOU COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW OR I’LL KILL EVERYBODY!!! BAM! BAM! BAM!!!!!

Grand-Mama tries to remove me from her arms so she can leave to help, but I cling to her, deeply afraid. The blackness of the closet eats away at my sanity. Her breath comes fast and hard. I could smell the terror on her skin, in her sweat. Rivers of it ran off her trembling body. Rivers of sweat ran off mine. I hear her fright in her quavering, unreal voice. I hear mine in my own helpless whimpering. There is more shouting from my father … more hammering at the door, more filthy yelling from the yard, straight into my Mama’s heart.

DEEEAAANNNAAA!!! BITCH!!! YOU SLUT!!!!I AM COMING IN THERE AND I AM GOING TO BEAT THE CRAP OUT IF YOU!!! I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!!! BAM! BAM! BAM!!!!!

BAM!!! BAMBAMMBAMBAMMMBAAAAMMMM!!!!!!!!!

BIIIIIIITTTTTTTTCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!

I bury my head deep into my grandmother’s breast in the darkness. We cling together, she and I, lost in fear. The frantic running of feet up the stairs. My Mama? My brothers and sister? Were they going to hide like me and my Grand-Mama? My Papa, was he hiding them safely away, as I was hidden? Would he stay with them and keep them safe? Why did Daddy do this? I weep silently remembering my Grand-Mama’s warning. I listen intently to all the terrible noises. I will not make a sound so Grand-Mama will not be killed. So my family will not be killed.

BAMMMMBAMMMBBBBAAAMMMM!!! DEEEEAAAANNNNNNNNNAAAA! COME OUT HERE YOU BITCH SO I CAN SHOOT YOUR STUPID HEAD OFFFFF!!!!!!!!

Silently tears flow from my Grand-Mama heart onto my head, they Baptise me in her pain. They stream down my face mixing with my own. Our fear, our pain, our love is one. She is me and I am her and I can’t separate the two of us. My heart/her heart hammering in my chest, my breath/her breath is too fast …We are nauseated, we are dizzy, we are petrified. Sirens wail coming closer and closer.

BITCH!!!! BITCH!!! BAM!!!!!! BAMMMM!!!!! BAM!!! BAM!!!!! BAMMMM!

CRACK!!!!

HE’S INSIDE!!!!! HE IS INSIDE!!!!!

Terrified screams erupt from deep within the house!!! Is it my mother? Is it my sister? Is it all of us? Someone is being killed! I begin to scream hysterically in response. "He is killing us! Heiskillingusheiskillingus!!!" My mind is lost in the overwhelming fear. My head is spinning out of control and suddenly all goes blank.

I wake in my grandmother’s bed to the smells of dinner. I hear the hushed voices of my family. It’s over I thought, we are all here, all safe now. Was it real? Was it a dream? It didn’t matter, because in my family, we don’t speak of it. Don’t remember it. IT isn’t real if we don’t acknowledge it. He has not killed us …… Hush child, or we’ll all be killed.

Or maybe we are already dead.

~Barbara Rhyne-Tucker (writer)
~Rhonda McLearen (editor)

Sexist Vintage Advertisements

I've assembled a collection of sexist vintage advertisements as part social commentary, part US sociological history lesson for your consideration and discussion.
Sexist Retro Ads
Interspersed amongst the vintage advertisements are instructions (we've called them "Wifely Notes") from the 1963 book Fascinating Womanhood by Helen B. Andelin. The sources used to compile the presentation are attributed and linked on the last slide.

Looking forward to a lively discussion! ;-)

~Riot.Jane

Help with Container Gardening?

Having moved closer to the city, I no longer have a yard to plant in. I don’t feel like this should limit my ability to grow the plants that I want. I am currently starting a quest to grow a garden all within pots. I have read up a little on the Internet on how to go about this, but all the different varieties of plants and “rules” were kind of bogging me down. My goal is to have a veggie garden that I can use to make great salads and also to share extras with my friends.

I really, really love tomatoes! Big ones, little ones, I like them all! So, I have started out my garden in a pot with a tomato plant and 2 bell pepper plants.

You can buy plants at almost any store now it seems. Grocery stores, home improvement, discount stores, all carry a variety of plants. How do I choose the right one? Look for the words, petite, patio, husky, etc. More varieties of veggies that will grow well while pot bound are being created all the time. Make sure you have the correct lighting for it. If you live in a really shady area, be sure that the plants that you are selecting work well in the shade.

What are the watering requirements? One big problem that I am having right now is that it is so hot! I usually water my plants in the evening in hopes that all the water won’t evaporate off before they even get to drink it. With temperatures reaching 100 degrees or more, it is really difficult to keep my plants from looking like they are about to die. Unhealthy plants don’t produce flowers or fruit.

This is what I have learned so far. The experiment continues. I welcome any suggestions that you might have to improve my garden in pots. :) Hopefully, soon, I will be telling you about the “fruits” of my labors.

~SunnyDay

Operation Beauty

I've discovered another (in addition to TJP) community blog I'd like to share: Operation Beautiful

Operation Beautiful's mission is to leave positive messages on the mirrors of womens' public bathrooms "at work, at the gym, at the grocery store. [...] Whatever comes to mind — “You are beautiful!” or “You are amazing just the way you are!” [...] Maybe some people read them and just smile, but I bet some people are truly touched by the effort of a random stranger."

Over time, readers have begun leaving notes in more places than the original public bathroom -- Cancer ward gift shops selling wigs, drug store Alli displays, elevators, grocery store SlimFast cases, menus, subways, gas pumps, et cetera.

Those of us who have found such notes, left such notes, or otherwise been touched by the Operation are encouraged to send snapshots and comments or stories to Caitlin, the blog owner, for posting on the blog.

While the messages do blend into obsequiousness when read one-after-another in a long stream of self-help book personal reaffirmation, the idea behind Operation Beauty is indeed worthy, especially for those who have a Karmic view of the world and an overriding sense of "Things happen for a reason."

Do yourself a favor: try not to view Operation Beauty for very long at a sitting, try not to read too many pictures in a row. Much like a fine single-malt Scotch, while valuable, this blog is best sipped.

~Riot.Jane

Follow-Up: For Want of Selfishness

As some of you may know, I contributed an article called "For the Want of Selfishness" in early June. I was amazed at the amount of support that I received at the time, and it really helped to bolster me through some really crappy times. Thank you, all of you.

The odd thing is that I took away an affirmation ("You like me! You really do!"), but none of the absolutely fantastic advice that you all gave. It was really odd to me that that occurred.

People ended up in hospitals. I ended up complicating my life even more. I dropped out of my latest class (but not ouf of school). I did all the work until I couldn't even move any longer, and resented it the entire time. Through all of this, I carried your encouragement next to my heart.

I did do something selfish in all of that - I dropped the class. I got tired of the bullying and sarcastic teacher (I use that term lightly, as he would rather mock than teach). I had a major project due Tuesday morning, and gave up about 3am. I texted my mother with something along the lines of "I think I failed this class, I'm sorry. I'll pay you back soon" - 'soon' because I hadn't figured out HOW yet; the entire reason that she paid for the last class is because I'm not getting overtime at work right now.

Anyway, she called two minutes later, and I never thought to ask her what she was doing up. I sat and cried and listened to her tell me for over an hour how absolutely proud she is of me, and how much of an inspiration I am to her. She told me that I had never failed her, since every investment she's ever made in me has been repaid tenfold, and that my brother and I are the hardest working and most driven people that she's ever met in her life.

WOW.

I felt like a million bucks after that. I felt like a work of art, shaped out of the words of my family, my friends and you.

So, ladies, let me tell you: I may not see your work, but I am SO glad that you are out there doing it. I am very proud to be posting here, and I want to hear what you've done lately. Something that you're SUPER proud of that maybe no one noticed? Or you already got praised for it, but it didn't get the attention it deserved. I don't care if you think it's silly, I want to see it in the comments.

This is supposed to be a place that we honestly communicate, and it's a place to rally together against adversity, but I think it should also be a place to CELEBRATE EACH OTHER. Leave your accomplishments below, and tell your fellow commenters what you think about their accomplishments. I'll check back soon; don't make me come over there to motivate you :-D

~Lolly "In Distinguished Company" Pop

Happy Independence Day!

A Woman's Way Through the Twelve Steps

“A Woman’s Way Through the Twelve Steps”

Essay: Describe Myself as Sane

Step Two

“Came to Believe That a Power Greater Than Ourselves Could Restore Us to Sanity”

The question is “When you think of yourself as “restored to sanity” what picture of yourself comes to mind?

There are several view points from which I could approach this question. From what perception am I taking this snap-shot? Is it a physical vision of my future and my station in it? Or is it a state of being or an approach to life? Is it asking how do I look to others or a dissertation of my desired future worldly successes? Is it a feeling? Is it self-love? Is it what I offer to others? Is it all these things?

This brings me to the first part of the second step “Came to believe that a power greater than myself” My first inclination is to be defensive (imagine that!) and argue I do not need to come to believe, I already do. The challenge here is to admit that although I believe I do not continue “to believe” on a daily basis. My God declares I AM and he not simply who I wish Him to be. I do not have a God-du-jour, God-in-a-box, Santa-God or God-as-I-See-Him (which is only me playing God again!) or my favorite, The-God-Of-My-Own-Understanding (isn’t “my own understanding” how I ended up doing this work book in the first place?). Mine is the One True God. My God declares I AM and he is not simply who I wish Him to be. Only when I can embrace the truth on a daily basis will I allow God to kill that old man habit of only “believing” after some self-inflicted catastrophe levels me. To Yahweh Elohim I must turn. To Him I must trade my will for His.

Here’s the second part of step two: “could restore us”. I know that God could restore me. But I am not since I have never been sane…to restore me, to return to me a grant me my previous condition is still casting me into insanity. I have always been insane. I will need to reword this to “could give me”.....there.....now that make sense to me.

“What is “sanity”? It is defined as “the state of being sane; soundness of mind, good judgment, reason, rationality, sensibility, reasonableness”. I am asking myself “How will I know when I have it?” How will I know when I am ‘in the state of being sane? See this is always the problem, when I am in my insanity I don’t feel insane! It is only after the fact, when things are once again quiet that I look back and say “boy was that crazy!”, or perhaps better put “boy, am I crazy!” Even though I do not always recognize when I am shifting from the world of sanity into the desperations of insanity I know I must be able to discern these changes. In my case, my very life depends on it.

Sanity some-times me when I some-time God. Mine is a spiritual malady so I must look to very core of my being. God is my creator and it is from him that I am. Every creation flows from the heart of The Creator. All expressions of my life, everything it bears, spiritual, mental, psychological, relational and physical all begin here and my inward worth and outward expressions all come from this. My usefulness to God, myself and others all begins here.
The question is “When you think of yourself as “restored to sanity” what picture of yourself comes to mind? : For me I guess it is when I willing turn to God on a daily basis and allow Him to reveal areas in which I am operating out of my insanity and letting Him teach me His ways.

~Barbara Rhyne-Tucker

Administration Note

One half of the brain trust that administers this website will be indisposed with personal business for the next couple of weeks. That leaves one of us moderating, editing, and posting. Please be patient during this time if updates are a little slow as a result.

We're out of submissions right now, so please, submit. Dig around the dusty corners of your memory sticks and hard drives, blow the bunnies off things you already have, and send them in. Look at past posts and find one that you feel strongly about and submit a companion/rebuttal piece. If there's something you have a question about and would like to see discussed, submit it! Be sure to use the submission links in the left navigation bar instead of sending to one of us directly.

The field is wide open, this canvas is yours, the power of TJP originates with you, Dear Reader.