Don't Get Me Started with Linda Sharp

Concern Over Attack Istanbullshit

I'm confused.  Someone help me out here.  Istanbul's Ataturk Airport, a facility so busy that a large Turkish Airlines welcome sign boasts, "Our lounge in Istanbul is bigger than some airports." was attacked by three suicide bombers. 

The death toll currently stands at 41 (expected to rise) with 249 wounded.

41 dead.  Yet where are the Facebook profile pics being changed to something honoring them?  A Turkish flag overlay?  A unity candle?  Something?

I have seen nothing.  In fact, given this country's geographical ignorance and stunning self centered arrogance, I would not be surprised to find out just how many people are completely unaware of this attack, the body count, the human trauma and loss.

Because it happened "over there" <---said in almost a whisper.  You know ... where brown people live...

Think I am exaggerating?  Sorry, NOT.  What I have seen on Facebook is the usual cadre of bigoted, proudly ignorant wastes posting with open glee about the deaths.  These are taken straight from FB.

"Good u camel fuckers just too bad more of u didnt go."

"Best laugh I have had all week."

"Serves em right.  Whut they expect?"

Now, aside from congratulating them on their wonderful ability to spell,  I would like to educate them on Turkey.   Slightly larger than the state of Texas, this "brown country" is, like so many of them, part of Asia, not Brownistan as these Rhodes scholars portend.  Population is just under 79 million people with commerce, agriculture, and modern industry being the thrust of the economy.  No, despite what you see in Aladdin, there are no flying carpets or genies.  There are cars, restaurants, shopping centers, and yes, airports - just like in the good ol' US of Assholes in which these cretins reside.  (Camel fuckers?  Really?)  And in Ataturk Airport?  Hungry?  I suspect these great minds think they would have to choke down goat burgers or something equally scary and foreign.  Nah.  Step right up to Sbarro, Burger King, a Coca Cola Cafe, even a Popeye's Chicken.  And of course, multiple Starbucks locations.  Yes, you brain trusts - there are more US imports in terms of food offerings than there are local dining options.  Want to shop?  Samsonite, Hermes, Armani, even a Victoria's Secret await your layover boredom and credit cards.

JUST LIKE OUR AIRPORTS.

I have news for you.  Ataturk Airport, in the body that is our globe, is a main artery of transportation both east-west and north-south.  In 2015, passenger traffic was just shy of 42 million people.  Of that number, 38 million were international travelers.  Yes, that's right, kind of like the airline joke in the States that "Even God has to go through Atlanta,"  if you are traversing the globe for many a destination, chances are you will do it via Ataturk.

In fact, just 24 hours prior to this attack, dear friends of ours, returning from a wonderful multi-stop holiday abroad, passed through the international terminal at Ataturk.  My stomach hurts to think of what a difference 24 hours made.

But to be honest, my stomach hurts for the human beings traveling to and fro for business and holiday, those picking up friends and relatives, those simply working at their jobs in the terminal or on the arrival queue outside - who lost their lives.  The scores who have been maimed both physically and emotionally.  The small children who are traumatized by events they cannot even begin to know how to process.  Blood, gore, usually seen on a battlefield, now stained into their psyches.

READ.  LOOK AT THEIR FACES.  

And then ask yourself why you know so little, care so little.  Why, when you immediately run off to Google images to status your sympathy for Paris, Orlando, etc - have you not done so for Istanbul.

These people are PEOPLE.  When the attackers fired bullets, they tore into flesh just like they would into yours.  When they detonated their bombs, the blood of the victims ran just as red, just as fatally as would yours.

LOOK at the pictures in that link.  Tell me they don't look like YOU or someone you know.  Tennis shoes, golf shirts, flowery carry-on luggage, lovers in love now lovers in death, happy snaps of vacations cut short by carnage, handsome, beautiful, short, fat, thin, young, old.  

Human beings are human beings.  That this happened "over there" does not acquit us from caring, from feeling.  

What it does do is speak to a huge disconnect we still collectively have when events happen in a country we consider 'less than" and "brown." 

And that's some IstanBULLSHIT.

Sit-in Finally Spurs Us To Rise Up

Yesterday saw Democrats in the House finally take a stand, by taking a seat.  Initiated by civil rights icon and Representative John Lewis, Dems in the house finally had their fill of the bought out Republican NRA whores who stand for nothing but money and re-election - the will of the people be damned.

In the face of tragedy after tragedy wrought by rampant gun violence and the ease with which weapons of truly mass destruction are obtained, Republicans do nothing.  Completely bought out and monetarily blackmailed by the NRA, they ignore polls of the American people which indicate nearly 90% support stronger gun laws.

Instead of paying attention to the people, they pander to the ones who are so easily panderable - the conspiracy theorists, the 2nd amendment masturbators, the "Obama is cummin' fer mah guns" crowd.  They trade in fear and lies, all the while lining their pockets and re-election coffers compliments of the tools in the National Rifle Association.

Here's the reality - no one is coming for your guns.  There are over 300,000,000 weapons in this country, in the hands of both the stable and seriously unstable.  There is no way to retrieve them.  So to keep banging that pathetic drum is disingenuous at best, blatantly ignorant at worst.

But that does not mean we cannot move forward with legislation that better controls the who and how of obtaining future weapons.  We can and should honor those who have lost their lives by trying to do better, control better, who obtains them.

That we have been reduced to simply shaking our heads as classrooms of 1st graders are killed, as movie goers are mowed down, as a nightclub full of happy people are slaughtered says so much about the soul of this nation and the priorities of those we have allowed to come to power.

They offer their empty "thoughts and prayers" and we sit at our keyboards, shocked and impotent. 

We, those of us who get it, see it for what it is, must finally rise up against those who serve only themselves and those who funnel them funds.  We are NOT impotent.  We have passion, we have intelligence, we have NUMBERS.

What John Lewis started yesterday is only the beginning.  Symbolic?  Sure. But also scary to the GOP, as evidenced by Speaker Paul Ryan turning off the CSPAN cameras that broadcast the goings-on in the House.  

His actions speak loudly to the facts that they do not want the American people to see a revolt against them; that they do not want to be seen as the bought out whores they are; that they care not one whit about transparency because they are so easy to see right through.

His petulant actions backfired in a massive way - not surprising to anyone but him and his equally dim cohorts, as they are not exactly forward thinking, not nuanced thinkers in any way.  By turning off the cameras, and denying the people the right to see what was taking place, he immediately insured we WOULD see.  His actions insured that the very people from whom he wished to hide the truth, have seen every moment of it.  He may control the CSPAN feed, but he does not control technology or the Periscope accounts of those Dems who immediately set to streaming the action live on their devices.

So, thank you Paul Ryan, for once again proving how completely unfit you are to hold any office.  Trying to hide what goes on in the PEOPLE'S HOUSE - yes, Ryan, it belongs to US, not YOU - has finally lit the fire under the asses of all of us who care so very much for one another, and who have nothing but disdain and shame for our inactions that have led to you and your cronies ever attaining office to begin with.

Recessing the house did not work, did it?  They were still there when you cretins finally crawled back in in the middle of the night.  And I can tell you for damned sure, recessing until July 5th has done you zero favors either.  Refusing to hold a straight up and down vote on the gun bills currently in play?  We see you for what you are - cowards.  Bought out, legislators-for-hire, prostitutes of the NRA.

Oh, and taking to a microphone to call the sit-in a stunt?  Poor, sweet, dim witted Paul - a stunt is when a VP candidate is so desperate for good publicity that he washed already clean pots and pans in a soup kitchen for a photo op.  Remember that pathetic STUNT, Paul?  We do.

The people are demanding meaningful legislation.  Demanding that those we have allowed the privilege of serving begin serving we, the people, not them, the lobbyists.  

In the musical Hamilton, Laurens sings the words:

Rise up, when you're living on your knees

You rise up, tell your brother that he's gotta rise up

Tell your sister that she's gotta rise up.

It's time.  Time to do what generations have done before us.  Cast passivity aside; stop believing we can love away the hate, educate the willfully ignorant; dream a better nation into being.  We must rise up.  No true advances in this country have come through wishing things were different.  It took people being willing to hurt, bleed, even die to pave a better way for those who will come behind us.  Abolishing slavery, women getting the right to vote, desegregation, marriage equality, the continuing fight for equal rights and protections for all, and yes, now fighting for common sense gun control.

John Lewis has been in the trenches for us before - bleeding, earning a fractured skull, willingly offering his life to advance the causes of all.  Yesterday, he again stood tall, rising up as he started a sit-in to finally force this issue into movement.

Lin Manuel Miranda's genius words ring even truer here:

This is not a moment, it's the movement

Where all the hungriest brothers with something to prove went.

Foes oppose us, we take an honest stand

We roll like Moses claiming our promised land.

The Representatives in that chamber, along with the growing crowds of supporters outside are taking an honest stand.  And what have the Republicans done?  They have given themselves even more vacation time to go run and hide in the hopes this will blow over by the time they come back July 5th.

They must be surprised come July 5th.  They must walk back through crowds still amassed against them, and walk back into a chamber still occupied, still broadcasting their cowardice to the world.

We, who get what is happening, are finally ready to "take our country back."  Not in that illusionist-white-people-bullshit-Leave-It-To-Beaver-Mayberry-RFD way so many GOPers crow about, but in the way that matters.  We must take our country, our government back from those who have bought it, and more importantly, from those who have sold it.

Take note, Paul Ryan - your days are numbered.  So enjoy that Fourth of July hot dog and beer - July 5th, like winter in Game of Thrones, is coming.  And you are no match for a populace that has once again realized "we are the ones we have been waiting for" and have finally decided to RISE UP.

Pride In Prejudice

Gandhi is quoted as saying, "A nation's culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people."

Since the shooting rampage in Orlando we have seen the best of our hearts and souls.

Lines that stretched for blocks and blocks formed as the good hearted people queued up to donate blood - desperate to do what little they could in the face of such carnage.  Facebook tributes to the victims, "Say Their Names," went up with each addition of a victim at the nightclub.  A helpless honorific, sure, but an honorific nonetheless. And vigils held across the country as people of all colors, religions, genders, and sexual orientations came together to stand in unity, grieve together, and blunt the anger with community. 

Sadly,  we have also seen the absolute wretched worst.

Heinous postings and comments on Facebook and following articles on the massacre.  Trump masturbating congratulating himself on Twitter for his stance on Muslims when news broke of Omar Mateen's religion.  Pastors, ministers, preachers openly celebrating the deaths, calling for more.  The Rev. Roger Jimenez delivered this sermon from his Sacramento pulpit mere hours after the siege.  The bodies were still laying in the nightclub.

"Hey, are you sad that 50 pedophiles were killed today? No ... I think that's great. I think that helps society.  I think Orlando, Florida's a little safer tonight." He literally preached that to his churchful of believers.

I spent the past two days driving from Dallas to Colorado - 18 hours to listen to news updates and reflect on this latest illustration of man's inhumanity to man.  18 hours to feel sick to my stomach thinking of my own son's safety, or lack thereof, in the face of such brutality.

What has struck me so hard, made me shake my head repeatedly, is how proud so many people are in their prejudice against other human beings.  How much glee they take in their certitude that their bigotry is somehow ordained from on high.  How far above others they literally see themselves.

How do people get to such a place?  How does a person elevate themselves to such an extreme that they literally lose sight of another person's humanity?  How can they not see that their actions, their mindsets drip with hatred?

Rhetorical questions, all.  

The answer is simple.  They are taught.  No one emerges from the womb knowing how to hate.  No baby understands colors, religions, body shapes, sexual orientations, or genders.  A baby is a blank slate.  Clean, pristine, ready to learn, capable of being taught anything from their ABCs and The Wheels On The Bus to religious dogma and skin color certitude.

A child will play with anyone.  ANYONE.  Watch toddlers.  They literally don't care.  They are creatures of feeling, of exploration, of fun.  They don't know to be afraid, they don't perceive any differences, they don't give sidelong glances at a new playmate.  They just know hugs, playtime, and Goldfish crackers.

And then those beautiful blank slates begin to be written upon.  Some receive lessons of love, openness, equality.  They are encouraged to explore, learn all they can, love all they can.  Sadly, so many others begin to be written on with a thick wedge Sharpie of better than, fear of "the other," and religious tenets that quickly separate them from anyone who believes differently.

And as they grow, these ugly lessons become ingrained, they become marching orders, they become blinders, filters, and they become pride - pride in those awful prejudices they have been taught.

Instead of seeing people, they see less thans.  Instead of being open, they think purely in the stereotypes that have been scribbled all over their hearts.  Instead of bravely moving into the world eager to learn about differences, they stay locked in the fear in which they have been steeped since birth.

Omar Mateen was not born with murder in his heart.  That was placed there, taught to him.  Robert Dear, the Planned Parenthood killer was not born into this world hating, self righteous, and certain.  He was taught these things.

I often wonder how people like this put head to pillow at night and find any manner of sleep.  The answer comes back to the title of this piece - they take pride in their prejudices, they sleep well because they have been taught they are right, better than, exalted above others.

They are not.

I look at the LGBT community of which my son is a proud part.  These people struggle daily to simply breathe freely, fully, safely.  To simply live their lives from sun up to sundown without being targeted, discriminated against, injured.  

They struggle to breathe, yet those who would proudly target, discriminate, and injure them carelessly squander every inhalation of breath they take by exhaling their hatred, ignorance, and bile.  And to what end?  What does a person so in love with their bigotry get from this?  It is not humane, and it is certainly not holy.  WWJD?  Shake his damned head at the lot of them.

Racism, bigotry, discrimination, and religious certitude have been around forever.  We know that.  But in the past year, the rhetoric has heated up.  What Sarah Palin started years back as a new wave of fashionable stupidity, elevating ignorance as some kind of badge of honor, has been ratcheted up.  The baton of bigotry has been picked up by Trump and he is running hard and fast with it.  His thoughtless words, unintelligible tirades on the campaign trail, and open bigotry have emboldened a huge swath of the populace.  He has made ignorance and hate not only fashionable, but has his followers believing them to be some kind of virtues.  He has them being openly proud of their prejudices.

And the danger is real.  

I have seen many people try to continue the pipe dream mindset of "We should respect everyone's opinions."  "We should fight their hate with love." 

No.  We have tried this.  It is not working.

I do not respect an opinion in which my son's life is less, is in danger, is expendable as some sacrifice to the hate gods these people worship.  I do not respect an opinion in which black people are less, expendable, in danger.  I do not respect an opinion that paints an entire religion with a single brushstroke.  I do not respect an opinion that deigns to insert itself into my medical decision making.

And as for loving it all better?  Yes, I will continue to love the ones who need it.  The ones in danger, the ones marginalized by hate, the ones cast out by a society still so backwards that countless numbers cannot be bothered to risk learning they are wrong.  But no, I do not believe we can love racism to death.  I do not believe we can hug bigotry into submission.  I do not believe we can charm religion into staying where it belongs.

Throughout history, civil liberties, human rights, equality have not been simply loved into reality.  These advances and changes have been wrought by bravery - by those who have had enough boldly standing up to, and yes, knocking down, those who believe themselves to be better than, more deserving of the right to vote, the right to own other human beings, the right to use a water fountain, the right to sit on a bus wherever there is a damned seat available, the right to love who they love.

I do not believe prejudices of all stripes will ever fully disappear, but they, and those who hold them, must be loudly, clearly made to understand that their bullshit is not fashionable, not virtuous, and will no longer be tolerated in the public square.  They must be squashed back into the disgusting sewers in which they fester.  

Can some of them be taught?  Of course they can.  Hell, they all can.  After all, they were taught to hate to begin with.  But it will take them having a willingness to replace what they have learned with reality.  The reality that marriage equality is not a threat to their unions.  The reality that transgender people are JUST PEOPLE.  The reality that gay does NOT = pedophile.  The reality that Islam is no more a threat than is Christianity - that the threat comes from the extremists bred in all religions.  And the reality that no matter what a person's skin color, gender, political stances, sexual orientation, accent, location - WE ALL BLEED WHEN WE ARE HURT.

49 people died in that nightclub.  Their blood was red.  Just like yours, just like mine.  And when too much of it spilled, their hearts stopped beating.  Being heterosexual does not make one bulletproof.  Being cisgendered does not make one impervious to death.

None of us gets out of this world alive.  The best we can hope for is to live many days, to fill them with wonder, experiences, good people by our sides.   To breathe deeply, and love as hard as we can.  Ask yourself today, with each breath you are privileged to take, "What am I exhaling?"

If the answer even remotely threatens the safety, security, life of someone else, use the next breath, if you are lucky enough to get a next breath, to begin to change.  

There is no pride to be had in prejudice, because as we saw just five days ago, too many people died in that prejudice.

"A nation's culture resides in the hearts and in the soul of its people."

We must do better.

You Can't Have It Both Ways

In life, I have learned that there is knowing and there is KNOWING.

And in between the two in a chasm as wide as the Grand Canyon.

Knowing is where trepidation, fears, and misgivings live.   Where we are fairly certain about a subject, a person, a discussion we must have with a person about a subject.  Where we hope that despite the tangled knots of our stomachs, we truly can predict an outcome, a reaction.

KNOWING is where the truth actually lives.  It lives in that moment when your words still hang in the air like they are caught in an ether-like confessional.  The moment when your fears are confirmed or your hopes are validated.

As I wrote about my son coming out to me - he grew up in a home where love, the unconditional kind, was like oxygen.  Where he read the words I have written for years as a staunch advocate.  He grew up in an environment where he saw and felt our openness and acceptance of all people, just as he saw our utter disdain for any type of discrimination.

So he knew.  He hoped.  

But again, there is knowing and then there is rolling the dice in the gamble of actually KNOWING.

And until he bravely said the words out loud - that he is transgender - he was still caught on the side of fear.  It was not until his words landed, and mine were given back that he crossed that Grand Canyon and arrived at KNOWING.

In the past 36 hours since waking to the news out of Orlando, I have taken that trip myself.  

I am not stupid.  I know that people are ignorant, arrogant, their attitudes rife with religious or personal certitude.  I have always known, in theory, that many of those people wish LGBTQIA people ill.  I know they consider them less, evil, sinners, consigned to hell, worthy of death.

I have spent years knowing this.

But until yesterday, when 49 bullet ridden bodies lay inside a gay nightclub, dead for the simple crime of being who they are, did I move into truly KNOWING.

KNOWING that their rhetoric is real.  KNOWING that their leadership means  the cruel, dangerous things they say.  KNOWING that my son's life is in danger simply because of who he is.

I have been sickened as profile pic after profile pic has been swathed in the filter of a rainbow flag, or switched out for the logo of the Pulse nightclub.  Just as so many flipped to graphics of the Eiffel Tower as peace symbol late last year.

I see you.  And I call bullshit.  

I call total bullshit on every hypocrite citizen and politician claiming to send "thoughts and prayers."  I call bullshit on your "heart going out."  And I call absolute bullshit on your profile pics, graphics, and backgrounds in which you now offer your sympathies.

I call bullshit because so very many of the people behind these rainbow filters are the very same willfully ignorant, heartless, arrogant cretins who have spent the past year being openly shitful about marriage equality; the past three months bitching about Target bathrooms, calling my child a pervert and a pedophile, shitting yourselves blind about the LGBT <---especially T portion - sharing bathrooms, hell, oxygen, with you.

I call bullshit because you vocally supported wannabe presidential candidates who literally attended a summit led by a minister who stood on the same stage and loudly called for the death of gay people.

I call bullshit because so many of you supported Kim Davis and her fame whoring disguised as "sanctity of marriage" parade as she refused to issue marriage licenses to same sex couples.

And I call massive bullshit because so many of you support a Republican clown car candidate who promises you he will tear down marriage equality, so we heteros can get back to owning that sanctity laden 50% divorce rate.

Sorry, hypocrites, but you are being called out.  You cannot have your hate and profile pics, too.

We can debate the ease with which Omar Mateen legally obtained his cache of weapons.  We can talk all day long about his supposed support of ISIL.  And we can argue till the cows come home about which came first, the bigotry or the terrorism?

But what is not up for debate, discussion, or political correctness is this:  YOU ARE AWFUL, HYPOCRITICAL HUMANS WHO HAVE BLOOD ON YOUR HANDS.

For every awful gay bashing meme you have posted in the past; for every armchair commando comment in which you threaten the LGBTQIA community; for every bad joke you make at their expense; for every fist pump you have done upon hearing your leaders call for "a return to family values" <---which is directly aimed at the LGBTQIA community; for every minister, preacher, priest, imam, rabbi, or deacon you have sat and listened to as they condemn them or call for their deaths - YOU ARE COMPLICIT.

The spectrum is wide and YOU are on it.  But you are not the only one on it.  Heterosexuality occupies ONE space.  And just because there are a lot of people in that ONE spot, does not mean the rest of the spots do not exist, that those people are not real.  Your inability or unwillingness to learn is not their fault.  YOU OWN THAT.

My son's life is just as valuable, hell, scratch that, MORE valuable that anyone who castigates him, condemns him, wishes him dead, because he doesn't do that to you.   Make no mistake, he knows you exist.  He knows your rhetoric exists. He sees it daily in his News Feed, in articles, hears it in speeches, feels it in sidelong glances.

But until yesterday, when he woke to the news that so many people who occupy other spectrum spots like him, were dead for the simple crime of being together and being who they are?  He did not KNOW.  Today he KNOWS deep inside that people wish him dead.  Because he is different, and they are ignorant.

As his parent, I ask you:  How would you feel to KNOW so many people want your child dead?  How would you feel to sit and imagine that those beautiful photos going up in tribute to the dead, could someday easily include your child?  Your incredible, amazing, talented, loving, big hearted, giving, contributing child.

Dead.  Just because someone is STUPID, and BRAINWASHED, and ARROGANT, and CERTAIN.

And do NOT bring Islam into this unless you are ready to bring your own religion into it, too.  I am so done with Christians who castigate Islam while behaving in the same exact way.  You know who you are.  You exalt Christianity, demand it be the national religion, pee yourselves when someone greets you with Happy Holidays -and then out of the other side of your hypocritical mouth you screech about Sharia Law.  

You cannot point a finger at Omar Mateen and blame his religion for the killing of a nightclub full of gay people and then act like your religion doesn't espouse the same damned things.  Homosexuality is not a sin.  It is an orientation.  Transgender is not a sin - it is a gender.  Heterosexuality is not the gold standard - it is simply ONE orientation.

So take your filtered profile pics down.  Spare me the "thoughts and prayers" for people you condemn 364 other days a year.  

Either finally step up, admit you know NOTHING but what you have been taught in your church, or what was handed down to you by your ignorant parents, and open your mind to learning, or SIT DOWN.

Because those of us who honor and defend the LGBTQIA community daily, those of us who love our lesbian, gay, bi, transgender, questioning, intersex, or asexual children, friends, and relatives; those of us who walk the walk 365 days a year are calling you out.

What we have spent years knowing, we now fully, painfully KNOW, and you can no longer have it both ways.

WE Are The Problem

This morning we woke to the devastating news that an estimated 50 people had been gunned down in an Orlando area night club.

Well, those of us who view everyone as equal human beings are devastated.  After all, this was a gay night club, so that severely cuts down the number of people who are horrified.

I have traveled the internet this morning reading article after article, update after update on the still unfolding situation in Orlando.  And one thing is clear - there is a lot of hatred out there.

The glee with which so many people are posting comments about the victims.  The unabashed hatred being Tweeted about them...

Those were two of the earlier offerings from the shit filled souls online.  They have only emboldened others, and the hate has proliferated in the past two hours.

Yes, armchair commandos are many - belonging to the All Chair Brigade, hiding behind their keyboards, typing bile they would be far too cowardly to ever say to one's face in the public square.  Trolls, all.  They are heinous, but the ones that truly sicken me are those who applaud this shooting while praising their version of "god" and touting their Christian bona fides.

And they are everywhere.  Which mean WE have a problem.  No, scratch that, WE are the problem.  Time after time, shooting after shooting, attack after attack, we sit back, lament the bloodshed, and yet simply hang our heads and move on till we slip in a puddle of blood in the next story.

This is not about gun grabbing.  And quite frankly, anyone out there who still thinks Obama is cummin' fer yer guns, or Hillary will be cummin' fer yer guns, or Bernie will be cummin fer yer guns?  You are an idiot.  You have been played by your leadership and you are the easily led dolt they know you to be.

No, this is about hate.  This is about ignorance.  This is about extremism.  And the part we all play in it.

(Think about that word, in general, for a moment, then look in the mirror.  What is it about you that might set someone off?  Are you fat?  I guarantee there is more than one person out there who believes you are less than them.  Are you black, brown?  Well, we know the answer there - there are untold numbers who believe you to be less, worthy of death.  Do you have red hair?  Someone out there would shoot you on sight.  Do you wear a cross?  A yarmulke? A turban? A burqa?  That symbolism alone is enough to set off someone extreme and unstable.)

Police and FBI have identified the shooter (who is dead) as Omar Mateen of Fort Pierce, Florida.  And they are investigating it as an act of terrorism.  Also investigating it as a hate crime.  But let's be honest - acts of terrorism are hate crimes.  The FBI spoke earlier referring to Mateen as "possibly an Islamic extremist."  As more details emerge it appears he called 911 about 20 minutes into his siege and declared his allegiance to ISIS.

Let me be very clear to anyone clutching their rosaries and "hating the sin, but loving the dead sinners" in this shooting - YOU are what you point your fingers at every day.  You may not be pulling a trigger, but your willingness to set yourself above others is extremism.  Just as a Muslim is an extremist if they place themselves and their worth above others.  And both sides have their share of those who go extremism one step further - shooting, stabbing, bombing anyone "different" in the name of their "god."

And just as in your case above, I place "god" in quotation marks because you have just as badly bastardized what your "god" actually stood for, preached, as do they.  (And please spare me the "but MY church is not like that" - unless YOUR church is called The Church of the One and Only, you still fall under the umbrella of your religious leadership, and support it by extension and association.  And no, you do not get to hide behind "Well, THEY are not REAL Christians, Muslims, etc.  They may be taking the playbook to extremes, but they believe the same base tenets as do you.  Owning your extremists is the first step in conquering them.)

When the waste of flesh in Colorado Springs mowed people down months back, it was Christian extremism at work.   When Paris came under attack late last year, it was Islamic extremism at work.  And no extremism is holier than the other.  They are two sides of the same bloodstained coin.  They are both wrong and need rooted out.

Your choice of story book, tenets, pulpit delivered marching orders, and flavor of "god" do not bequeath unto you the right to dictate how much humanity another person is worthy of.  And your belief in your own "goodness" and "godliness" are just that - YOUR beliefs - which are sadly often at odds with your behaviors.

Think about who you support politically.  If you lean towards a politician who is always clutching a Bible, flinging a cherry picked verse, and grandstanding about "family values," "moral decline," and "the sanctity of marriage," you need to step back and take a closer look at them and yourselves.  These politicians actively, publicly align themselves with religious leaders - CHRISTIANS - who loudly call for the death of gay people, the stoning of anyone who sits somewhere on the spectrum besides heterosexual.  

How do you possibly square that with Jesus?  Jesus, one of the most loving, accepting, forgiving, open hearted characters in all of literature.  Ten commandments that warn against killing.  Scriptures that literally say, "Judge not lest ye be judged."  And Islam?  Allah says in the Quran, "Whoever kills a person [unjustly]…it is as though he has killed all mankind."

How do you square that with your practices, your derision, your judgment, your killings?

And again, step away from the "hate the sin, love the sinner" bullshit.  YOU DO NOT.  That statement drips with condescension.  That statement is a cop out, a lie, a way to justify continued ignorance and arrogance and the complete disconnect between your faith and your actions.

Which is not different than the complete disconnect between Islam and ISIS.  Islam and every extremist in its ranks.

And oh, is it rank.

Both forms reek of hypocrisy, disease of the soul, hatred of others, and blood.

The stench of drying blood and decaying bodies sacrificed to brainwashing and sanctimony and hubris never leaves the air we breathe.  We simply have gotten used to the smell. 

An estimated 50 people lie dead this morning in Orlando, scores more lie in hospitals beds, shocked and injured.  Their biggest crime?  Being in the right place at the wrong time.

And that victim blame game is rife online right now as well.  

"Well, if they wasn't in a gay bar they would still be alive."

"Serves them queers right."

"Fags in a fag bar.  Whut they expect?"

Those are just a sampling of what's out there.

So for any of you who may have been tempted to stray that direction in your thoughts, let me explain something to you about "gay bars."  They are no different than biker bars, redneck bars, blue collar bars, wine bars, alternative music bars, sports bars, and on and on.  Gay bars are where gay people can go be together and relax, dance, drink, enjoy themselves, meet people.  

You know, like you do at your favorite hangout/watering hole where everybody might not know your name, but they share your interests and aesthetic.

For example, I care not one whit for country music.  So if I got a wild religious hair up my ass telling me that "god" hates twanging songs about keying the side of "his pretty little souped up 4 wheel drive" and those who love that sound, I could arm myself to the eyeballs, walk in, and be certain to be clearing the planet of "those people."

Maybe I decide that "god" hates NASCAR and that ovals are from the bowels of hell and those who support that pap need sent to that big Daytona 500 in the sky?  I surely would have zero problem heading to where they congregate, right?

My point is that the gay bar is not the problem any more than are the HUMAN BEINGS who go to them.  (Sidenote:  not every person in a "gay bay" is gay.)  The problem is the hatred directed at the human beings in them.  

As I wrote in May when my family came out about our son being transgender, he is not a pervert, pedophile, or monster.  Nor is anyone else who falls on the spectrum in a place other than hetero.   Being who you are and wanting to live openly and safely is not a lifestyle choice.  It is the natural human condition.

My son did not choose to be transgender.  No one would actively choose to be something that immediately targets them for hatred, derision, ass kicking, and potential death.  It is simply who he is.  And who he is is no threat to YOU.  The Christians preaching hate inside Targets - they are the threat to HIM.  The preachers at their pulpits demonizing him are the threats to HIM.  The dangerous, ugly bigots spewing their ignorance, arrogance, and certitude online this morning are the threat to HIM.  

I will say it again - HE is not a threat to YOU.

A threat to your religious hogwash?  Oh, most certainly.  LGBTQIA people are not going into bathrooms and gunning down straight people.  LGBTQIA people are not threatening you, your marriages, your lives.  But let me make this clear - your extremism in that regard is setting YOU up to be the target down the road.  Your extremism is slowly becoming less popular than limburger on a hot day.  More and more people are waking up to the severe disconnect between faith and those who use it for fraud, religion and those who use it to justify their wretched behavior, spirituality and the self righteous, wrong headed, dangerous people it spawns.  And they are leaving pews in droves.  They may not be leaving "God" but they are waking up to the fact that they will not buy into the oppressive, regressive, aggressive requirements of the faith.  And the more people who leave because they view YOU as dangerous, the closer you do move to becoming the victims your leaders like to pretend you already are.

If you are choosing to stay in those pews, if you do not share the extremist words and requirements of your leadership - regardless of the denomination; if you are tired of your particular denomination being dragged closer to the word abomination - YOU MUST STAND UP NOW.

It is not enough to denounce the behaviors of your extremists.  You must stand up to your extremists.  And if those extremists are at your pulpits, leading prayer in your temples, inciting ugliness in your mosques, you must remove them.  For every day that you allow them to castigate a whole segment of our population; every gathering in which you allow them to further brainwash another and another and another; every moment you twist uncomfortably in your pew as their words rub up against a heart that does not believe them; every second you hate the sin, but love the sinner - you condemn more and more innocent people to their graves.

This morning an estimated 50 HUMAN BEINGS were gunned down for the sin of being who they are.  The deadliest mass shooting in US history.  We may not have pulled the trigger, but we are all complicit in allowing the disease of hate to incubate. 

Freeing Yourself From The Trap Of "Normal"

"Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans." ~ John Lennnon 

Although the quote is typically attributed to John, variants of the theme can be traced back for decades before he set pen to paper for his song Beautiful Boy - the reality being readily observed in any given life on any given day at any given time in history.

Plans.

We all make them.  They are the basis of dreams, lists, goals, routine, stability.  And we humans love our routines, crave our stability.  We like to know that B does, in fact, follow A, that 2+2 will always = 4, that the road so many have traveled before us is the road that will surely see our footsteps safely arrive at the same destination.

Planning involves normalcy.  What we see repeated time and again around us.  We place a very high premium on being "normal" because "normal" seems to be socially acceptable, and socially expected.  

Think about it.  No where is this concept more drummed into us than in the peer soaked crucible that is high school.  Conformity, grades, popularity, achievement, GPAs - careful, don't stand out in a bad way.  Keep up.  It is not until we throw those matching caps in the air that we begin to suspect it was all bullshit.  A four year long Hunger Games.  Yet we still march on to the next chapters of our lives, comparing ourselves all along the way to how it has always been, how it should be, how the books dictate the experience, how our peer group is progressing.

College.  Four years.  Graduation. Job. Success. Marriage. Perfect babies. Bliss. And on and on...

So what happens when the expected and planned for collides head on with life and its desire to do as it pleases?

We falter.  We spin.  We flounder.  We are embarrassed.  We feel singled out.  We feel we have somehow failed.  We feel lost.

The past few years, I have learned much from life about my own expectations, desires, plans.  My expectations, desires, and plans for my family members.  And I have given the societal concept of the word "normal" the bum's rush from my life.

Discovering Culley was being abused threw life for a loop.  All her plans, our plans for her - they ceased to exist, ceased to matter in the face of the immediacy protecting her demanded.  College was put on hold, we moved her back home, and we set down a road we never envisioned - that of helping rebuild our broken daughter.  Just as progress was being made and new plans were being set out to re-enter college in Austin, life stepped in, flipped us the bird, and her health took center stage.  

Month after punishing month we floundered, helpless in the face of the nameless, diagnosis-less ailments that were compromising her every step.  Yet she pushed on, so we pushed on with her.  Timetables for "normal" no longer mattered.  Graduation would ultimately happen at the same time as her younger sister.

And that was fine.  Comparing her road to any of her peers was suddenly irrelevant.  Culley's life is HER life.  She is on a road that is still uncharted, yet she is happily, bravely walking it.  

Kendall owned her college years.  Doing, being, achieving, racking up accolades and 4.0s semester after semester.  Graduating summa cum laude with a four year 4.0?  Onward!  Grad school applications were sent, and despite an unblemished scholastic record, achievements to spare, and the certainty of what she wanted her next step to be?  Waitlisted.  Then nothing.

Plans?  Out the window.  Backburnered.  Put on hold.  A job at UT Southwestern Medical Center as a Research Coordinator, a continued push to get published (she did, with another journal article currently in review), and then another round of grad school applications.  Interviews, travel, and then?  Waitlisted.  Then nothing.

So she perseveres.  She works.  She gets back on the horse and will apply again and again until SHE forces another Kendall to be waitlisted somewhere and gets the acceptance she desires.  

Plans, like rules, are apparently made to be broken, rerouted, postponed, unraveled.

And then there's Toby.  If you think our "plans" ever involved a detour to this magnitude, you are daft.  We all - Toby included - planned for four years of college soccer, successes, continued accolades on and off the field.  The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat (and in soccer, de FEET).  What life had in store was depression, panic attacks, uncertainty, fear, sleepless nights, and a quest for clarity.

Like Culley discovered, college will always be there waiting when Toby is ready to return.  Four years?  Nope.  And that's fine.  The matriculation we are seeking is the acceptance into the university of his true self.  A graduation to a life that is whole, not fractured, fractioned.  He is transgender and we are all in transition with him.

A dear friend was sharing her fears over her own son's unique struggles and how hard it is to watch the various celebrations and signs going up around town congratulating graduates.  She sees this "normal" step playing out all around her and knows that it is not his to have right now.  She wrote, "But he's here. He's alive. He's happy and kind."

I replied, "^^^THIS IS EVERYTHING^^^ The past years have taught me a lot about expectations, plans, and detours.  Between Culley's abusive relationship and then health struggles throwing her so badly off course for so long, to the past year with Toby and now the decision to leave college for the time being - what I know I "want"now pales in comparison to the reality of what my people NEED.

Humbling is a stupid word, maybe. Maybe. But that is the closest I can come to explaining it.  Accepting that what I wanted or had planned or desired for each of my kids has no bearing on the reality of day-to-day life?  It has made me grow in a way I guess I had not realized I needed to grow.  I like being "in charge."  I have always liked being able to make situations bend to my will, making things happen, commanding them to happen. I now accept that HAPPY and ALIVE are the only non-negotiables I really have for my kids. College will be there when Toby is ready to step back in. Culley is still charting her course and taking each day as it comes as she decides where she next wants her life to go. Kendall is doing well, but still yearning to finally get moving into grad school - hopefully this next round.

More than ever, I take the gift of another day that is stable. Another moment where I see smiles instead of clouds in their eyes. Another night I actually sleep more than I stare into the dark trying to breathe. I know when we signed up for motherhood we knew it would not be easy, but I think we all hope, dream, plan that it will be bearable. And sometimes, it is so fucking hard it feels impossible to take another step forward.  But I can.  You can. Because our people need us to.  

Your son will get there. Maybe not on everyone else's timetable, but on his. Toby will get there, too. Their journeys are just longer. And in that, maybe there is a gift. Even through the heartaches, disappointments, struggles, and pain - we are being forged. They are being forged. And when they emerge - they (and we) will be stronger for it.

Normal is for story books, fairy tales.  Normal is meaningless.  Normal is a pipe dream.  

I laugh when I look at my marriage.   We have lived over half of our 25 years apart.  Friends look at us and shake their heads, unable to comprehend it, much less sign on to live it.  I have long said, "This is OUR normal," meaning it is what we have worked out, what involves our reality, what works for us.  

Look at your own life, your children, your relationships, your frustrations, unexpected struggles, health compromises, detours.  And then stop.  That is as far as you have to look.  Comparing your life, your road to anyone else, especially the herd, is pointless.  And if anyone tries to question your path, your timelines, your deviations from the "expected"?  Wish them well, and then move on.

Plan, yes.  But know that life will come along and yank at the rug beneath your feet at some point.   It will alter how you define "normal."  It will become what you work out, what involves your reality, what works for you and yours.

And ultimately that is all that matters.  

The Road Apple Doesn't Fall Far From The Horse's Ass

As if the heinous situation surrounding Brock Turner Stanford Rapist's slap-on-the-wrist sentence isn't bad enough, now along comes his equally miscreant father.  And one can see where the whole apple not falling far from the tree analogy comes from, only in this case, the apple is full of worms and the tree is rotten.

I am sure this father thought he was writing a sympathetic tome about his woefully misunderstood son.  Wrong.  He has just made it crystal clear why Brock Turner Stanford Rapist has yet to admit to what he was doing to an unconscious woman WHEN HE WAS CAUGHT DOING IT.

Read this pathetic screed by Dan A. Turner... advice, keep a bucket handy.

The letter was published on Twitter by Michele Dauber, the Stanford law professor who helped draft new university procedures for penalizing sexual violence. 

So, dear dad, poor little Brock's life "has been deeply altered", huh?  And his "easygoing personality and welcoming smile" have been diminished?

What, pray tell, do you think has happened to the woman he raped?  Oh, wait - SHE TOLD YOU IN COURT WHEN SHE READ HER VICTIM STATEMENT.  You must not have been paying attention.

Her life was forever altered when your son had his way with her unconscious body.  Her entire personality, ability to function, to smile, to sleep was taken from her by your cowardly little tadpole.

"His every waking moment is consumed with worry, anxiety, fear, and depression"?

GOOD.

Think about her every waking moment.  She is caught in a nightmare created by your son, a nightmare that goes on and on awake or asleep.  Here's the difference, brain trust - HE CHOSE THIS, SHE DID NOT.

Poor baby has no appetite?  Again, did you not listen to a word she read in court?  Rhetorical question, of course you didn't.

Your son lost what "he worked so hard to achieve"? 

Tough shit.  And let's get this straight, he did not lose it.  He threw it away.  Hmmm, maybe have him look in that dumpster behind which he chose to rape an unconscious woman.

A "steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action"?!?!  Who the ever loving fuck are you?

HE. RAPED. AN. UNCONSCIOUS. WOMAN. - Rape is not "action."

HE. ONLY. STOPPED. WHEN. HE. WAS. SEEN. - And he would not have stopped unless those grad students had been biking past.

HE. RAN. OFF. TO. TRY. TO. NOT. GET. CAUGHT. - Too bad they weren't chasing him in a pool.  I hear his times were pretty impressive.

Yes, daddy dearest, he has to register as a sex offender, BECAUSE HE IS A SEX OFFENDER.  See how that works?

So he has "no prior criminal history and has never been violent to anyone"?  So he should not be held accountable for raping an unconscious woman?  Poor thing, how in the world did the son of the world's stupidest man get into Stanford? I don't have a criminal record.  I'm a nice, happy going gal.  So by your logic, I should be able to shoot you in the face and not be punished.  He committed a crime.  A crime he was caught in the act of committing.  Again, see how these things are connected?  Your son is a criminal, your son belongs in jail for YEARS, not months in a county jail eligible for parole.

As for precious Brock "educating other college age students"?  I only pray she has the strength to follow through on her promise to show up anywhere your creature offspring tries to speak and actually educates the students on what his speaker status stems from.

Here's the sad thing, Dad.  Your son made choices that night.  Entitled, prickish, violent, unfeeling CHOICES to rape an unconscious woman behind a dumpster.  She did not consent, she could not consent.  She was unconscious.  But given your entitled, disconnected ramblings, it is no wonder he thought nothing of dropping trou, ripping off her clothes and getting "20 minutes of action."

It is pretty easy to see that while you may have loved your son, paid for his competitive swim career, basked in his achievements, bragged on him getting into and swimming for Stanford, you never taught him a damned thing about being a man.  A REAL MAN.  You never taught him respect, accountability, how to treat someone who is incapacitated.  So you failed, Dad.

Up until reading your pathetic prose I actually felt a little bad for you and your wife.  I understood providing him with a lawyer.  I understood how hard it must be for you to process what your child did to another human being.

I don't feel sorry for you anymore.  It is obvious you don't care what he did, just how you can spin it. 

Oh, and be sure to thank Judge Aaron Persky.  If he had actually sentenced your son to what he deserved, not this "affluenza rapist" crap, Brock Turner's name would have stayed confined to that small area in California.  But he insured that Brock Turner Stanford Rapist and now Dan A Turner Stanford Rapist's Father will be known EVERYWHERE, live on FOREVER.

My advice to you?  Stop talking.

I swear, forget trees and apples - this shit doesn't fall far from the asshole.

When The Punishment Mocks The Crime

Look at this face. LOOK. AT. IT.

Read his name.  Read it over and over like a mantra till you never forget it.  BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER. BROCK TURNER.

No, wait, not good enough.  Not clear enough as to why you need to remember.

BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST. BROCK TURNER STANFORD RAPIST.

There, that's better.  I even named the picture file Brock Turner Stanford Rapist so that when he is Googled today, tomorrow, years to come, the picture will be a road leading back here and the fury that he deserves.

Brock Turner is a 20 year old who was at Stanford University as a freshman up until his January 2015 arrest for sexually assaulting a young woman who is now 23.  She had gone to a party on campus with her younger sister.  Yes, there was drinking going on.  SO WHAT?  She admits she drank too much.  SO WHAT?  The only WHAT that matters is that Brock Allen Turner was found on top of her unconscious body - thrusting his fingers roughly inside her - by two grad students who happened to be out riding their bikes.  When he saw them see him, he ran, they gave chase, and caught the hot sack of garbage, holding him until police could get to him, and medics could get to her.

Her clothing, what he left on her body, was a mess. Underwear ripped off, dress far above her bare lower half.  She was filthy, covered in abrasions, hair and vagina covered in dirt, pine needles, debris.  Actually her vagina also contained those items.  According to police, one of the people who intervened was sobbing so hard at what he had seen that he could barely speak.

Process that.

Fast forward through a year of her falling apart, trying to reassemble into one person pieces that seemed to now belong to multiple puzzles.  A year of attempting to push for justice through a legal system bent on further victimizing her.  Same song, different shitshow.  Surely, the girl had been asking for it.  Surely, she should not have been drinking so heavily.  Surely, she is to blame for her predicament.  Add a high priced attorney paid for by Mommy and Daddy and the shit storm turned into a fecal tsunami against her.

Yet she showed up each day at the trial.  She sat through a series of heinous questions asked by his venal lawyer.  She listened as Brock got to write the script because she could not remember everything.  In his telling, the only thing he did wrong that night was drink.  That's it.  That's all.

But, lo and behold, he was found guilty.  All 12 jurors found him guilty of sexually assaulting her.  The district attorney asked for 6 years.  Quite frankly, too little for the too much he had taken.

Enter the judge who handed down a sentence that was basically another assault.  An assault on decency.  An assault on fairness.  An assault on the young woman who will never escape that night.

He sentenced Brock Turner Stanford Rapist to SIX MONTHS.

SIX MONTHS.

Why?  Because any longer than that would have a “severe impact” on young Master Turner.

(Note: that pathetic excuse for a jurist - Aaron Persky - is up for re-election.  If you live in Santa Clara county in California, get out on June 7th and vote this stain off the bench.)

I have news for Brock Turner.  Any "severe impact" that judge hoped to spare you from is just starting.  You may have wormed your way out of actual punishment = to your crime, but the Court of Public Opinion is now in session.  And your face, name, crime, and pathetic "story" are being spread far and wide thanks to the brave, heartbreaking, gutwrenching statement your victim read in court.

You will find that society is not as stupid as this judge.  Most of us out here don't have a soft spot for rapists just because they have blond hair, good teeth, and once aspired to swim in the Olympics.  Most of us out here value justice.  The decent among us put the onus on the man TO NOT BE A RAPIST.  We don't blame her skirt, her V-neck, her having a few too many shots of Fireball.

And we are connected, dear Brock.  Your face, your crime are being shared, and shared again, translated to be shared on the other side of the globe.  You and your attorney will never outrun the internet.  Because once I hit post, just as journalists, Facebook members, writers everywhere are doing - this lives forever. 

AND. YOU. CAN'T. STOP. US.

Starting to feel some emotional pine needles in your ass, Brock?  Is your brain starting to chafe, feel abraded by the knowledge that in six months your name will still bring up link after link after link after link?  Are you feeling a little violated there, Brocky, that total strangers are right on top of you, thrusting away on their keyboards, insuring you, too, will never forget that night?

GOOD.

Literally 24 hours ago I sat on the phone with a young lady I consider to be one of my extended family Sharp children.  She was less than 24 out from this very scenario playing out on her.  A night that started off innocently enough. laughs, drinks - yes, too many, SO WHAT? - and then a friend of a friend of a friend driving her somewhere, long periods she cannot remember, but oh, what she can remember will never leave her.  Because some piece of shit decided her inability to stand up and say anything, much less NO, was somehow permission for him to say YES.

And I am furious.  Because she blames herself.  She feels worthless.  She feels it says something about her.  IT DOES NOT.  I do not care how much a girl drinks, that does not give some male permission to rape her.  She did not ask for this.  And as I told her, it had nothing to do with her.  She may as well have not had a face at all.  She was opportunity.  That's it, that's all.  And it says nothing about her, but everything about him.

We have to stop talking about women in terms of clothing, hairstyles, cleavage, and school dress codes designed to keep boys from being distracted.  We need to start raising young men who are taught in no uncertain terms, TO NOT RAPE ANYONE.  Any parent of a young woman sits her daughter down before she goes out, goes off to college, and warns her to be aware, stay in pairs, watch her drinks so no one can drug them.  WE HAVE TO.  Because it is obvious that not enough parents are sitting their sons down and teaching them to be respectful, helpful, considerate, and to think not with their dicks but with their brains.  Girls are NOT opportunities.  They are human beings.  Ask your son - how about if at your first college party, after you drink a few too many, someone takes you out behind a dumpster and proceeds to rape you?  Don't worry, you won't be conscious for a lot of it, so no big.

If they recoil at the idea of someone shoving a hand, any body part, a foreign object inside them while they are incapacitated, why is it any different for a woman?  If a girl takes you out to eat and then comes on to you, do you owe her sex?  NO.  Just like she doesn't owe you a thing at the end of a date.  Not a kiss, not a handshake, not her number.  NOTHING.

I have daughters and I worry about this CONSTANTLY.

This crime plays out across the country, around the world every day, every night.  It is sadly commonplace because too many boys view girls as put here for their amusement, their pleasure, their taking.  It is a sickening mindset that permeates all levels of culture, economic strata, education.  Yes, Brock, even you, a well off little creep who got into Stanford.

Brock left the school after his arrest.  Boo hoo.  Perhaps all the swim coaches he had leading up to his swimming for Stanford - you know, the ones who surely warned him to clean up his online footprints because of how they would be looked at, tracked down, and used in the decision making that goes on by college coaches during recruiting - should have better stressed the part about behavior, photos, words LIVING FOREVER

No matter.  Where they failed, I promise you WE will not.  We are here to teach Brock Turner Stanford Rapist a lesson he will never forget.  His actual country jail time punishment may mock the crime, but the Court of Public Opinion is just getting started.  We call as our first witness, the young lady you abused:

 

Your honor,

If it is all right, for the majority of this statement I would like to address the defendant directly.

You don't know me, but you've been inside me, and that's why we're here today.

On January 17th, 2015, it was a quiet Saturday night at home. My dad made some dinner and I sat at the table with my younger sister who was visiting for the weekend. I was working full time and it was approaching my bed time. I planned to stay at home by myself, watch some TV and read, while she went to a party with her friends. Then, I decided it was my only night with her, I had nothing better to do, so why not, there's a dumb party ten minutes from my house, I would go, dance weird like a fool, and embarrass my younger sister. On the way there, I joked that undergrad guys would have braces. My sister teased me for wearing a beige cardigan to a frat party like a librarian. I called myself "big mama," because I knew I'd be the oldest one there. I made silly faces, let my guard down, and drank liquor too fast not factoring in that my tolerance had significantly lowered since college.

The next thing I remember I was in a gurney in a hallway. I had dried blood and bandages on the backs of my hands and elbow. I thought maybe I had fallen and was in an admin office on campus. I was very calm and wondering where my sister was. A deputy explained I had been assaulted. I still remained calm, assured he was speaking to the wrong person. I knew no one at this party. When I was finally allowed to use the restroom, I pulled down the hospital pants they had given me, went to pull down my underwear, and felt nothing. I still remember the feeling of my hands touching my skin and grabbing nothing. I looked down and there was nothing. The thin piece of fabric, the only thing between my vagina and anything else, was missing and everything inside me was silenced. I still don't have words for that feeling. In order to keep breathing, I thought maybe the policemen used scissors to cut them off for evidence.

Then, I felt pine needles scratching the back of my neck and started pulling them out my hair. I thought maybe, the pine needles had fallen from a tree onto my head. My brain was talking my gut into not collapsing. Because my gut was saying, help me, help me.

I shuffled from room to room with a blanket wrapped around me, pine needles trailing behind me, I left a little pile in every room I sat in. I was asked to sign papers that said "Rape Victim" and I thought something has really happened. My clothes were confiscated and I stood naked while the nurses held a ruler to various abrasions on my body and photographed them. The three of us worked to comb the pine needles out of my hair, six hands to fill one paper bag. To calm me down, they said it's just the flora and fauna, flora and fauna. I had multiple swabs inserted into my vagina and anus, needles for shots, pills, had a nikon pointed right into my spread legs. I had long, pointed beaks inside me and had my vagina smeared with cold, blue paint to check for abrasions.

After a few hours of this, they let me shower. I stood there examining my body beneath the stream of water and decided, I don't want my body anymore. I was terrified of it, I didn't know what had been in it, if it had been contaminated, who had touched it. I wanted to take off my body like a jacket and leave it at the hospital with everything else.

On that morning, all that I was told was that I had been found behind a dumpster, potentially penetrated by a stranger, and that I should get retested for HIV because results don't always show up immediately. But for now, I should go home and get back to my normal life. Imagine stepping back into the world with only that information. They gave me huge hugs, and then I walked out of the hospital into the parking lot wearing the new sweatshirt and sweatpants they provided me, as they had only allowed me to keep my necklace and shoes.

My sister picked me up, face wet from tears and contorted in anguish. Instinctively and immediately, I wanted to take away her pain. I smiled at her, I told her to look at me, I'm right here, I'm okay, everything's okay, I'm right here. My hair is washed and clean, they gave me the strangest shampoo, calm down, and look at me. Look at these funny new sweatpants and sweatshirt, I look like a P.E. teacher, let's go home, let's eat something. She did not know that beneath my sweats, I had scratches and bandages on my skin, my vagina was sore and had become a strange, dark color from all the prodding, my underwear was missing, and I felt too empty to continue to speak. That I was also afraid, that I was also devastated. That day we drove home and for hours my sister held me.

My boyfriend did not know what happened, but called that day and said, "I was really worried about you last night, you scared me, did you make it home okay?" I was horrified. That's when I learned I had called him that night in my blackout, left an incomprehensible voicemail, that we had also spoken on the phone, but I was slurring so heavily he was scared for me, that he repeatedly told me to go find my sister. Again, he asked me, "What happened last night? Did you make it home okay?" I said yes, and hung up to cry.

I was not ready to tell my boyfriend or parents that actually, I may have been raped behind a dumpster, but I don't know by who or when or how. If I told them, I would see the fear on their faces, and mine would multiply by tenfold, so instead I pretended the whole thing wasn't real.

I tried to push it out of my mind, but it was so heavy I didn't talk, I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't interact with anyone. After work, I would drive to a secluded place to scream. I didn't talk, I didn't eat, I didn't sleep, I didn't interact with anyone, and I became isolated from the ones I loved most. For one week after the incident, I didn't get any calls or updates about that night or what happened to me. The only symbol that proved that it hadn't just been a bad dream, was the sweatshirt from the hospital in my drawer.

One day, I was at work, scrolling through the news on my phone, and came across an article. In it, I read and learned for the first time about how I was found unconscious, with my hair disheveled, long necklace wrapped around my neck, bra pulled out of my dress, dress pulled off over my shoulders and pulled up above my waist, that I was butt naked all the way down to my boots, legs spread apart, and had been penetrated by a foreign object by someone I did not recognize. This was how I learned what happened to me, sitting at my desk reading the news at work. I learned what happened to me the same time everyone else in the world learned what happened to me. That's when the pine needles in my hair made sense, they didn't fall from a tree. He had taken off my underwear, his fingers had been inside of me. I don't even know this person. I still don't know this person. When I read about me like this, I said, this can't be me.

This can't be me. I could not digest or accept any of this information. I could not imagine my family having to read about this online. I kept reading. In the next paragraph, I read something that I will never forgive; I read that according to him, I liked it. I liked it. Again, I do not have words for these feelings.

At the bottom of the article, after I learned about the graphic details of my own sexual assault, the article listed his swimming times. She was found breathing, unresponsive with her underwear six inches away from her bare stomach curled in fetal position. By the way, he's really good at swimming. Throw in my mile time if that's what we're doing. I'm good at cooking, put that in there, I think the end is where you list your extra-curriculars to cancel out all the sickening things that've happened.

The night the news came out I sat my parents down and told them that I had been assaulted, to not look at the news because it's upsetting, just know that I'm okay, I'm right here, and I'm okay. But halfway through telling them, my mom had to hold me because I could no longer stand up. I was not okay.

The night after it happened, he said he didn't know my name, said he wouldn't be able to identify my face in a lineup, didn't mention any dialogue between us, no words, only dancing and kissing. Dancing is a cute term; was it snapping fingers and twirling dancing, or just bodies grinding up against each other in a crowded room? I wonder if kissing was just faces sloppily pressed up against each other? When the detective asked if he had planned on taking me back to his dorm, he said no. When the detective asked how we ended up behind the dumpster, he said he didn't know. He admitted to kissing other girls at that party, one of whom was my own sister who pushed him away. He admitted to wanting to hook up with someone. I was the wounded antelope of the herd, completely alone and vulnerable, physically unable to fend for myself, and he chose me. Sometimes I think, if I hadn't gone, then this never would've happened. But then I realized, it would have happened, just to somebody else. You were about to enter four years of access to drunk girls and parties, and if this is the foot you started off on, then it is right you did not continue.

The night after it happened, he said he thought I liked it because I rubbed his back. A back rub. Never mentioned me voicing consent, never mentioned us speaking, a back rub.

One more time, in public news, I learned that my ass and vagina were completely exposed outside, my breasts had been groped, fingers had been jabbed inside me along with pine needles and debris, my bare skin and head had been rubbing against the ground behind a dumpster, while an erect freshman was humping my half naked, unconscious body. But I don't remember, so how do I prove I didn't like it.

I thought there's no way this is going to trial; there were witnesses, there was dirt in my body, he ran but was caught. He's going to settle, formally apologize, and we will both move on. Instead, I was told he hired a powerful attorney, expert witnesses, private investigators who were going to try and find details about my personal life to use against me, find loopholes in my story to invalidate me and my sister, in order to show that this sexual assault was in fact a misunderstanding. That he was going to go to any length to convince the world he had simply been confused.

I was not only told that I was assaulted, I was told that because I couldn't remember, I technically could not prove it was unwanted. And that distorted me, damaged me, almost broke me. It is the saddest type of confusion to be told I was assaulted and nearly raped, blatantly out in the open, but we don't know if it counts as assault yet. I had to fight for an entire year to make it clear that there was something wrong with this situation.

When I was told to be prepared in case we didn't win, I said, I can't prepare for that. He was guilty the minute I woke up. No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me. Worst of all, I was warned, because he now knows you don't remember, he is going to get to write the script. He can say whatever he wants and no one can contest it. I had no power, I had no voice, I was defenseless. My memory loss would be used against me. My testimony was weak, was incomplete, and I was made to believe that perhaps, I am not enough to win this. That's so damaging. His attorney constantly reminded the jury, the only one we can believe is Brock, because she doesn't remember. That helplessness was traumatizing.

Instead of taking time to heal, I was taking time to recall the night in excruciating detail, in order to prepare for the attorney's questions that would be invasive, aggressive, and designed to steer me off course, to contradict myself, my sister, phrased in ways to manipulate my answers. Instead of his attorney saying, Did you notice any abrasions? He said, You didn't notice any abrasions, right? This was a game of strategy, as if I could be tricked out of my own worth. The sexual assault had been so clear, but instead, here I was at the trial, answering question like:

How old are you? How much do you weigh? What did you eat that day? Well what did you have for dinner? Who made dinner? Did you drink with dinner? No, not even water? When did you drink? How much did you drink? What container did you drink out of? Who gave you the drink? How much do you usually drink? Who dropped you off at this party? At what time? But where exactly? What were you wearing? Why were you going to this party? What' d you do when you got there? Are you sure you did that? But what time did you do that? What does this text mean? Who were you texting? When did you urinate? Where did you urinate? With whom did you urinate outside? Was your phone on silent when your sister called? Do you remember silencing it? Really because on page 53 I'd like to point out that you said it was set to ring. Did you drink in college? You said you were a party animal? How many times did you black out? Did you party at frats? Are you serious with your boyfriend? Are you sexually active with him? When did you start dating? Would you ever cheat? Do you have a history of cheating? What do you mean when you said you wanted to reward him? Do you remember what time you woke up? Were you wearing your cardigan? What color was your cardigan? Do you remember any more from that night? No? Okay, we'll let Brock fill it in.

I was pummeled with narrowed, pointed questions that dissected my personal life, love life, past life, family life, inane questions, accumulating trivial details to try and find an excuse for this guy who didn't even take the time to ask me for my name, who had me naked a handful of minutes after seeing me. After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions designed to attack me, to say see, her facts don't line up, she's out of her mind, she's practically an alcoholic, she probably wanted to hook up, he's like an athlete right, they were both drunk, whatever, the hospital stuff she remembers is after the fact, why take it into account, Brock has a lot at stake so he's having a really hard time right now.

And then it came time for him to testify. This is where I became revictimized. I want to remind you, the night after it happened he said he never planned to take me back to his dorm. He said he didn't know why we were behind a dumpster. He got up to leave because he wasn't feeling well when he was suddenly chased and attacked. Then he learned I could not remember.

So one year later, as predicted, a new dialogue emerged. Brock had a strange new story, almost sounded like a poorly written young adult novel with kissing and dancing and hand holding and lovingly tumbling onto the ground, and most importantly in this new story, there was suddenly consent. One year after the incident, he remembered, oh yeah, by the way she actually said yes, to everything, so.

He said he had asked if I wanted to dance. Apparently I said yes. He'd asked if I wanted to go to his dorm, I said yes. Then he asked if he could finger me and I said yes. Most guys don't ask, Can I finger you? Usually there's a natural progression of things, unfolding consensually, not a Q and A. But apparently I granted full permission. He's in the clear.

Even in this story, there's barely any dialogue; I only said a total of three words before he had me half naked on the ground. I have never been penetrated after three words. He didn't claim to hear me speak one full sentence that night, so in the news when it says we "met", I'm not sure I would go so far as to say that. Future reference, if you are confused about whether a girl can consent, see if she can speak an entire sentence. You couldn't even do that. Just one coherent string of words. If she can't do that, then no. Don't touch her, just no. Not maybe, just no. Where was the confusion? This is common sense, human decency.

According to him, the only reason we were on the ground was because I fell down. Note; if a girl falls help her get back up. If she is too drunk to even walk and falls, do not mount her, hump her, take off her underwear, and insert your hand inside her vagina. If a girl falls help her up. If she is wearing a cardigan over her dress don't take it off so that you can touch her breasts. Maybe she is cold, maybe that's why she wore the cardigan. If her bare ass and legs are rubbing the pinecones and needles, while the weight of you pushes into her, get off her.

Next in the story, two people approached you. You ran because you said you felt scared. I argue that you were scared because you'd be caught, not because you were scared of two terrifying Swedish grad students. The idea that you thought you were being attacked out of the blue was ludicrous. That it had nothing to do with you being on top my unconscious body. You were caught red handed, with no explanation. When they tackled you why didn't say, "Stop! Everything's okay, go ask her, she's right over there, she'll tell you." I mean you had just asked for my consent, right? I was awake, right? When the policeman arrived and interviewed the evil Swede who tackled you, he was crying so hard he couldn't speak because of what he'd seen. Also, if you really did think they were dangerous, you just abandoned a half-naked girl to run and save yourself. No matter which way you frame it, it doesn't make sense.

Your attorney has repeatedly pointed out, well we don't know exactly when she became unconscious. And you're right, maybe I was still fluttering my eyes and wasn't completely limp yet, fine. His guilt did not depend on him knowing the exact second that I became unconscious, that is never what this was about. I was slurring, too drunk to consent way before I was on the ground. I should have never been touched in the first place. Brock stated, "At no time did I see that she was not responding. If at any time I thought she was not responding, I would have stopped immediately." Here's the thing; if your plan was to stop only when I was literally unresponsive, then you still do not understand. You didn't even stop when I was unconscious anyway! Someone else stopped you. Two guys on bikes noticed I wasn't moving in the dark and had to tackle you. How did you not notice while on top of me?

You said, you would have stopped and gotten help. You say that, but I want you to explain how you would've helped me, step by step, walk me through this. I want to know, if those evil Swedes had not found me, how the night would have played out. I am asking you; Would you have pulled my underwear back on over my boots? Untangled the necklace wrapped around my neck? Closed my legs, covered me? Tucked my bra back into my dress? Would you have helped me pick the needles from my hair? Asked if the abrasions on my neck and bottom hurt? Would you then go find a friend and say, Will you help me get her somewhere warm and soft? I don't sleep when I think about the way it could have gone if the Swedes had never come. What would have happened to me? That's what you'll never have a good answer for, that's what you can't explain even after a year.

To sit under oath and inform all of us, that yes I wanted it, yes I permitted it, and that you are the true victim attacked by guys for reasons unknown to you is sick, is demented, is selfish, is stupid. It shows that you were willing to go to any length, to discredit me, invalidate me, and explain why it was okay to hurt me. You tried unyieldingly to save yourself, your reputation, at my expense.

My family had to see pictures of my head strapped to a gurney full of pine needles, of my body in the dirt with my eyes closed, dress hiked up, limbs limp in the dark. And then even after that, my family had to listen to your attorney say, the pictures were after the fact, we can dismiss them. To say, yes her nurse confirmed there was redness and abrasions inside her, but that's what happens when you finger someone, and he's already admitted to that. To listen to him use my own sister against me. To listen him attempt to paint of a picture of me, the seductive party animal, as if somehow that would make it so that I had this coming for me. To listen to him say I sounded drunk on the phone because I'm silly and that's my goofy way of speaking. To point out that in the voicemail, I said I would reward my boyfriend and we all know what I was thinking. I assure you my rewards program is non-transferable, especially to any nameless man that approaches me.

The point is, this is everything my family and I endured during the trial. This is everything I had to sit through silently, taking it, while he shaped the evening. It is enough to be suffering. It is another thing to have someone ruthlessly working to diminish the gravity and validity of this suffering. But in the end, his unsupported statements and his attorney's twisted logic fooled no one. The truth won, the truth spoke for itself.

You are guilty. Twelve jurors convicted you guilty of three felony counts beyond reasonable doubt, that's twelve votes per count, thirty-six yeses confirming guilt, that's one hundred percent, unanimous guilt. And I thought finally it is over, finally he will own up to what he did, truly apologize, we will both move on and get better. Then I read your statement.

If you are hoping that one of my organs will implode from anger and I will die, I'm almost there. You are very close. Assault is not an accident. This is not a story of another drunk college hook-up with poor decision making. Somehow, you still don't get it. Somehow, you still sound confused.

I will now take this opportunity to read portions of the defendant's statement and respond to them.

You said, Being drunk I just couldn't make the best decisions and neither could she.

Alcohol is not an excuse. Is it a factor? Yes. But alcohol was not the one who stripped me, fingered me, had my head dragging against the ground, with me almost fully naked. Having too much to drink was an amateur mistake that I admit to, but it is not criminal. Everyone in this room has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much, or knows someone close to them who has had a night where they have regretted drinking too much. Regretting drinking is not the same as regretting sexual assault. We were both drunk, the difference is I did not take off your pants and underwear, touch you inappropriately, and run away. That's the difference.

You said, If I wanted to get to know her, I should have asked for her number, rather than asking her to go back to my room.

I'm not mad because you didn't ask for my number. Even if you did know me, I would not want be in this situation. My own boyfriend knows me, but if he asked to finger me behind a dumpster, I would slap him. No girl wants to be in this situation. Nobody. I don't care if you know their phone number or not.

You said, I stupidly thought it was okay for me to do what everyone around me was doing, which was drinking. I was wrong.

Again, you were not wrong for drinking. Everyone around you was not sexually assaulting me. You were wrong for doing what nobody else was doing, which was pushing your erect dick in your pants against my naked, defenseless body concealed in a dark area, where partygoers could no longer see or protect me, and own my sister could not find me. Sipping fireball is not your crime. Peeling off and discarding my underwear like a candy wrapper to insert your finger into my body, is where you went wrong. Why am I still explaining this.

You said, During the trial I didn't want to victimize her at all. That was just my attorney and his way of approaching the case.

Your attorney is not your scapegoat, he represents you. Did your attorney say some incredulously infuriating, degrading things? Absolutely. He said you had an erection, because it was cold. I have no words.

You said, you are in the process of establishing a program for high school and college students in which you speak about your experience to "speak out against the college campus drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that."

Speak out against campus drinking culture. That's what we're speaking out against? You think that's what I've spent the past year fighting for? Not awareness about campus sexual assault, or rape, or learning to recognize consent. Campus drinking culture. Down with Jack Daniels. Down with Skyy Vodka. If you want talk to high school kids about drinking go to an AA meeting. You realize, having a drinking problem is different than drinking and then forcefully trying to have sex with someone? Show men how to respect women, not how to drink less.

Drinking culture and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Goes along with that, like a side effect, like fries on the side of your order. Where does promiscuity even come into play? I don't see headlines that read, Brock Turner, Guilty of drinking too much and the sexual promiscuity that goes along with that. Campus Sexaul Assault. There's your first powerpoint slide.

I have done enough explaining. You do not get to shrug your shoulders and be confused anymore. You do not get to pretend that there were no red flags. You do not get to not know why you ran. You have been convicted of violating me with malicious intent, and all you can admit to is consuming alcohol. Do not talk about the sad way your life was upturned because alcohol made you do bad things. Figure out how to take responsibility for your own conduct.

Lastly you said, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin a life.

Ruin a life, one life, yours, you forgot about mine. Let me rephrase for you, I want to show people that one night of drinking can ruin two lives. You and me. You are the cause, I am the effect. You have dragged me through this hell with you, dipped me back into that night again and again. You knocked down both our towers, I collapsed at the same time you did. Your damage was concrete; stripped of titles, degrees, enrollment. My damage was internal, unseen, I carry it with me. You took away my worth, my privacy, my energy, my time, my safety, my intimacy, my confidence, my own voice, until today.

See one thing we have in common is that we were both unable to get up in the morning. I am no stranger to suffering. You made me a victim. In newspapers my name was "unconscious intoxicated woman", ten syllables, and nothing more than that. For a while, I believed that that was all I was. I had to force myself to relearn my real name, my identity. To relearn that this is not all that I am. That I am not just a drunk victim at a frat party found behind a dumpster, while you are the All-American swimmer at a top university, innocent until proven guilty, with so much at stake. I am a human being who has been irreversibly hurt, who waited a year to figure out if I was worth something.

My independence, natural joy, gentleness, and steady lifestyle I had been enjoying became distorted beyond recognition. I became closed off, angry, self-deprecating, tired, irritable, empty. The isolation at times was unbearable. You cannot give me back the life I had before that night either. While you worry about your shattered reputation, I refrigerated spoons every night so when I woke up, and my eyes were puffy from crying, I would hold the spoons to my eyes to lessen the swelling so that I could see. I showed up an hour late to work every morning, excused myself to cry in the stairwells, I can tell you all the best places in that building to cry where no one can hear you, the pain became so bad that I had to tell my boss I was leaving, I needed time because continuing day to day was not possible. I used my savings to go as far away as I could possibly be.

I can't sleep alone at night without having a light on, like a five year old, because I have nightmares of being touched where I cannot wake up, I did this thing where I waited until the sun came up and I felt safe enough to sleep. For three months, I went to bed at six o'clock in the morning.

I used to pride myself on my independence, now I am afraid to go on walks in the evening, to attend social events with drinking among friends where I should be comfortable being. I have become a little barnacle always needing to be at someone's side, to have my boyfriend standing next to me, sleeping beside me, protecting me. It is embarrassing how feeble I feel, how timidly I move through life, always guarded, ready to defend myself, ready to be angry.

You have no idea how hard I have worked to rebuild parts of me that are still weak. It took me eight months to even talk about what happened. I could no longer connect with friends, with everyone around me. I would scream at my boyfriend, my own family whenever they brought this up. You never let me forget what happened to me. At the of end of the hearing, the trial, I was too tired to speak. I would leave drained, silent. I would go home turn off my phone and for days I would not speak. You bought me a ticket to a planet where I lived by myself. Every time a new article come out, I lived with the paranoia that my entire hometown would find out and know me as the girl who got assaulted. I didn't want anyone's pity and am still learning to accept victim as part of my identity. You made my own hometown an uncomfortable place to be.

Someday, you can pay me back for my ambulance ride and therapy. But you cannot give me back my sleepless nights. The way I have broken down sobbing uncontrollably if I'm watching a movie and a woman is harmed, to say it lightly, this experience has expanded my empathy for other victims. I have lost weight from stress, when people would comment I told them I've been running a lot lately. There are times I did not want to be touched. I have to relearn that I am not fragile, I am capable, I am wholesome, not just livid and weak.

I want to say this. All the crying, the hurting you have imposed on me, I can take it. But when I see my younger sister hurting, when she is unable to keep up in school, when she is deprived of joy, when she is not sleeping, when she is crying so hard on the phone she is barely breathing, telling me over and over she is sorry for leaving me alone that night, sorry sorry sorry, when she feels more guilt than you, then I do not forgive you. That night I had called her to try and find her, but you found me first. Your attorney's closing statement began, "My sister said she was fine and who knows her better than her sister." You tried to use my own sister against me. Your points of attack were so weak, so low, it was almost embarrassing. You do not touch her.

If you think I was spared, came out unscathed, that today I ride off into sunset, while you suffer the greatest blow, you are mistaken. Nobody wins. We have all been devastated, we have all been trying to find some meaning in all of this suffering.

You should have never done this to me. Secondly, you should have never made me fight so long to tell you, you should have never done this to me. But here we are. The damage is done, no one can undo it. And now we both have a choice. We can let this destroy us, I can remain angry and hurt and you can be in denial, or we can face it head on, I accept the pain, you accept the punishment, and we move on.

Your life is not over, you have decades of years ahead to rewrite your story. The world is huge, it is so much bigger than Palo Alto and Stanford, and you will make a space for yourself in it where you can be useful and happy. Right now your name is tainted, so I challenge you to make a new name for yourself, to do something so good for the world, it blows everyone away. You have a brain and a voice and a heart. Use them wisely. You possess immense love from your family. That alone can pull you out of anything. Mine has held me up through all of this. Yours will hold you and you will go on.

I believe, that one day, you will understand all of this better. I hope you will become a better more honest person who can properly use this story to prevent another story like this from ever happening again. I fully support your journey to healing, to rebuilding your life, because that is the only way you'll begin to help others.

Now to address the sentencing. When I read the probation officer's report, I was in disbelief, consumed by anger which eventually quieted down to profound sadness. My statements have been slimmed down to distortion and taken out of context. I fought hard during this trial and will not have the outcome minimized by a probation officer who attempted to evaluate my current state and my wishes in a fifteen minute conversation, the majority of which was spent answering questions I had about the legal system. The context is also important. Brock had yet to issue a statement, and I had not read his remarks.

My life has been on hold for over a year, a year of anger, anguish and uncertainty, until a jury of my peers rendered a judgment that validated the injustices I had endured. Had Brock admitted guilt and remorse and offered to settle early on, I would have considered a lighter sentence, respecting his honesty, grateful to be able to move our lives forward. Instead he took the risk of going to trial, added insult to injury and forced me to relive the hurt as details about my personal life and sexual assault were brutally dissected before the public. He pushed me and my family through a year of inexplicable, unnecessary suffering, and should face the consequences of challenging his crime, of putting my pain into question, of making us wait so long for justice.

I told the probation officer I do not want Brock to rot away in prison. I did not say he does not deserve to be behind bars. The probation officer's recommendation of a year or less in county jail is a soft time-out, a mockery of the seriousness of his assaults, and of the consequences of the pain I have been forced to endure. I also told the probation officer that what I truly wanted was for Brock to get it, to understand and admit to his wrongdoing.

Unfortunately, after reading the defendant's statement, I am severely disappointed and feel that he has failed to exhibit sincere remorse or responsibility for his conduct. I fully respected his right to a trial, but even after twelve jurors unanimously convicted him guilty of three felonies, all he has admitted to doing is ingesting alcohol. Someone who cannot take full accountability for his actions does not deserve a mitigating sentence. It is deeply offensive that he would try and dilute rape with a suggestion of promiscuity. By definition rape is the absence of promiscuity, rape is the absence of consent, and it perturbs me deeply that he can't even see that distinction.

The probation officer factored in that the defendant is youthful and has no prior convictions. In my opinion, he is old enough to know what he did was wrong. When you are eighteen in this country you can go to war. When you are nineteen, you are old enough to pay the consequences for attempting to rape someone. He is young, but he is old enough to know better.

As this is a first offense I can see where leniency would beckon. On the other hand, as a society, we cannot forgive everyone's first sexual assault or digital rape. It doesn't make sense. The seriousness of rape has to be communicated clearly, we should not create a culture that suggests we learn that rape is wrong through trial and error. The consequences of sexual assault needs to be severe enough that people feel enough fear to exercise good judgment even if they are drunk, severe enough to be preventative. The fact that Brock was a star athlete at a prestigious university should not be seen as an entitlement to leniency, but as an opportunity to send a strong cultural message that sexual assault is against the law regardless of social class.

The probation officer weighed the fact that he has surrendered a hard earned swimming scholarship. If I had been sexually assaulted by an un-athletic guy from a community college, what would his sentence be? If a first time offender from an underprivileged background was accused of three felonies and displayed no accountability for his actions other than drinking, what would his sentence be? How fast he swims does not lessen the impact of what happened to me.

The Probation Officer has stated that this case, when compared to other crimes of similar nature, may be considered less serious due to the defendant's level of intoxication. It felt serious. That's all I'm going to say.

He is a lifetime sex registrant. That doesn't expire. Just like what he did to me doesn't expire, doesn't just go away after a set number of years. It stays with me, it's part of my identity, it has forever changed the way I carry myself, the way I live the rest of my life.

A year has gone by and he has had lots of time on his hands. Has he been seeing a psychologist? What has he done in this past year to show he's been progressing? If he says he wants to implement programs, what has he done to show for it?

Throughout incarceration I hope he is provided with appropriate therapy and resources to rebuild his life. I request that he educates himself about the issue of campus sexual assault. I hope he accepts proper punishment and pushes himself to reenter society as a better person.

To conclude, I want to say thank you. To everyone from the intern who made me oatmeal when I woke up at the hospital that morning, to the deputy who waited beside me, to the nurses who calmed me, to the detective who listened to me and never judged me, to my advocates who stood unwaveringly beside me, to my therapist who taught me to find courage in vulnerability, to my boss for being kind and understanding, to my incredible parents who teach me how to turn pain into strength, to my friends who remind me how to be happy, to my boyfriend who is patient and loving, to my unconquerable sister who is the other half of my heart, to Alaleh, my idol, who fought tirelessly and never doubted me. Thank you to everyone involved in the trial for their time and attention. Thank you to girls across the nation that wrote cards to my DA to give to me, so many strangers who cared for me.

Most importantly, thank you to the two men who saved me, who I have yet to meet. I sleep with two bicycles that I drew taped above my bed to remind myself there are heroes in this story. That we are looking out for one another. To have known all of these people, to have felt their protection and love, is something I will never forget.

And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you. On nights when you feel alone, I am with you. When people doubt you or dismiss you, I am with you. I fought everyday for you. So never stop fighting, I believe you. Lighthouses don't go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining. Although I can't save every boat, I hope that by speaking today, you absorbed a small amount of light, a small knowing that you can't be silenced, a small satisfaction that justice was served, a small assurance that we are getting somewhere, and a big, big knowing that you are important, unquestionably, you are untouchable, you are beautiful, you are to be valued, respected, undeniably, every minute of every day, you are powerful and nobody can take that away from you. To girls everywhere, I am with you. Thank you.

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Click to read my follow-up piece on his father's response: The Road Apple Does Not Fall Far From The Horse's Ass

Breaking It Down (sharing it here as well as the Transparent blog)

Last night, one of my online friends posed a series of questions regarding differences.  Gay?  Trans? I was more than happy to answer and extend the dialogue which then grew to sexuality questions.  Any questions, sincerely asked, are not stupid.  And I applaud anyone who steps forward to ask and acknowledge they have a blank that needs filled in, an area that is murky and needs clarified.  Again, why my family is united in being public and open about our transition with Toby.

What struck me as I discussed her questions with Toby was how basic the requested information was. I am not a stupid person.  But my understanding and vocabulary have expanded exponentially since Toby came out to me a little over a year ago. Not much different than last year when my brother-in-law had prostate cancer or 15+ years ago when he had a massive heart bypass. You become an expert when something touches your life. And let's face it - even though the spectrum has existed as long as people have existed, these words just were not in the day-to-day vernacular when people my age were growing up.  I can certainly look back at my high school days and now go, "Oh!  Yeah, HE was totally gay."  But back then?  I had zero clue, understanding, or vocabulary.

So to that end, I asked Toby to break it down, to help educate and expand the knowledge / understanding for anyone who is interested.  And I hope you are interested.  One should never stop learning, seeking to know more.  Knowledge is fear's biggest nemesis.  It is the cure for the cancer of arrogant, willful ignorance.  Because when you understand something, the mystery is stripped away.  So, with that said, take it away, Toby...

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Gender and Sexuality can go hand in hand together but are not at all the same thing. People tend to lump the two of them together, or say it’s too confusing to try and riddle out. In reality, it’s a lot simpler than it might seem.

Gender and Sexuality are both things you know yourself to be, but cover two different parts of your identity. Gender is who you know yourself as. Sexuality is who you know yourself to be romantically or sexually attracted to. In basic terms, it’s really simple, but some people still think it’s a choice you make consciously.

So, do you wake up everyday and have to remind yourself “Oh I’m a heterosexual female.” Or “Don’t forget Fred, you’re a Bisexual man.” No, because it’s such a natural part of you that it’s not something that has to be consciously thought upon.

But something that can get a little trickier for those not as well versed in such terminology are the labels that go with every sexuality and gender.

Ok, and I can already hear some inevitable person clicking away at their keyboard to type up a half thought out vaguely homophobic or transphobic response to that word, “Labels.” That why should labels even matter?? Can’t we all just drop labels because it really matters about what kind of person you are and well I’m straight but I don’t go parading it around.

Well, One: Yes you do.  Just like being white has an inherent privilege that you’d have to be daft to ignore, being a heterosexual cisgendered person gives you another point on that privilege scale. We’re born into an incredibly heteronormative society and we grow up with every movie, every TV show we watch, every story anywhere and everywhere where someone like me might look to find someone like myself, I instead got indoctrinated into thinking being heterosexual was the norm and anything else was different and bad. Honestly, the few LGBT characters I did get, magically get killed off for whatever reason, but always with the undertone that they died because they were gay.

So, that was fun stuff to grow up with and then try to process through as a teenager trying to come to terms with loving myself after years and years of being told by society I was morally wrong.

Anyway, the labels thing. At a surface level, that argument may seem like it has some merit, but more often than not it’s coming from someone who has consistently been reassured that they are normal and they are valid in being who they are because it’s considered the norm. It never comes from someone who at some point felt entirely alone because they didn’t know anyone like them, and being somewhere like that is scary and it hurts.

Labels are important to me because after 4 years of grasping at straws and trying to find something, anything that fit me and who I knew I was, finally coming to terms with the word transgender has brought such a sense of comfort and pride that I would have never felt years ago.

It’s almost like a few years ago when my oldest sister was going through some funky weird medical stuff. We had zero idea what was going on with her and neither did the doctors. We really just got to the point we were so frustrated with not knowing what was going on that we were desperate for just a word. Any word that could label what was happening with her so we could point a finger at it and say “that’s it, that’s what is happening to her.” Just so we had something to hold onto so we didn’t have to deal with drifting in some weird medical limbo of what her diagnosis was.

That’s what claiming the word transgender has meant to me. Finally grabbing onto it after floating for years in a weird identity limbo where I felt alone and like I couldn’t talk to anyone about it, was one of the scariest but also the most liberating moments of my life.

That’s only one part of it, labels can also give you a whole new group of people to rely on and talk with if you need help.

I am pansexual. Hardly anyone knows what pansexuality is. But, other pan people know what pansexuality is. Other pan people understand having to come out and sometimes being met with, “Well isn’t that bisexual?” Other pan people understand having little to no visibility in mainstream media. (Except my main man, Deadpool, who, yes, IS pansexual as clearly defined by the Deadpool creators. He’s one of my few pansexual characters in mainstream media, don’t take that from me.)

Anyway, the point is, labels also give you a whole group of people who have shared experiences with you and can be a great support group. It’s like if you go to a support group for people who have depression, or cancer, or hell, even just alcohol abuse. The point is being able to meet people who are dealing with what you are going through, finding comfort knowing you aren’t alone, and being able to share and support others who are struggling. THAT is what a label, however “superficial” it might seem, can do.

So, now that my two cents are out there on that, let me explain what some of these labels actually are, starting with sexualities. For this, I like to use a very simple but really effective analogy that I used to teach my roommates about this at college.

Doors.

So doors are really cool, right? And there are A LOT of different doors.

Some doors only open up one way. Some doors open up the other way. Nothing wrong with either of those doors, they’re just both doors. Right? So that would be heterosexuality and homosexuality.

Some doors open up BOTH ways. Bisexuality, which is the attraction to two different genders. Notice I didn’t say male and female. That usually is the case but keep in mind there are more than two genders.

Now some doors, are revolving doors, and they open up a bunch of different ways and it spins around and wow, it’s just fun. That would be pansexuality which is me! Pansexuality is attraction to any and ALL genders. AGAIN, notice I didn’t say male and female, there are more than two. A lot more than two. We’ll get to that later.

Some doors only open up if you have a key, but you have to go through a lot of bonding with the door to get the key. That’s demisexuality. Demisexuality is someone who does not experience sexual attraction unless they form a very close, very special bond with another person. Now I know you might say, “well, isn’t that everyone?” No. Have you ever been sexually attracted to a random celebrity or maybe just someone you hooked up with at a party? Then no. You aren’t demisexual.

And finally, some doors are actually just a wall. And that means asexuality. Asexuality gets A LOT of unnecessary flack just because people don’t try and understand what it is. Asexuality doesn’t mean you can’t have sex, it just means you prefer not to. Some are sex repulsed and refuse, some are actually ok with sex if they want to do so for their partner. Everyone is different and everyone has their own place in their identity. Also going a bit hand in hand with asexuality is something called aromantic, someone who experiences little to no romantic attraction to others. And no, they are not broken, they are just who they are. It’s easy as that.

Moving onto gender, where again, spoiler alert, there are more than two.

People nowadays only think of gender in terms of Male and Female, or if you’re a little more savvy, adding Cis and Trans onto that.

So cisgender is someone who experiences that the gender they were assigned at birth matches their gender identity. Trans is someone who experiences that the gender they were assigned does NOT match their gender identity.

Obviously, transgender individuals have received a lot of spotlight recently, but there’s more beyond that. There’s a whole other subset of being trans that I call the non binary umbrella.

Non Binary is an all-encompassing category that involves anyone who is not exclusively male or female. So just saying you’re non binary could be someone’s gender. There’s also genderfluid, which means you fluctuate back and forth on the spectrum of gender. Bigender means fluctuating between two distinct genders. Agender means the absence of a gender. And it can go on and on, because gender and sexuality are both these BIG spectrums that everyone has their own distinct place on.

Moving on from that, pronouns. Just to make this simple, if someone says they are a girl and want she/her pronouns? Use them. If someone says they are genderfluid and prefer they/them pronouns, use them. If someone says they are agender and want you to refer to them with zey/zir pronouns, USE THEM. It’s the simplest thing you can do to validate someone, and if you aren’t sure of someone’s pronouns, just ask. It’s not that big of a deal and I assure you, your vague discomfort in having to adjust your speech is outweighed immeasurably by the pain someone feels when you refer to them the wrong way.

So that is basically the long and short of it, and hopefully this has cleared up some misconceptions or just helped you learn a little more. If you have anymore questions just send them my way because I’m glad to answer them.

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Editor's note:  Have I mentioned how proud I am be Toby's mother?