The #MeToo Guys

"I said if love has these conditions
I don't understand those songs you love
She said this is not a love song
This isn't fantasy-land
Don't go too far..."

–Rush, Cold Fire

In that moment, all I could think about were the times I pushed myself on another woman. Not physically, thank goodness, but emotionally, yes. Plus, the pining that followed when I was left with nothing consensual; when I was left with nothing but rejection. Every single time a memory of a little self-inflicted cut that healed still left its scar. The scar of how I dealt with it and her, more than being told no. The difference between fantasy and reality.

"I remember every time I went too far," I said aloud.

"Me too," one of my friends said.

"So, both of you tell me," I asked two of my friends. "You both have daughters. Have you talked with them about consent? Especially when they were teenagers?"

Both friends nodded and said yes they had.

"Thank you," I said, thinking of my own daughters, almost 9 and 11. "No means no. And yes when changed to no means no."

"That's why I'm never running for office," one friend said.

We just nodded. The hormonal rage of teenage angst doesn't stop when we hit 18. Sometimes we keep making the same mistakes as adults, with too much emotional subjectivity in our decision making.

Our discussion then devolved into a circular argument about when we grew up, it was a different time, and these things happened. But every generation grows up in a different time, and these things still always happen.

The last time I got together with my friend of 40+ years, we'd had discussions about the #MeToo movement, patriarchy and the damage that too many men, especially white men of privilege, have wrought on society, women, children and other men of varying backgrounds and ethnicities.

And yet, it's still been hard for us to unravel from the rationale that "we just can't do or say anything anymore," that we'll be next on the empowered female super bullet train out to the boonies to be ostracized and left for dead.

But that's not really true. We can do better by our children, though, both girls and boys, because girls can and do make ill-fated emotional decisions as well, consensual or not. There are guidelines for us all to teach and to follow. We're in this together, to be better together.

There's a simple Kidpower message that states:

Each of us has the right to be treated with safety and respect and the responsibility to act safely and respectfully towards ourselves and others.

My wife works at Kidpower, teaching kids, teens and adults safety skills. I'm also a Kidpower padded instructor who teaches self-defense skills.

In a previous post, I shared that one of the many Kidpower instructors I admire (besides my wife, of course) inspired me with this analogy:

When we're literally on fire, we're taught to -- Stop, Drop and Roll -- to extinguish the fire.

But why are we on fire in the first place? What happened to cause the fire? What things can we do to prevent these fires in the future? To make ourselves safer? To make our families safer? To make our communities safer?

Self-defense skills are important, but consent even more so and so important to teach our children. And our teens and even us as adults, but we should definitely start with our children.

According to Kidpower, children can start to learn the following boundaries and safety rules to ensure positive consent for touch, games, and affection as soon as they can talk, and these rules stay relevant throughout their lives:

Touch or games for play, teasing, and affection should be:

1. Safe so that no one gets hurt
2. OK with Each Person so that each person says “yes” (people who are scared, sick, drunk, or otherwise impaired cannot say yes; people who say yes without enthusiasm, or while turning away are not saying yes…)
3. Allowed by the adults in charge
4. Not a secret so Others Can Know, because abusive behavior thrives in secrecy

Having skills for protecting and respecting healthy boundaries in daily activities starting as a child is essential to preventing sexual abuse and assault, and ensuring consent in sexual activities as adults.

I had such a good time with my friends. We only see each other once or twice a year, and the fact that we've known each other for decades, and even through all our mistakes, we all want to do better, to be better men, husbands and fathers. And especially for those of us with children, we have and want to instill the values of personal responsibility and consent. We are the #MeToo guys, and I want my daughters to know that there are men young and old who can, will and are doing better when it comes to consent, safety and respect.


Other past posts about these friends of mine:

• Men of a Women's Age
• Men of a Consequential Age
• Grown Men Friends and Fathers
• Like Men Knowingly Bound to Their Future
• Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work
• Men of An Unremarkable Age

The League of Extraordinary B-hives

The exchange of sweet energy; the push and the pull of awakening and awareness; the symbiotic competition, collaboration and elevation -- all these things that we witness in the blossoming flowerbeds of the B-hive.

All these things the Mama and I witness within the love between two sisters, our daughters, the B's. The elder B will be four years old soon and the younger B will be two soon. Extraordinary girls who will hopefully become extraordinary women someday, women who will have each other's backs, as well as other women (and men), in a world that still defines women as subpar by a subset of their demeaning male counterparts.

I'm not just talking about economic, political and religious inequality for women, and all in between. I'm also talking about blatant, hateful violence against women.

The statistics are staggering. The United Nations estimates that 1 billion women will be raped and sexually brutalized this year, often as a consequence of war. Humanity still isn't all that humane when it comes to women, the mothers of our children, and anyone else we don't like or want on our block.

Thankfully there are groups like the League of Extraordinary Women -- an "interconnected group of executives, philanthropists, entrepreneurs, artists, government officials, and academics is formulating groundbreaking initiatives and hacking long-outdated aid models by tapping new thinking and a growing data set that suggests that investing in girls and women will create measurable economic benefits for all."


All over the world, mind you. According to a Fast Company article about the League, Multiple studies over the past decade indicate that the facts are unquestionably on their side: If you train a woman in a particular skill and give her a microloan, or a way to build up some savings, she is more likely than a man to use her income to educate and care for her family and invest in the community. 


More likely than a man. Hey, I'm all about making money and being successful and giving back -- but a woman more likely than a man, baby. Read it, learn from it and share the benefits.

Closer to business home for me, there are the Women of HR -- those savvy HR industry movers and schoolers and sharp business minds who I admire tremendously. (Don't worry guys, there's plenty of you I dig professionally as well.) There's also a huge contingent of amazing women movers and schoolers at TalentCulture and #TChat, the weekly Twitter chat about the world of work, co-founded by me and my friend and mentor, Meghan M. Biro.


And as I've written about before, there's the Corporate Alliance to End Partner Violence, headed up by my friend Kim Wells. The Corporate Alliance to End Partner Violence is a leading force in the fight against domestic violence and is the only national organization of its kind founded by business leaders and focused on the workplace.

In the end, as in the beginning, the truest way to instill positive change and impact in the world at large and the world of work, to increase civility and equality while reducing the abuse and violence against women and men alike, all starts at home with the League of Extraordinary B-hives.

You, the parents and your children.

173 words later

One hundred and seven deaths per minute worldwide. Some have many words associated with them, words that celebrate life. Some have only a few words, announcing death. Many have none.

One minute six months ago, my birth father died, the man with blue genes who had abused my mother. I say birth father because I hadn't seen him since I was 13 -- hadn't wanted to see him since then. He hadn't reached out after that point, and neither had I. I didn't even hear about it until a month ago.

One minute six months ago, two lines described his death. Twenty-five words in all. Twenty-five words that describe where he died and funeral arrangements only. Twenty-fine words that I looked up online, that I actually spent $2.50 to access in the local paper where it was published.

I have no feelings either way. No resentment or forgiveness, no sadness or relief. Nothing except maybe relief for him having to live with his alcoholism and his painful ghosts, if he ever had any.

But 173 words later, the man my mother's been married to for 33 years, whose name my sister and I took as our own, the man we call Dad, the man my sister's kids and mine call Papa, is dying. 

The radiation treatments didn't get the melanoma. It's now spread throughout his entire body. Some form of chemotherapy is next, and although his oncologist seems to think he's strong enough to handle it, I'm not sure he's sure he is. Of course we want him to live, especially Nana (Mom) who's been chronically ill with an auto-immune disorder for almost three decades. He turns 80 next month and could live years more as far as we all know including the medical professionals. He's done it before after surviving a stroke in 1994 and an abscess on his lung that nearly took him home to Jesus back in 2002.

They've both been in and out of the hospital many times this past year and we've all been up to see and help them as much as we can. Living hours and hours away isn't easy, especially now. Thankfully we were just there, enjoying a family vacation with the B-hive as well as going to medical appointments with my folks and helping to plan their uncertain future.

We all have uncertain futures, though. When Bea is my age now, I'll be 88, if I make it that far, which God willin' and the creek don't rise I will, along with the Mama.

I've put the blue genes to bed; I have two daughters of my own. As I look to what's next for us all, I wish my father the happiest of Father's Days with many more to come.

I wish all the good fathers out there the same.

Be mindfully present and love your family. Always.

 

 

But then came the backstory

At first, it was just a picture of a rooster shared on my Facebook page with the Mama's caption, "Sweetie, look what I found!"

It came at an opportune time during a meeting I was at. I shared the picture with everyone at the meeting, who then shared some chuckles back, a moment of levity.

But then came the backstory -- the fact that the rooster belonged to a young woman living in her car up the street from us. She was from the Northwest and had picked up the rooster in Arcata on her way down to Santa Cruz. Her car supposedly had a dead battery and a flat tire. The woman told the Mama that she was living temporarily in her car, but offered up no other information, and the Mama didn't push.

The rooster ended up in our backyard because the woman wanted to go the beach. That's when I started firing off questions:

"The beach? Why? Did she have any track marks on her arms? Did she have pock marks on her face, like from using meth?"

Wow. Where did that come from, Dad?

The Mama answered, "Not that I could tell."

"You didn't let her in the house, did you?"

"No."

"Maybe she's mentally ill," I said.

The Mama sighed. "I don't know. What should we do, though?"

"Get that frickin' chicken out of the backyard, baby. That's what."

"Don't worry, she'll come and get it. But we should help her somehow."

"Were there any signs of abuse?" I asked.

"No, not that I could tell. We could recommend a shelter to her, right?"

"Yes, of course."

We discussed it further for a few, wondering what to do, how to help, but all I could keep thinking about was protecting my family. Why is this young woman traveling alone, living out of her car, with a rooster? What if she was casing our place? What if she was a druggy and/or mentally ill? What if she brought back sketchy guys to get the rooster, or worse, and I wasn't there? 

That's where I went -- immediately to the horrific side of human nature -- which actually surprised me a little. Usually I'm trying to see the converse, the promise of personal responsibility and being one of the good guys and good girls.

Like my own girls, one of whom could grow up and somehow find herself alone, living out of a broken down car, with a rooster...

The Mama and her mother ended up shooing the rooster out of the backyard at the end of the day, a comical event to witness. They tried to shoo it up the street to where the girl was parked, but it just frantically ran across the street to the field and hid in the bushes.

Shortly thereafter I saw her; the young woman came back for her rooster. She looked earthy and wore flowing, hemp-like clothes, and was thin but pretty, reminding me of the Dead Head dancers at the Grateful Dead shows I used to go to. I watched her track the rooster, pick him up, kiss him on the beak, then carry him off down the street.

I watched her and wanted to know her backstory, to see if I could help her, but was worried I'd scare her if I approached.

The reality, however, was that I was scared of her, because of the italicized thought above. A strange mix of empathy, disappointment and despair overcame me, paralyzing me. I could only watch her walk away down the street. The Mama had her mom to take the woman a bag of food, which she did. The young woman was grateful, even teary-eyed. We're trying to figure out how to help her with her car now.

But why is this young woman traveling alone, living out of her car, with a rooster?

I could just ask her, right? 

To captain a milk carton boat

The rain stopped. I splashed happily outside and ran to our yard's edge. The swollen gutter rushed along, carrying sticks and other debris to the storm drain depths at the end of the street.

Mesmerized, I bent slowly and set the milk carton boat into the churning water. I held on for a moment, unsure I should let it go. A stick hit the back of the boat and then flipped around and shot downstream from the force of the water.

I let go. Oddly the boat didn't move at first as though it were anchored in place, but then I gave it a nudge and it was off!

I chased the boat down the street electrified and practically elevated off the ground. I imagined I captained the boat, battling the rapids and the junk swirling around me, surging onward with full sail to the point of no return --

The world we grow up to know, sometimes mindful of the rapids, sometimes carried away.

Ah, to captain a milk carton boat...

"Hey Sis, you know how to drive this thing, right?"

"Sure thing. What's this wheel for again?"

Right on, girls. Godspeed.

 

BE HAPPY: But Watch Your Step

"Good morning, Beatrice. How are you this morning?"

"Happy!"

What a sweet thing to hear on a day when business world bullies punched me in the gut. What a crappy difference a hump day makes.

As I knelt crumpled over and holding my belly, I flashed back to my walk through Natural Bridges with the girls the weekend before. Both Beatrice and Bryce running around in the heart of the eucalyptus tree grove, us all laughing with abandon.

The girls kept running back and forth in front sign posted on the fence:

CAUTION: Watch Your Step

Bryce kept spinning and then eventually lost her footing and fell, giggling. Thankfully she wasn't hurt. Bea followed suit, but on purpose to be silly. It was such a fun time for me watching my girls play so freely and happily.

Being hit in the gut seemed inconsequential after that. Blows like that always do. I've learned to fight back and kill 'em with transcendent success. Screw the kindness (but don't tell my girls that).

BE HAPPY: But Watch Your Step. And sometimes it's okay to put all your B's in the same basket.

Please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today

I went along with it. At first I said no, but he convinced me otherwise. He said it was a game she'd want to play, that she would think it was fun. That girls liked to play these games.

I was six. He was seven or eight, a neighborhood kid, a friend of sorts, one who led and I was a follower. She was only four and still in diapers, or some early iteration of pull-ups (the year was 1971).

I felt uncomfortable. It was late August making everything hot and sweaty. I knew it was wrong, but I remember not knowing what to do about it other than go along.

We didn't touch her or hurt her. The other boy, my sort-of friend, told her to pull her diaper down. She looked scared. I looked away. She pulled it down, he laughed and I stared.

My mom had watched the whole thing from our dining room window and immediately came outside, made us apologize to the little girl. My friend fled, the girl ran away crying (I don't remember if she talked with the parents of the girl or not, but nothing ever came of it).

She then took me inside and began to explain to me the differences between boys and girls, what a vagina was and what a penis was and why it was so wrong to do what we did. And why when I was older, I needed to respect women and never force anything upon them, never hurt them or belittle them in any way.

This coming from a woman who experience years and years of physical and emotional abuse, of which I had witnessed, who desperately wanted to instill in her son the self-awareness of knowing the difference between mutually respectful personal responsibility and the utter human failure of perpetrating intimate partner violence and blaming the victims of abuse.

Young men and boys need this education today more than ever. According to a recent article I read in Ebony online titled Stop Telling Women How to Not Get Raped:

"Telling women that they can behave in a certain way to avoid rape creates a false sense of security and it isn’t the most effective way to lower the horrible statistics which show that 1 in 5 women will become victims of a completed or attempted rape in their lifetime.  The numbers for African American women are even higher at nearly 1 in 4."

For those of us who have little girls, please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today.

Because we grow up and innocence is so fragile and fleeting.

The Lost Art of Not Fast Forwarding Life

She pushed her down, then gave her a hug; the inverse relationship of a warm and cuddly contradictory B-hive.

And so it goes for siblings -- brothers and sisters alike from any background. I showed some colleagues the other day pictures of Bea and Bryce roughhousing on the couch, and then we all joked about how it's the eldest sibling's responsibility to keep down the younger while protecting her at the same. Or more precisely, the alternating keep-down-protection plays that occur with regularity throughout life.

Because it is theater of sorts, the dramedy of watching your little girls become aware (and wary) of each other, the elder watching the younger with sick fascination.

Now that Bryce is only two weeks from turning one, and pretty much walking and squawking, soon she'll be able to keep up with her big sister at every turn.

Push down -- hug -- push down -- hug -- push down -- hug -- pull up -- love -- hate -- love again --

If you have brothers or sisters, you've lived it out. Same if you have children of your own.

Watching them laugh and play and cry together (Bea always plugs her ears when Bryce cries), I can only hope that dramedies that play out through childhood, teenage-land and adulthood never escalate to familial excommunication.

The Mama and I keep each other in check about fast forwarding too much, to instead live in and through each moment. We'll try to instill this in the girls as well. But that doesn't mean we don't plan ahead; planning ahead today means being highly adaptable and flexible.

It's the escalation to excommunication that can never be planned for though, and where adaptability and flexibility come in mental-health handy. We grow up and out, and as parents can only hope that our children can let go, forgive and forget, regardless of what happened. Since as siblings, some of us lived through it, and the reality is we don't really ever let go, forgive or forget, we just live in relative shades of each that cast shadows on our hearts. Blood and friendship can separate with age, to never mingle again.

Rewind to now and the love and beauty of our daughters' budding relationship.

Mama, break the fast-forward button. Please.

It can and should be.

"So how's that hopey changey stuff treating you?"

Well, Sarah, when it comes to ending domestic violence, it's a bittersweet juxtaposition.

On the one hand there's a lot of men out there making a difference, like the football players in the book NFL Dads Dedicated to Daughters: Inspiring Personal Accounts on Fatherhood from the Men of the NFL.

There are many lovely passages in this book from men about their families and their daughters, men who play a very violent sport -- on the football field that is.

I love football and I love the gangsta mystique of being an Oakland Raiders fan, but it's only in the context of the game strategy and the will to win battlefield mentality, not in everyday real life.

These football hero fathers will hopefully inspire their younger teammates and young men to treat women with respect, and not hurt and humiliate them emotionally or physically.

I'm no football hero, not since the high school glory days, but I'm a father of one daughter in this world and another still in the womb. (In fact, the Lady Bug Bryce baby shower is today. Right on.)

I bought the book for my dad as well. He's a big football fan too, even more than me. He turned 78 this week and has three daughters of his own from a previous marriage, not counting my sister. So that's four. (Yes, football players and drummers can count.)

We need more good guys fighting the good fight, because then we have tragic events like the recent violence at the Albuquerque business where a gunman stormed through a courtyard and into a building, killing two people and wounding four others before killing himself. It's pretty clear now that the gunman was going after his ex-girlfriend.

There's still too many more of these stories, at home and at work, in the U.S. and around the world. My good friend Kim Wells, who's the Executive Director of Corporate Alliance to End Partner Violence (CAEPV), shared a story recently about how in Brazil -- on the average -- 10 women are killed daily in domestic violence.

Ten women a day. Good God.

But I believe in the hopey changey stuff, it's what makes me a better father. I believe that most folks are inherently decent and want to build a better world, men and women alike.

As Kim said in her latest post about workplace violence and domestic violence statistics:

These facts don't represent the faces and the names of the precious people whose lives are lost...or their families. But I hope the facts are helpful in understanding this isn't just "someone else's issue." And that it can...and should...be prevented.

It can and should be.

Dads, embrace your daughters and help evangelize that the degradation and violence must stop.

For both my girls, I long for a he-man-woman-hater-free society.

"Alfalfa, will you swing me before we have lunch?"

"Sure, Darla."

"Say, Romeo. What about your promise to the He-Man-Woman-Haters-Club?"

"I'm sorry, Spanky. I've got to live my own life."

When I was in kindergarten a little girl named Judy used to walk home from school with me. She lived up the street from me about five houses, and on the corner before her house we'd stop and I'd ask her to kiss me.

Beg actually. She'd comply with a sweet smile and then run along home.

If there was a day she didn't walk home with me, then Ronnie, the bully on our block, would stand on his fence and throw rocks at me and call me sissy-boy.

With Judy, kisses and no bullying. (She'd tell Ronnie to stop it.)

Without Judy, no kisses and bullying. (Ronnie didn't stop it and I whimpered and ran.)

From that point on I've always had an affinity for strong women -- personally, professionally, intimately and as friends. My mother and sister made sure of that.

I dig chicks. What can I say. I've sailed the estrogen sea my whole life without crashing on the rocky shore of failed maleness...

Fast forward to this past Sunday night at 8:31 p.m. Mama had me put my hand on her belly to see if I could feel Bryce.

And finally I did! Two strong kicks from belly-bound Bryce!

Then yesterday morning we were off to get our fancy schmancy 20-week 4D ultrasound (and of course the standard ultrasound diagnostics).

Amazing to watch the little one float, roll, scratch and kick in the uterine pool while our ultrasound tour guide Lance glided the electronic wand over Mama's wet belly and told us our baby was on the mark with everything intact. Our smiles matched the white glow of the monitors in the Scanbabies dimmed diagnostic room.

The moment of truth -- we wanted to know the gender. Originally we were going to wait like we did with Bea, but Mama looked at me, smiled and said:

"It's up to you."

I wanted to know. I really did. We both thought it was a boy but all we really cared about was another healthy baby.

"And if you look here and here you will see..."

Yes, that would be a girl. Another lovely little girl. Sweet Baby Bryce.

Baby Bea and Baby Bryce. B-squared and the daddy who sailed the estrogen sea...

For both my girls, I long for a he-man-woman-hater-free society. Until then I'll keep fighting the good fight to end violence against women.

And if anything ever happens to them, I'm coming after you. You can count on it.