Last summer I bought this hat when I drove ALONE from Alaska to Idaho. That was ten days on the road all by my lonesome through the wild Yukon territory. It was a very big deal for me, considering my deep and irrational fear of being murdered. I once said to my husband, “I don’t know why I am so scared of murderers.” He replied: “I am also scared of murderers. . I just don’t think they are everywhere.”
Fair point. But, in my defense, I have a murderer fear origin story:
When I was in high school a friend and I were driving home from a night of fun in Raleigh. It was a two hour drive and I was starting to drift off. I asked Heather to tell me scary stories to keep me awake. Boy, did she step up to the challenge. What ensued was an hour of blood chilling terror–messages in blood on dorm room windows, bloody hooks hanging from car doors, ominous scrapings on windows. I was awake alright, I was downright terrified. When I dropped her off at her house I ordered her to go in and call my parents (this was 1900s era life without cell phones. . .how did we survive?) and inform them that I was scared out of my mind and to turn every light in the house on. She agreed and I continued home, white knuckle grip on the steering wheel.
That’s when I noticed my gas tank, the empty one. The last thing I needed was to run out of gas and let the bad guys find me on the side of the road to have their way with me. So, I pulled into the gas station, parked in front of a pump and opened the door.
I read an article in the Reader’s Digest once about how mercenaries sometimes hide under parked cars so they can slice a woman’s achilles heel, rendering her helpless in their grasp. I’m not sure how such a mercenary could have snuck under my car in the five seconds since I arrived at the pump, but I took a very long step when climbing out of the car, just to be sure. They very well could have been hanging on to the undercarriage for miles, patiently waiting for just this moment. I put exactly two dollars of gas in my car, keeping my vulnerable achilles heels at least three feet away from the vehicle. This, back in those days, was enough to get me home. Then, I checked the back seat for any murderers that might have snuck in whilst I was fueling and checked the trunk. No murderer. Check. I walked around the car. No bloody hooks. Check. All was well.
I grew up on an old tobacco farm in NC, with a long driveway and a tranquil setting. You know, the perfect place for murderers to hide. When I pulled up to my house, I arranged my keys into a Wolverine-esque pattern between my fingers, thus allowing me to punch and stab at the same time. (Any woman who has ever walked through a darkened parking lot is nodding her head right now. Yep.) Scanning the dark fields around my house, I began to sprint to my door. Alas,I was not fast enough.
A figure in black stopped me, wrapped his arms around me, and held me fast. I let fly one of those out of body screams and began punching with everything I had. One arm released me and pulled off the ski mask. A familiar voice rang through the air, “Morgen! Morgen! It’s me. It’s Dad. Morgen, stop. It’s me. It’s Dad.”
I did not stop. Oh no, I punched harder, punctuating each blow with an “I. Hate. You.” I fled inside and left him there to ponder on his gross miscalculation of this situation.
And my husband wonders why I have trust issues.
My point is this: I think the majority of men live out their lives blissfully unaware of the kinds of fears women walk with. There is a vulnerability we carry, though I acknowledge some carry more than others. Not every daughter was raised by a father who repeatedly told her that men are “hunters” and so you have to be careful around them–a fact reinforced by said father jumping out of the woods dressed in black to seize his already frightened daughter. Man, it is a very good thing that I’m married to a therapist.
The Frozen River is a book that will remind us, in no uncertain terms, that injustice has been around for a very long time and it likely isn’t going anywhere. Things are better, but they are not fixed. There will always be a physical imbalance even as the other imbalances get closer to fair. There are still far too many conversations about how women can avoid getting raped and far too few about how to help men not become rapists. Our voices are still not equally heard, our work still not equally valued.
And, the river is moving. I believe in the good things that happen. I believe things are better than they were in the “good old days.” And they will only keep getting better if we keep telling stories, listening to each other and empower both men and women to feel safe, heard, and equal. This cannot be a see-saw kind of journey, lifting women up by pushing men down. Not all men are lurking in the woods waiting to hurt us. We can ride an elevator together, rising together, believing in each other and deeply listening to what we have to say.
Like, just for an example, listening when someone tells you that your little girl is scared. Then, perhaps, you wait for her in the living room with a hug and not in the woods with a ski mask.
You know, it’s the little things.
P.S.--I totally ignored my family two nights in a row to devour this book. I absolutely recommend it.
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