Simple...but not easy

In 2000-2001, I was a switchboard operator in Baltimore, MD. On slow days I worked on organizing the storage room and one day I found some cassette tapes of Les Brown's and Zig Ziglar's. I wasn't familiar with these guys, but I liked what I read on the tape sleeves. They had been there so long that no one who was still working there remembered buying them and my wonderful boss, Pam said I could take them home.

I listened to those tapes in my car during my commutes, many things that I heard were foreign concepts to me at that time but I remember sitting in the parking lot of my apartment complex after a long drive home because I wanted to hear more!

Thanks to SimpleReminders.com for bringing back a wonderful memory! You can check out their Facebook page here.
if you are interested in following me on Facebook as well, I welcome you to the journey!

It's a trilogy! (Letting the words fall out Part 3)

I had no idea when I started writing about this that there would be 3 parts, but in response to a few people asking if the  Creative Director ( the silent one who had not responded to the dissension in the ranks on the FB page)  knew about the situation- (I was not the only one who had an issue with this) or if I had told him my feelings - I did - and confusion over which director did what, this should clarify.  I had been working on an email to him but I was an emotional wreck for days after the show; I couldn't stop crying long enough to form a coherent though. He sent me an email during that time to which I was able to reply. This is how he "addressed" my concerns on 6/11/2013:

Hello Jordan,Before anything else I just wanted to say that it's been really nice having you back in and around the fold of (REDACTED), I'm happy you came back and decided to retake all the Levels!I'm very aware of the Facebook and show weirdness that happened recently. Between that and your health I'm not sure which way you are leaning towards auditioning on the 29th and would like to get that clarified!If for some reason you are not thinking of auditioning are you still interested in taking classes or doing workshops or being involved in practice groups etc. What would that look like to you?Any and all answers are ok :)Talk soon

Very friendly, zen and non-confrontational, which is true to his nature in the ten years I've known him. He stated his awareness of the issue yet did nothing to address it, apologize or try to make it better. The other interesting part - no other troupe member who left (even for years) was ever asked to audition - at least two other people who had been gone for years were allowed to just return to rehearsals and yet, I was required to take and pay for all three levels of the classes - he did give me discount since I was a previous member, so that was helpful,. But, after I raise my concerns about the troupe encouraging rape culture, now it is a requirement for me to re-audition. I would have had no/very little issue with this if it was applied to everyone equally. Fairness is important to me and I think treating people fairly is ESSENTIAL to have a successful business over the long term.

My response:  (which because I was dictating and didn't know how to use it yet, It sent my first unfinished draft below before I was done)

6/19/2013
Hey M.
Thank You! I have had a blast taking your classes and really value the atmosphere of safety you created with us throughout all of the levels. :)
So, the short answer, is no. C. made it clear in posts on the Facebook page as well as in private messages to me if it that's anyone who is offended by anything should leave because (REDACTED) wasn't going to change.
One of the reasons I brought it up is that I cried all the way home and most of the night, but while I was there working the table* no one would have thought I was bothered at all. 

The above sent before I was done, so the next email on 6/20/2013 said this:

And now, the rest of the story (In my best Paul Harvey voice)

One of the things I want to clarify is - Yes, I was upset by the comment in the show. I don't think it was appropriate but, it's improv, it's quick & can be messy. My real issue came with the things C. posted on the page and telling me in private messages* that I was "pushing an agenda" and what I was saying was "BS".  (I am no longer replying to his messages because they were personal attacks and beyond unprofessional.)
I  think that as a business (especially a non-profit one) the image (REDACTED) projects is important to its success. I think this is a crucial time with the troupe, especially with so many new people in classes, auditions around the corner and a theatre in the works. I think that the type of comedy you want (REDACTED)  to do is a business consideration. What is done on stage in a thoughtless moment will affect people more than we will ever know - it sticks with them for years - good or bad...
It has been over nine years since I was raped and the casual mention of it in a place I thought I was safe made me cry all night. I spent the next two days actively trying to put my feelings into an email to you directly about this, but it was still too emotionally charged of a subect. I know that other survivors encounter this with comedy shows already and I felt safe endorsing (REDACTED)  to those people. I no longer do. 
Since 1 in 3 women in the US have been sexual assaulted (http://www.turningpointservices.org/Sexual%20Assault%20-%20Statistics.htm)  and women are a significant part of your audience, it would be an erroneous assumption to think that I was the only one in the audience that night who wouldn't think rape was funny. Statiscally, at least 10 women in that audience are survivors as well. As a survivor myself, I acknowledge my personal bias and sensitivity on the subject. It is a bias and sensitivity shared by many, though, and most survivors don't bring these things up because of the exact response I received on the page. 
So, that is the long story behind why I won't be auditioning. As for the rest, I am very interested in continuing to work with those in Level 3 and also very interested in learning more long form. I think a long form class would be great! The environment that you created in class was wonderfully fun, funny AND safe.  I did not have the same experience when I went to 's class which is why I didn't go back to his classes, so (as you have probably figured out)  I wouldn't be interested in taking the class if he is teaching it. 
Thank you so much for asking and for reading all of this. It means so much :) 

After pouring my heart out in an attempt to help him understand where I was coming from - I received absolutely no response. - that was NINE MONTHS AGO. Ignoring an issue doesn't make it disappear. I kept my commitment to perform in the level 3 showcase that shortly followed - the players I met in those classes are wonderful people that I had a fabulous time playing/performing with.

The only responses I received in regard to resolving the issue were from the other director, C., in the form of direct messages to me. I have redacted the name of the Improv Troupe.

And for you to even associate (REDACTED) with rape culture PISSES me off beyond anything I will ever post in a public forum. How dare you... Really... If you wanna take that agenda and push it, take it some where else because what you dis was bull shit and I think you know it... You once thanked me for calling you on your bullshit, so I am doing it again at the sake of losing you as a friend. 

Linking (REDACTED) to a rape culture was pure bullshit all the way around, and if you wantto defend it, go ahead, but I was DEEPLY offended by that. Those people, including Jon are some of the most caring people and would give the shirt of their backs. That is why I was pissed. Having a conversation is one thing, attacking is another. And I am proud, very proud of what we have done and what we are doing, but you used Pride as a bad thing. And if you knew me in any way, you know that my pride is the least of anyone's worries...

Some of the examples of the resistance in the FB group from the same guy:

CC: "I know that a line was crossed with underage wife, and was quickly let go, but underage wife is something that has gone on for all of history, and still legal in many states. I guess underage wife implies sex, but not un-consensual sex."

I then posted the video of the show since  what was said was actually "Underage girls"

CC: "You are right, he did say underage girls... When I listed at work, I had it turned low. Well if you listen, you also here me yelling "hey hey hey..." So it was quick and it went away quickly... In the end, it was dealt with quickly and went away quickly. I did not hear a single complaint from a member of the audience and while it was a hiccup, it still was a good show over all."

Thankfully another troupe member explained where I was coming from because CC's "logic" made my head want to go kablooey.

I think Jordan was pointing out that sex within marriage is not automatically sex with consent--correct me if I'm wrong there, Jordan.

YEP, that was indeed my issue with condoning it because he thought he said wife.  His "agreement" statement made even less sense.

CC: I agree with you  and Jordan. Rape is rape no matter what the situation is, but there was nothing in that scene that made that connection even if it went to underage girls, or underage wives or underage anything...

So,  "Rape is rape no matter what the situation is," but he doesn't see the connection of how having sex with someone who is underage IS RAPE.. The statutory rape laws are there for a number of reasons, an underage rape victim is not legally able to give consent and - since this seems to be a level of confusion that is entirely to widespread, lets clarify for those who still do not get it:

-SEX WITHOUT CONSENT IS RAPE.
-UNDERAGE PEOPLE CAN NOT GIVE CONSENT.
 (or those who are drunk or passed out or say NO -that means that they are NOT consenting and what he calls "sex" the law calls statutory rape . This law is in place for many reasons, one being to prevent and adult taking sexual advantage of a minor. )

Another rationale comes from the fact that minors are generally economically, socially, and legally unequal to adults. By making it illegal for an adult to have sex with a minor, statutory rape laws aim to give the minor some protection against adults in a position of power over the youth.^[2]
Did you know? Historically a man could defend himself against statutory rape charges by proving that his victim was already sexually experienced prior to their encounter (and thus not subject to being corrupted by the defendant).^[11] A requirement that the victim be "of previously chaste character" remained in effect in some U.S. states until as late as the 1990s

The day I went into Foster Care

I hadn’t stopped crying in three days. The welts left on my backside from four nights ago (with her usual weapon of choice -  the turquoise fly-swatter with a metal handle) are almost gone and it doesn’t hurt to sit on  the chairs at school now.  Those three days have been a haze. My boyfriend, Phillip and my best friend Aimii know what happened -all of it- and they are the only ones I can hang out with now. I sit in the back of my classes and put my head down, because the tears just won’t stop. Thankfully, I'd perfected crying silently long ago. That day at the beginning of class, I had just settled my head onto my desk, nestled in Phillips brown leather bomber jacket, when Ms. Blasingame called me outside. I was only a freshman, so I hadn’t known her long, but she was already my favorite teacher. I admired her for her differences - when she talked to any of the kids, she really saw us and she really listened to what we had to say. She was also the first woman I knew who identified as a Ms. not a Miss and who made a choice not to shave her legs or arm-pits which was a social convention I had yet to question at the age of 13. 

The exterior hallway was quiet except for an occasional student slamming his locker and scrambling to class. I watch them out of the corner of my eye, not wanting to be seen. She asked if I was OK and I shook my head, but no words came out. I tried to control my breathing, it was becoming ragged, there was so much I was struggling to keep inside- too much. I don’t remember much of the conversation, but at the end she suggested I talk to my guidance counselor, I went inside, gathered my stuff and my pass to the office, not knowing when or if I would return. 

My counselor, Mr. Jones, and I had never had a deeper conversation than a hello in the halls but he seemed like a nice guy, he had a kind smile. It felt like a long walk to his office and the tears were free-falling now despite my desperate attempts to pull it together. I didn’t know what I was going to say to his secretary as to why I was there. I didn’t want to get in trouble, but I couldn’t continue like this, that I knew. Apparently, Ms. Blasingame had called ahead and Mr Jones was waiting for me. I went into his office with my head down, trying to hide the tears and it was a relief when the door finally closed behind us; I didn’t want to be seen crying.

I wanted to tell him everything. Maybe he would believe me even though my mother didn’t. But what if he didn’t and he made me go back? I knew exactly what I would do if he sent me back...I had checked my mom’s closet the night before and the gun was still in the blue bank bag on the top shelf, but I didn’t want it to come to that. So, I decided to tell him about the beatings, since there was still proof of that on my body and hoped that would be enough. I was told often at home that I had nothing to cry about (usually followed by “I’ll give you something to cry about!”) and now that I told my mother it was against the law to beat your children she would reply that I “didn’t know what a real beating was”.  

Mr Jones didn’t say much, he just listened and didn’t get mad at me, which I was conditioned to expect. I saw the same look in his eyes that was in Ms. Blasingame’s - concern; he actually did care. He said he needed to contact some people to help with this - the police and social services. This terrified me; I knew that I would pay for getting my mom in trouble so I finally told him what I would do if I had to go back. Saying the words out loud was like unleashing a torrential downpour of tears and emotion. I hadn’t even told Phillip my back up plan; his dad was a cop and I knew Phillip would tell him. Mr. Jones' face registered the words slowly and I could tell he knew I meant it, this was not an idle threat. The relief that came with finally being taken seriously was immeasurable. He said it would take awhile for the cops and social worker to get there; I asked if I could go to the bathroom while we were waiting. Everyone was in class so the bathroom was empty. I fixed my makeup the best I could and then stood on the toilet to look in the mirror at my back, my but and my legs to see where the welts were so I could show them easily. I returned to the office and our "on campus"police officer was waiting for me. We sat in Mr Jones' office and I told the officer everything I had told Mr. Jones, this time without as much sobbing. Some time later that afternoon the social worker showed up - Jacquelyn Mitchard was the name on the card she gave me but she told me I could call her Jackie. She was shorter than I was with  black hair slicked back into a bun and a few loose curls for bangs. She had a round face, with dark freckles across the bridge of her nose.

Now, the police officer, Mr. Jones, Jackie and I were all crammed into Mr. Jones' office and I had to tell Jackie everything I had told the others. She sat in the chair next to mine and angled it toward me. I was OK at the beginning but I started crying again as I was getting to the hardest part. She reached over and gently put her hand on my back, rubbing it comfortingly; this made saying it even harder. Harder on a few levels - this was a level of connection with an adult that was unfamiliar to me; the kindness and concern that these strangers were showing me confirmed what I had long felt - the way my family treated me was not the way everyone treated kids. My emotions were the one area of my life I had managed to gain control of and I was afraid if I lost that tiny measure of self-control I would erupt like a volcano. The kindness in Jackie's eyes and her warm hand on my back gently encouraged me to continue and I finally said it, being intentionally blunt so they knew I was serious "I can't live there anymore, I won't, not even for a day. If you send me back then I will just blow my brains out with the gun." Jackie had tears in her eyes and such compassion written all over her face. She said something comforting, assuring me it was going to be OK , that I wasn't going back and called me "Honey". I liked that, it sounded nice.

There was apparently a lot of paper work needed before Jackie and I left, we were there until after school was out and most of the kids and office staff were gone. We rode in her car to her office downtown to fill out more paperwork. She sang along to music in the car and smiled at me a lot on the way. It was a long walk through the parking lot to the huge building. She led me through different corridors until we arrived at her desk. It felt like everyone was looking at me, I didn't see any other kids there but the adults we walked past smiled and most of them said hello to me and Jackie. After almost an hour we went to a hospital in a scary neighborhood, it was night now and it was busy, many of the people hanging around the front door were proudly displaying their red "Blood" gang colors. I learned in Junior High that wearing red or blue could easily get you "jumped" and was glad I wasn't wearing either that day. We walked all the way through the ground floor of the hospital to a separate building behind it. It was blindingly bright inside, bare white walls and a white linoleum floor. Jackie explained to me that the Dr's needed to talk to me to see how they could help and to make sure I wouldn't hurt myself. I promised her that as long as I didn't go back home I wouldn't hurt myself. But, the Doctors were the ones who needed to decide, she said, and that she would be back either way. While I was being checked out she would go to my house to get some clothes for me. She asked if I wanted anything else - I asked for one of my teddy bears. Then the nurse took me to an exam room and locked the door behind them as they left. I sat on a raised exam table for quite awhile before anyone came in. It was hours later that a determination was reached that I was only a "danger to self" if I was returned to parental custody and therefore was now in CPS custody. 

Jackie returned as promised and had a black garbage bag with some of my things in it and we headed to my first foster home. I asked if she saw my mom when she went and if my mom was mad at me. She said not to worry about that, and tried to assure me that I hadn't done anything wrong. Most days I hated my mom, but I still didn't want her to be mad at me. Then she said she had taken a look around the house while she was there and couldn't find any food, she looked over at me in the passenger seat and waited for a response. I stared silently into my lap. She continued, with a confused and frustrated "there was NO food in that fridge, only ice in the freezer.... girl, what did you eat?!" I didn't know what to say...My mother had told me years before that with my brother and sister gone (they were 13 and 10 years older, respectively) there was "no point in cooking meals for just two people". 

Once or twice a month we had fast food or a "take 'n' bake" pizza but mainly I ate whatever I could fix, often peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or when we had the ingredients I made a peanut butter, butter and sugar sandwich that my sister taught me to make. I was the one responsible for baking birthday cakes in the family, so I knew how to do that and often ended up eating leftover cake for breakfast and again for dinner.
But I didn't tell Jackie any of that, instead I just mumbled "I dunno". She didn't push me on it and changed the subject. 

They found a foster home that was in my school district, so I wouldn't have to change schools but I wouldn't be going back for at least a few days. By the time we got there, all the other kids were in bed, the foster mom was sleepy-eyed and in a robe and the dad was already in bed. I was ushered into a dark room  and pointed toward "my" bed with my hefty bag of clothes dragging behind me. I looked back at Jackie standing in the light of the hall near the front door, remembering at least a dozen questions I had forgotten to ask her, desperately wanting to think of a reason she shouldn't leave. She could read me pretty well already because she assured me that she would be back tomorrow, that it had been a long day and said I could use some rest. I walked the rest of way into the room in the dark and when I reached the bed the foster mom softly said "Good Night" and closed the door. Almost immediately, I heard movement in the other bed and a head popped up and called itself "Francesca"; she was about my age and very friendly. My fear of sleeping and waking up in the same room with someone I've never met subsided. We talked in darkness for hours about our "real" families, she told me about her past foster homes and said this home was a "really good one", but compared to the other places she had been, that was not very reassuring. She went into detail about the three boys and four other girls in the house and eventually, I drifted off to sleep...