Call it what it is - Take II

This appeared in the Idaho State Journal in April of 2017. I continue to see media outlets making this terrible mistake, so I'm publishing it again.

 

An Associated Press story out of Sandpoint, Idaho appeared in the Friday March 24, 2017 edition of the Idaho State Journal. The headline read:

“Teacher accused of having sex with student heads to trial”

She was 46 at the time. The victim was 16. This is not a case of two people “having sex.” As the article later says, she was charged with sexual battery of a minor between the ages of 16 and 17.

An October of 2016 tagline in the Idaho State Journal read, “Ex-Blackfoot soccer coach sentenced for sexual relationship with underage player.” I’m not numb to the content of these stories, but here I’m choosing to address the journalistic language.  A “sexual relationship”?  That word choice implies consent when the victim, who was 13 at the time, wasn’t of legal age to give it.   These cases and their victims deserve for these incidents to be reported with accurate and appropriate language.

Call it what it is!

Perhaps it's because my mother was a child protection worker or perhaps it's because I’ve grown up to be an intelligent and reasonable person who thinks any kind of sexual misconduct like this should never, not ever, be minimized or mischaracterized. Misconduct. Battery. Abuse. Rape. Taglines and phrases like "having a sexual relationship" or "the coach and student had an affair" infuriate me almost as much as the offense itself. 

I’m not a survivor of child sexual abuse, but my childhood was overwhelmed by it. I was guilted into gratitude in checkout lines when I’d ask for a candy bar and the “no” was couched in a reminder of kids who had it worse. As a fourth-grader, I accompanied Mom on trips to transport siblings from foster homes to supervised visits with their biological parents. I waited in hospital waiting rooms while rape kits were performed on children. Never tall enough to reach the TV, I was often stuck watching grown up shows. I was stuck in a grown up show. 

One night when I was in college and home doing laundry, my mom got a phone call out of the blue from a man who had been in her caseload as a preteen. He called from out of state to ask where he could get help. He realized he was starting to engage in the same type of emotional and physical abuse with his son that his biological father had with him. Through the course of their conversation, he told my mom about sexual abuse he suffered during his adolescence from his foster and later adoptive father. After his biological father had been so terribly physically abusive, the young man was confused and uncertain about boundaries and what a healthy love looks like, so he never told anyone. He hadn’t intended to share his accounts of sexual abuse that night, but that’s where their conversation went. Mom could scarcely summon words to direct him while she replayed her unwitting interactions years ago with the abuser. He seemed like a nice man.

It doesn’t take a PhD in counseling or psychology to hear me talk about my window to child sexual abuse and watching it take its toll on my mom to realize that my disdain for predators, abuse and inaccurate reporting isn’t only about the victims.  It’s also about the professionals (read: moms) working to uncover, stop, prosecute, and counsel after the abuse. A vigilant village is needed to combat the myriad of factors that can contribute to cycles of misconduct, battery and abuse. 

Whenever I see online postings from media outlets with sketchy language about criminal sexual conduct, I leave a comment. After the October story about the soccer coach and my subsequent plea to not refer to the incidents as a “sexual relationship”, I got a message from a childhood friend. They disclosed that they experienced sexual abuse as a child from an esteemed authority figure and, after years of silence, had only recently been able to seek counseling and experience healing. They appreciated my voice.

When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, people like my friend often feel victimized all over again.  When media accounts don’t call out sexual abuse for what it is, we risk becoming desensitized to the seriousness and prevalence of it. Society loses a grasp of consent. In cases like that of the culinary teacher and ex-soccer coach, accurate language is also critical because it highlights that sexual predators aren’t just scary men lurking in dark alleys. They can be coaches, teachers, church leaders, relatives, business professionals, politicians… The list goes on. Anyone of any gender can be guilty. 

The first step in stopping sexual violence and abuse is recognizing it when it happens, and we can’t do that until we call it what it is.

The Heroes in our Boys’ Room

This is the weekend I’ve either been dreading or awaiting since February of 1979. Fans of Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman TV series have wondered if Hollywood would be crazy enough to compete with the disco-era TV show with a motion picture. Turns out, they are. This summer’s Wonder Woman, Gal Gadot, has some big, red boots to fill.

At the time of this writing, I’ve purchased our tickets and am more cautious than excited. One of my stepsons has a birthday next week, so I asked if he’d like to see the movie as part of the festivities. Historically a Transformers movie or the latest Ninja Turtle installment has been a hallmark of his birthday weekend, so Wonder Woman seemed like a natural action-packed pick. He loves heroes and villains and action and adventure, but prefers Star Wars to the Amazon Princess, so I’m skeptical. Will he like the movie? Will I like the movie? Our birthday weekend plan is a risky one.

Our two year old golden doodle is named Lynda Carter and we have a Wonder Woman-themed laundry room. An autographed picture of Lynda Carter’s Wonder Woman is above the dryer; an original series poster from eBay is above the drying rack; and a book case full of collectibles greets guests to the room because everyone gets a tour of the best laundry room ever when they visit. A brilliant four-foot yellow “WW” logo sits atop a cherry-red wall while another wall showcases stark white stars scattered across a bold blue. Laundry has never been so fun.

The 22 seconds that nothing was on top of the washer or dryer

A couple Christmases ago, the grandparents sent the two boys 12-inch metal letters covered with comic book super heroes that spelled out each of their names. We have an older home and their bedroom has two small closets. Their hero-clad names fit perfectly above each closet door, and in a shared room, this is a great way to make each boy feel like they have their own celebrated personal space.

The grandparents also gave us a Wonder Woman light switch cover for our laundry room. Sadly we already had one (of course we did!) so it sat in the junk drawer for a couple months until a rainy day left me nothing to do but organize. As I rearranged screwdrivers, notepads, tape measures and cat treats, I felt guilt and sadness seeing the colorful cover not living to its full potential. Then it hit me. Why don’t I put it in the boys’ room? They’ve got super heroes in there already. Perfect.

I hate to admit this, but almost immediately I second-guessed putting this female superhero switch plate in their room because they’re boys. I, Billie Johnson, second-guessed this due to my own hint of bias about gender roles and influences.

The hallway junk drawer is seven steps to their bedroom. With a screwdriver in one hand and Wonder Woman in the other, those steps held some of the greatest internal debate that I’ve had for a long time.

Am I sexist? Am I a feminist? What does it mean to be either of those? Should I ask the boys first if they’d like a new switch plate? Will they even recognize the differing gender from the heroes in the letters of their names? Wait—can Wonder Woman be a “hero” or am I still bound to “heroine”?

This silly little switch plate led to an unexpected exploration of my subconscious gender bias.

I swapped out their plain, white cover and decided to see if they said anything upon return from their dad’s house. Nothing came up for a couple days, so I casually asked if they noticed anything new in their room. After some prodding they finally said, “Oh that. Yeah. It’s cool.” 

Wonder Woman fits right in with the boys--and Bat Girl.

Nothing about how excited or disgusted they were. Nothing about there being a girl in their room. I questioned if I had made a big deal in my mind out of nothing, but I don’t think I had.

Whether we guide or simply allow our kids’ room décor, all sorts of messages are sent right along with the movies they see. We want our boys to recognize the strength and power in women in terms of treating them as equals and with respect. We also want them to know that they can lean on women and count on them right along with the men in their lives.

I counted on Wonder Woman as a kid and that’s led to a family attendance at the Wonder Woman premier this weekend and including her among the heroes in our boys’ room. I hope they want a movie poster, but I’m not going to push it. It is their room after all.

The speech I didn’t get to give

I had dinner with Governor Otter last week. Ok, ok. I was seated at the table next to him at the Idaho Business Review’s (IBR) “Women of the Year” event. His wife Lori and I were among the evening’s honorees. (My essay provided to the selection committee can be found here, and yes. I included that picture.)

Last fall Ann Swanson, Idaho Small Business Development Center Director, nominated me for the award that she received last year.  The IBR recognized 50 women throughout the state and the dinner gala culminated with three-time gold medal cyclist Kristin Armstrong Savola named the top “Woman of the Year.” I am tickled to say that I “lost” to a three-time gold medalist.

We were told to prepare some remarks in case we won the big award. This is the speech I didn’t get give. 

I recently saw an article on imposter syndrome. This doesn’t feel like the syndrome; I feel like an imposter.  I would never characterize myself as “womanly” so being named one of the “Women of the Year” makes me feel like an imposter. For example, I bet most of you will purposefully apply make up again tomorrow, whereas, by midmorning my wife will silently hand me an eye makeup remover packet because I always forget that bar soap before bed isn't enough.

Most of you have done it all with kids and married life. I became a stepparent six months ago, and ever since, all I want to do is sleep. I understand the "mama needs wine and chocolate” memes now. How have you done it? 

I see three key events that led me to the “Women of the Year”. I’d like to touch on them briefly.

The first began in 2012 when Pocatello embarked upon adding “sexual orientation and gender identity” protections to city code.  Several Idaho cities have done this because the state hasn’t.  I watched my social media fill with vitriol and anger.   Good friends who identify as religious or faithful said terrible things about the LGBT community. LGBT friends used the same tone about members of faith communities.  As I read comments and editorials, I wondered, “Do my friends and acquaintances know me? Do they know they are hurting me?” This led me to testify in front of the City Council and write letters to the editor to urge a cease fire to all the hurting, and then I became a regular columnist for the Idaho State Journal. 

Second, I went through a devastating break up of a 12 year relationship which coincided with writing weekly columns. I was hurt, raw, and extremely vulnerable. No opinion I shared or tidbit about my personal life could elicit a response from trolls or antagonists that would hurt more than the pain I was already confronting. I learned how truly resilient I am, and in turn readers got to know more about me and I got to know readers.

Third, on a Tuesday night in February of 2014, a sophomore on the Pocatello High School girls’ basketball team took her own life.  I saw myself in her.   I played basketball on the same team at that same age and I had gone through many of the same revelations, fears and conflicts about who I was and how life was going to be.  Her death led me to write some pieces which resulted in opportunities to volunteer with the school district in a variety of capacities.  The resilience I uncovered in myself, I hope to impart to young people facing any kind of challenge.  Often in a cow suit; tonight, a pant suit.

My mother always told me I belonged. In elementary school, I belonged on the football field at recess with the boys because that’s where I wanted to be. In college, I belonged on the volleyball team when I walked on and eventually became a starter. When receiving my engineering degree, I belonged at the front of the line leading the processional. When I am the only women in project meetings at work—I belong. When penning columns for the local newspaper frequently as the only woman and minority—I belong.

As much of an imposter as I might feel, I know I belong in this room with all of you—makeshift mascara and all. We are all dreamers and doers and lovers of this great state. There are opportunities for strong networks of friends, acquaintances and even strangers all around us, and that proverbial village along with a little resilience and grit has allowed me to thrive.

I thank the Idaho Business Review for including me among their 50 “Women of the Year” for 2017.  In doing so, you’ve bolstered one of my core beliefs that I—and the many young people like me who need to hear it—belong. We belong right here in Idaho living, loving and thriving.

Jena and I at the digital marquee before the event.

 

Sarah and I photo-bombing Shelly and Cheryl. Sarah was photo-bombing me!

My pic on the HUGE screen in the banquet room.

Friends of 20 years Shelly and Cheryl (they're not 20; we met 20 years ago) and Sarah. Cheryl surprised me by having her company sponsor the table we got to sit at.

The award

Chandler helping me capture a pic of the award.  Evidence that it's truly a miracle I ever got anything done to even be considered for this award.

At coffee the next day, Jena found this reusable shopping bag styled after work by the artist Piet Mondrian. The design was on the doors of my childhood home and was the inspiration for my wedding ring. (I was dressing like a goof on purpose BTW.) Days like this make me want to shout "Mom! Mom! Guess what!" and wish that she could see it all. Best part of the whole two days was this little sign that perhaps she did see it all.