Believe her - even if she's saying #NotMe instead of #MeToo

It is outstanding that we are having conversations about sexual assault, harassment, power imbalances, consent, rape culture, privilege, and many of the complex issues that go into improving relations between people regardless of who they are. The conversations are long overdue. It is crucial that we are beginning to understand that sexual assault can encompass a lot more than a stranger-rape with a weapon. We must listen to the stories of those who have experienced sexual misconduct, and believe their assessments. As I've written before, we must also allow people to grow and learn things about their conduct that they might not have realized when eyeball deep in the culture that has evolved so much. Finally, we must believe the stories of those who continue to insist that they were not victimized.

In a Vanity Fair piece she wrote four years ago, Monica Lewinsky discusses how she was victimized in the aftermath of the publicity surrounding her affair with Bill Clinton. I had not thought about her situation in those terms when I read the piece, and I was ashamed to recognize my complicity in her humiliation. It is clear that in the writing of that piece, she sees two distinct phases in the Clinton situation: the relationship itself, and the aftermath. I think it's pretty undeniable that her treatment in the aftermath was unforgivable and anti-feminist.

This piece, written in 1998, is painfully true about feminists' complicated but ultimately regrettable relationship with Bill Clinton. The author was prescient about Hillary Clinton's eventual run for president. We really should have demanded that Bill Clinton acknowledge his shitty past behavior, apologized, and contributed a bunch of money to a relevant and reputable organization. I believe both Clintons have grown since his presidency, and I think both ought to publicly acknowledge that. There is no doubt, in retrospect, that Bill Clinton was a very very big part of the culture that we've learned to condemn.

Recently, Ms. Lewinsky wrote a new piece reflecting on her experience in the age of #MeToo. It deeply provokes thought about the wider implications of the Clinton/Lewinsky scandal and its effect on the nation, as well as its role in the expanding discussion of sexual misconduct. Ms. Lewinsky also reflects on her involvement with Bill Clinton in light of the expanded discussion abuse of power as a manner of sexual assault. I'm sure there are already thousands of comments in every type of media saying ugly things about her, and probably, I hope, there are a lot of supportive comments as well.

I appreciate Ms. Lewinsky's story. It's an extremely important part of the conversation, and I firmly believe that her story is hers, and only hers, to tell. And my story is mine.

Around the same time that the scandal was coming out, I engaged in one of the classically imbalanced relationships: Student/teacher (about twenty years my senior).

My First Local

“My Local” has a meaning to people like me that can’t really be figured out through Google. It’s short for “my local pub,” but it’s not just the pub up the street where you take your coworkers once a quarter for the office happy hour. A Local is a special place; indeed, it is a home. If you know Cheers, it’s like that.

Your local truly is the place you go where everybody knows your name. And they’re always glad you came! My Local – and I always have one no matter where I live – is an alcohol-serving establishment at which I am a regular and where I can always walk in alone and find friends (at a minimum, the bartender).

A certain kind of person establishes deep friendships at the Local. Not everyone fits into the Local scene, and sometimes people who don’t really get what a Local is have difficulty wrapping their heads around the concept.

Back when I worked a regular 8-5, I went out to my car one morning to find that the battery was dead. I took the bus to work and explained to my boss that I’d have to go take care of my car as soon as I tracked down a friend with a car and jumper cables. He was sympathetic; he’d have done it himself if he’d had the cables.

When I informed my boss that I was heading out to take care of my car, he said, “OK. One of your rugby friends came through?”

“No,” I replied. “One of my friends from the bar.”

He was baffled. To him, the bar was a place where you went with friends, not a place you met them. During our brief exchange I was unable to make him understand that this is a person that I met at the bar, hung out with at the bar, and am still close to.

I need a local in my life. I discovered this when I found peace at my first local, the crappy campus pub in the basement of the Chemistry building at my alma mater.

Pictures of Sparkle

I'm having all the feelings right now as I hug my Sparkle, think about how she almost was killed before I adopted her, how many doggies there are who need loving homes like mine, how very very much I love her.

So I'm just going to post pictures of her.

No More Planes

Several weeks ago I went to Chicago to see some friends and judge my law school's Moot Court competition. I don't typically take flights at 6 a.m., but the ticket was only $40, so I went for it. My night-person ass managed to get up at 4 a.m. and drive to the airport. There was nothing remarkable about security or boarding at that hour. Next stop: Chicago!

Unfortunately, fog in Chicago prevented us from landing. We held around Midway airport for an hour or so, and then had to divert to Columbus, OH to refuel. By now it was noonish, so I just hung out at the wine bar with soup and champagne while awaiting further instructions.

The flight ended up getting cancelled, and immediately a gigantic line formed as every person on that flight had to rebook through the single agent available at the gate.

I don't do lines. I stayed at the wine bar waiting for the line to diminish. Meanwhile, I also used the telephone - what a concept - in hopes that I could get my situation fixed without having to deal with the gate agent at all.

Well, it turns out that in this particular situation, the folks on the phone were unable to help. I was told that the only option was to rebook through a gate agent at Columbus airport.

Use Good Judgment, Policy Be Damned

I have worked retail and other customer service since before it was legal for me to be employed. I grew up in a retail establishment, and I worked for over a decade on the front lines and in supervisory roles of various organizations. I've also trained staff in customer service best practices. I think it's fair for me to call myself an expert in customer service. 

There is a philosophy that leaves no room for service agents to evaluate a particular circumstance and determine that policy is inappropriate. "Consistency" becomes the Promised Land, and POLICY becomes the almighty.

I don't disdain rules, but slavish adherence to them can undermine the purpose they are meant to serve. It is crucial that anyone working in customer service have both the freedom and the self-confidence to thoughtfully apply rules and policies to circumstances. Customer service requires good judgment.

Why, of course this post sprung from an experience. 

Prince is dead! Long live gender ambiguity!

I believe I was among the first to find out that Prince died. A friend posted as the news about a death in Paisley Park broke (and let's take a moment to raise a glass to the awesome name of the estate), and I watched coverage live as it was confirmed that it was indeed His Purpleness. That sucks; he was so very talented and way too young to die.

It's not like when David Bowie died and I received personal condolences from many; I wasn't that much of a Prince fan. But boy did I enjoy the hell out of his music, and I appreciated his eccentricity and his experimentation and his general vibe. And although I was aware that the symbol he used as The Artist Formerly Known as Prince was a combination of the traditional male and female symbols, it never seems to have entered my consciousness that like David Bowie, like the character Jo Polniaczek on The Facts of Life, Prince influenced my understanding of what I would now call gender fluidity. but among the coverage, I heard a reporter refer to Prince's gender-bending ways and compare him to David Bowie, and OF COURSE.

Meet the Gibbons

I am not feeling current events today. Since tomorrow is Super Tuesday, it feels like the calm before the storm. I didn't watch the Oscars; I've seen reviews many ways about Chris Rock's hosting. It's Leap Day, which has a fascinating history, but there's not much more to say about that.

So I'm going to tell you about my friend Burma and her husband and kids.

I was friends with Burma's husband, Caruso, before I got close to her. Caruso is a ladies' man who is particularly attracted to brunettes, so he warmed to me immediately when I started going to the Lincoln Park Zoo in Chicago regularly. Caruso had lots of girlfriends, and I didn't want to be one of those, so I never took pictures of him.

In January of 2011, Burma gave birth to Sai, her third son (her two oldest sons no longer lived at the zoo with their parents; they had families of their own in other zoos). At that time I went to the zoo every few months when I went to Chicago with Victor.

In fall 2012, I began going to law school at Northwestern University, living across the street from the zoo, and visiting the Gibbons at least weekly. Caruso would run right over to the glass when he saw me and spin around or squeak or otherwise acknowledge me.

One day my route required me to take my bicycle with me through the zoo rather than leaving it at one entrance. I wheeled it into the primate house and parked it near the entrance end of their enclosure. Caruso came over and greeted me, as usual. Burma was up in the faux tree. I waved to her. I'd been trying to get to know her better since I was there so regularly.

I noticed her looking from the tree down in the general direction of my bike. She inquisitively moved her head sideways and then forward. She was clearly curious. I wheeled it closer to her, and don't tell me I'm wrong when I say that she just wanted to take that thing and roll across the street to R.J. Grunt's to grab a cocktail.

After that, she and I became as close as Caruso and I already were, and sometimes even closer because Caruso can be fickle.

I suspected Burma was pregnant in early 2013. I spent that summer working in the clinic at my law school, so I was there often, throughout the summer. She looked a lumpy and tired and her envy of my bicycle became more wistful than aspirational.

My internship ended in early August and I eagerly returned to Colorado for the rest of the summer. When I returned about three weeks later to start school, Burma, Caruso, and Sai had a new family member.

All adult male gibbons are black and adult females are blond. Infant gibbons are all born blond so that they blend in with the mother and are therefore less vulnerable to predators. When they start moving around, they all turn black, then the males stay black and the females turn blond again. It's a trip to watch. I've only seen boy gibbons grow up so I've never seen the transition back to blond.

Daxin, the new baby, was a boy. it turned out. I got to watch him grow up as I went to law school. I spent at least one hour a week with the Gibbon family: mom Burma, dad Caruso, and children Sai and Dax.

My times away got longer as I spent summer of 2014 in Denver and then organized my schedule so I could take a long spring break back home. In May of 2015 I graduated and moved back to Colorado.

I've been back a couple of times and am excited to visit them in a couple of weeks when we're back in Chicago. Caruso may not remember me, but Burma will, especially if I bring my bike. I miss them. I wish they were on Facebook.

Miss Piggy: life coach

Last month when one member of my life coaching team passed away, I wrote about it on my blog about the 80s television show The Facts of Life. David Bowie and Jo Polniaczek from Facts are two of three famous/fictional influences that significantly shaped who I am today. Their influence on my acceptance of my own gender nonconformity was crucial. I don’t want the third member of my life coaching team to be overlooked, though, so I want to dedicate a few words to her today.

Here’s to you, Miss Piggy.

Jo and Bowie have the whole gender-nonconformity thing going for them, and that speaks to me for obvious reasons. Piggy, of course, is the femmest of the femme. She’s obsessed with clothes and hair and makeup and has a large number of “way to not be a stereotype” moments. She is also a pig. Who dated a frog. Talk about nontraditional expressions and preferences.

How I Became a Rugger

People who met me after the mid-2000s associate me with rugby. It’s almost inconceivable to them that there is a quite adult Vikki that didn’t even know what rugby was, and would never have been predicted to play it. And yet.

During Memorial Day weekend of 2003, I had been in Colorado for just over a year. I lived with my sister near Boulder, where we both worked at the university. She was then an assistant professor on her third or so year at CU, while I was a counselor in the admissions office, having been hired permanently in January after completing a six month internship in the second half of 2002.

My sister and I decided to go to the annual Boulder Creek Fest. We had a perfectly nice time there, enjoying beers and music and carnival food. Then she ran into a friend of hers, and the two of them went off on their own. I had no trouble with that; I'm always happy to entertain myself. A few minutes later, though, I realized that somehow she'd ended up with all the money, and I had no money for beer!

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I found a spot where I could stake out the vending operation and see where my in might be.

The first thing I saw was the sign that said "Tips benefit Boulder Rugby Club." I didn't exactly know what rugby was, but I did know that it was some kind of aggressive sport. I immediately judged "meatheads" and figured I'd have no trouble chatting someone up for a beer or two. I identified a target and moved in.

Moving to the Mountain

My husband (then boyfriend) and I had talked about moving to the small mountain town where we’d vacationed regularly in the three years since he’d bought a condo there, but the timeline had always been “someday.” In my third year of law school, “someday” became “now” and I had to make a crucial life decision.

“Vikki,” he asked me on the phone on Christmas Eve, “are you sure that you want to move?”

He’d texted me pictures a few days before of an amazing house he’d found in the mountain town. He was skiing during the holidays at our vacation condo while I spent Christmas with my family in New Mexico. I loved the house. It was exactly the kind of place I’d always wanted to live. I loved the idea of actually living in the little storybook mountain town we’d visited so often.

Yet I also knew that movement lawyering doesn’t happen in a mountain town, and public service doesn’t give you a lot of control over where you live.

Basically, I was choosing between devoting myself to my personal life or to my career.

Sometimes I feel guilty for the choice I made. Sometimes I also feel jealous of my friends who decided to commit to the career path. One good friend of mine will be starting in the public defender appellate division this fall, and it is a position that I would have applied for if I had been willing to live in Denver.

I’ve also felt guilty about the tension between wanting to help marginalized, underserved populations and wanting to live in a comfortable home with a nice view. I admire people who become part of the communities they serve, and I sometimes feel bad that I don’t have it in me.

I think however, that going with my heart and making the choice to serve my personal desires has helped me to come up with career ideas that actually excite me, and I have a wonderful husband who fully supports this period of self-discovery. I recognize how incredibly lucky I am to be able to explore exciting, but not necessarily well paying, opportunities. 

I also recognize what my role in progressive movements can be.

The truth is that I simply don’t have it in me anymore – if I ever did – to be the boots on the ground, so to speak. What I do have, though, is a lot of passion, a way with words, and a great speaking voice. I have an opportunity to inspire and educate those who will be better on the ground than I can be now. I volunteer in the local restorative justice community, I will host a workshop at a conference on gender next month, and I’m working on some writing I’ve wanted to do for a long time.

“Vikki,” he asked me on the phone on Christmas Eve, “are you sure that you want to move?”

“Yes, my love. Let’s go for it.”