What Almost Happened to Me, Too

How to know who or what to believe has been in our national consciousness a lot these past couple of weeks. It feels as if we’re standing alongside Pilate when he asked Jesus, “What is truth?”

Here is my truth.

My “what-almost-happened-yet-thankfully-didn’t” incident happened during my freshman year at Davidson College in 1980. A freshman guy had invited me for a ride in his sports car, although taking me whizzing through the Appalachian foothills was not the way to my prone-to-motion-sickness heart. He seemed nice, so I invited him to a mixer that my hall was hosting a couple of weeks later. 

At the mixer that night, he was a different person. He kept putting his hands all over me while we stood talking to other people on my hall. Having someone constantly touching my back, butt, and breasts was annoying and embarrassing. I nudged him away. I elbowed him away. I would take his hand and remove it from my body, and he would put it right back. All while we were standing and talking to other people. Finally, I got tired of it and, for the only time in my life, resorted a lie so common it was trite: “I have a headache. Good night.” I walked back down the hall to my dorm room, leaving all of my hallmates and the loud party behind in the lounge.

Although I’ve forgotten many details of that evening, what happened next stands out in precise, specific clarity. I walked into my dorm room and stood there with my back to the door, my head in my hands. I said out loud, “What just happened?” And I heard a voice behind me. “I didn’t get a goodnight kiss.” “Fine,” I said out loud, and, as I turned to face him, I finished the sentence internally, “anything to get this date over with.” We kissed, me halfheartedly, and him with increasing energy. I moved away slightly, signaling the end of the kiss. He pressed his mouth harder against mine. I pushed away less subtly, and the pressure of his mouth increased. I tried to use my arms to push away from him. He pinned my arms and kept kissing with greater intensity. I was having trouble breathing, and I struggled, worried that I might pass out. Finally, he took his mouth off of mine.

I inhaled a deep breath of air and gasped, “Stop!”

He said, “No.”

I remember the cold chill of terror that coursed through my system when I heard him say that one word. I did the math quickly. He was much stronger than I was, and I had already proven I was unable to fight him off. Every one of the girls who lived on my hall was at the mixer, and my room was at the far end of the hall. There was no one who would hear me yell for help.

I kept fighting against him as he kept kissing his way down my body. Suddenly, and I will never know why, he let go, dropping me onto the floor. He stood over me and smirked before turning and walking out. I got up and ran to the door, locking it behind him. That night, I told my roommate and other girls on the hall.

Point #1: To whom else would I have reported what almost happened? I counted my lucky stars that “nothing” happened to me. Would I have contacted campus security, or his football coach, to report that he seemed to be about to rape me but then stopped? I imagine the coach might have praised him, “Way to go, son, for stopping when you did.”

My story continued.

At Davidson, the dorms are mostly in one part of campus, and the classroom buildings are in the main quadrangle. As a result, students tended to walk en masse along the same path to class. The following week, I was walking to class when he came up behind me, putting his arm around my shoulder. I elbowed him hard and ran ahead to walk the rest of the way in safety with a group of friends.

Shortly after that, he called me to invite me to Midwinters, one of three formal weekends Davidson hosted. I was shocked that he thought I would go out with him again. After all, his final image of me from our date would have been me lying on the floor where he dropped me as he strode out the door.  I told him I wouldn’t go to Midwinters with him since I already had another date, which I did.

Point #2: What I experienced as a terrifying “almost date rape,” he experienced as “a date.” It didn’t even register to him that what he had done would have any impact on me and my willingness to go out with him again.

One of my friends on my freshman hall called me a little while later. She told me, breathlessly, that he had been so despondent over my refusal that he had driven off in his sports car. She asked me to join the search party and was surprised when I declined.

She knew what he had done to me. Somehow, she didn’t understand that, although I didn’t wish him ill, my participation in his life ended the moment I locked the door of my dorm room behind him.

Point #3: Just because you’re a woman doesn’t mean you aren’t a product of the same culture. It can be complicated to disentangle ourselves from it.

He did, by the way, return to his dorm safely that afternoon. And, thankfully, I never spoke to him or saw him again.

Point #2, reprised. My distress came from attempted date rape. His despondency came from being turned down for a second date.  Our different vantage points in terms of power and gender created entirely different responses to the same event.

So why tell my story now? After all of these years, I really am fine. This experience was one more thing that helped me to recognize the good, kind man that I met and married a few years later. Right now, though, many people of good faith from throughout the political spectrum are trying to know what to believe. I wish that I could have begun my story by saying, “You’ll probably never believe what happened to me,” and that people would have found my story unbelievable, not because I was one more woman telling a story of violence that has become all too common, but because we lived in an era when such behavior was inexcusable. What if we found such stories unbelievable because we lived in a time when young men were taught that “stop” was not a challenge but a mandate? We’re not there yet, but I believe it’s worth it to try to get us a little closer to that vision.

And so I’m allowing you to know about this thing that almost happened to me. Add my voice to the voices you’ve heard. And dream and pray along with me for a day when such an experience will be truly beyond belief.

In spite of everything, I will continue to baptize girl babies...

(Note: The following post is very Methodist-centric. If that's not your particular flavor of faith, feel free to pass this one by.)

In spite of everything, I will continue to baptize girl babies with the same fierce and persistent hope with which I baptize boy babies. It has always been an awe-inspiring thing to use a splash of water to say to the world, “God loves and claims this child even before this child can speak a word.” The crazy-abundant-amazingness of God’s love is seen nowhere more vividly than in the act of infant baptism.

And, in spite of everything, I will continue to baptize girl babies with fierce and persistent hope.

The “everything” of which I speak is, of course, this week’s news that one in three United Methodists at Annual Conferences around the world were unable to bring themselves to agree with the statement, “men and women are of equal value in the eyes of God,” and that the church should “seek to eliminate discrimination against women and girls, whether in organizations or in individuals, in every facet of its life and in society at large.” And likewise, one in three couldn’t agree with the radical notion that, in addition to our current prohibitions against discrimination based on race, color, national origin and economic condition, we would not discriminate based on gender, ability, age or marital status.  These are church people we are talking about, my church people, and one in three just couldn’t bring themselves to agree with these notions. Therefore these two amendments to the Constitution of the United Methodist Church, my church, failed.

In spite of everything, I refuse to give up my fierce and persistent hope.

I have experienced hope through strong voices of affirmation seeking to speak into the despair that this vote engendered. Our women bishops banded together to write a statement, which was immediately affirmed by the entire College of Bishops. My bishop and my district superintendent, both males, have offered statements in support of women. The United Methodist Women, those faithful foot soldiers of every United Methodist Church ever, have voiced their own disappointment and hope. The outspoken support of these allies offers precious hope in these days.

Some have wondered “how can this be?” Others have thought aloud that this problem of misogyny (for is there really any other word for it?) is distant, part of the worldwide church connection, and not consistent with how we operate on a local church level.

I hold onto my fierce and persistent hope, even as I, along with other clergywomen, know exactly how this can be, and even though we have lived with its effects in our local churches.

I hold onto a fierce and persistent hope that, if a girl baby that I baptize should choose to go into ministry, the day will come when she might not hear the longing spoken aloud for “a male presence in the pulpit.” She might not have to figure out how to discreetly (or blatantly) remove parishoners’ hands from her breasts or butt. She might not receive death threats because she is female and clergy. No, my hope is that she will be free to live fully into her blessed calling. 

After all, if I didn’t believe those things about her, then how could I baptize her? How could I tell her that she’s now part of Jesus’ family, the same Jesus who was known to spend time with women throughout his ministry, the same Jesus who appeared first to the women after his death and resurrection? How could I welcome her into the church envisioned by Paul, who told us that there was neither male nor female, because we are all one in Christ Jesus our Lord? 

My hope, in all its ferocity and persistence, began in my own baptismal moment, when I died and was raised again with Christ. And it was made for moments exactly like these. Perhaps one in three Annual Conference members of United Methodism around the world can take away my right to full inclusion in our Constitution. But they cannot take away my hope. It is too fierce, too persistent, and too hard-fought to let go of now. Especially not now.

And so I’ll hold these words from Romans 15:13 closer than ever: “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.”

“I want you to know that’s not who I am.”

I was running errands on my day off when I went into a franchise of a national brand to research (and possibly make) a major purchase. My post-workout self, in gym clothes and no makeup, made the greeting of the guy behind the front desk of “Hey, Greg, a pretty lady here to see you” both ironic and, of course, mildly insulting. Perhaps he always greets the men that come in with, “Hey, Greg, a cute gentleman here to see you.” 

As I sat waiting for my salesman to get something from the back, the guy at the front desk yelled to the other (all male) salesforce, “Hey, listen to this. Someone’s calling me from Texas.” He put the call on speakerphone and began speaking quite loudly to this spam phone caller.

I dislike junk phone calls as much as anyone, and so, since I was in direct line of sight and easy hearing range, I listened with everyone else in the room to see what would happen next. What happened was that the guy behind the front desk described in graphic, violent, sexual detail, using vulgar language, precisely what he hoped would happen to the caller. And to the caller’s hypothetical 9-year-old daughter. The guy at the front desk was loud, and everyone else in the room laughed along long after the call ended. My middle-aged preacher self was clearly visible to everyone, but no one looked my direction as they drifted away.

I was sickened by what I had just heard. I considered walking out at that moment, but there were reasons for me to pursue this purchase from this place. My salesman came back, not having heard any of this exchange. I filled him in on what had been said, and he assured me that it was a family-owned business. It didn’t take long for me to realize that I could not support this business with my purchasing dollars, no matter how inconvenient or costly it might be for me to go elsewhere. On my way out, I sought out the person whose name was on the top of building and had to be content with leaving a message.

I heard first from the man who had spoken so vulgarly. He said that he was calling me because my salesman told that I wanted an apology. In his attempt at an apology, he said, “That isn’t who I am.”

I heard next from the manager. “We’re a family-owned business. That isn’t who we are.” 

Actually, yes. Yes it is who you are.

Who you are is how you act when it’s just “the guys” or “the girls.” Who you are is how you act when the only customer around is one middle-aged woman in sweats. As a business, who you are is how all of your salespeople act when they’re talking together, with or without customers around. That company’s problem is much bigger than one lost sale. Their greater problem is having a company culture that thinks that is okay to have that type of phone call loudly in the middle of the office with everyone joining in and laughing. Seriously, could you imagine that happening in your own workplace? 

I’ve been thinking about what happened last Friday a lot. I wish I could wash his words out of my ears, but I can’t. I wish it wouldn’t be harder now to pursue my purchase, but it will be. I wish I didn’t have to spend time and energy considering how high up the corporate food chain I should share my experience, since another “hey, pretty lady” came in while I was leaving. 

It’s also made me think about my own faith life. I realize how many times I act in ways that may not represent who I like to think that I am. No, you won’t find me recommending anatomically impossible sex acts to random spam callers in a public (or private) place. But I’ve certainly got my own stuff. I can become impatient. I’m quick to judge others. My feelings can get hurt way too easily. There are times when I think back on a certain time and think, “That’s not who I am.” But it is. If it wasn’t, I wouldn’t have acted that way.

Who am I? When it comes down to it, I’m just one more flawed and frail human whose meaning and hope come from Someone far beyond herself. Some days, I represent Jesus really well, and other days I’m sure I don’t. I’m not yet ready to admit that I’ve got more in common with that guy at the front desk than not (certainly, I at least have better judgment than he does), but the truth of it is that none of us gets through this life on our own merits. It always and only is about God’s grace and love for us as the bunch of sinners that we are. 

Yep, one more sinner redeemed by God’s love. That’s who I am.