At eleven, my daughter's fears were getting mauled by a tiger, injured a car crash and being a victim of rape. We talked a lot over the years about sex, sexuality and patriarchy, music lyrics and power, media, shame and the law, discretion, integrity and the whispered fragility of boys.
At sixteen, I rocked her as she wept. Her slender shoulders were violent from crying. One of her friends had been raped. Months ago, but was only beginning to share. Months ago, when she started losing weight, stopped hanging out before pre-calc, and kept exhaustion shadowed beneath her makeup contours. We sat crouched on the stairs leading up to my room. She'd called out my name from the dark hall. Her voice, normally expectant and full, had been small and reaching. I peeled away from my husband to find her on the landing, shaking.
My daughter felt helpless and hurt that her friend had gone through so much all alone. That she didn't know. Couldn't have known. That it was so unfair. That she was scared for her friend, too. I was touched at how deeply my daughter empathized with her friend's hurt and isolation. An inappropriate moment to be proud of your kid, I suppose, but there it was. A swelling pride at the person she kept choosing to be.
I ached for her, too. For us all, really. For some easy platitude that wouldn't cut like sharp plastic in my mouth. It wasn't alright. It might not get better. It was something she'd have to worry about, too. Always.
At eighteen, my daughter is undertaking an intense study of coeds. On par, her first semester in college introduced many prerequisite truths: roommates need boundaries, eight a.m. classes are the devil, tequila is a fickle friend and shooters gonna shoot their shot. In her first month or so, I had to tell her that, unfortunately, she wasn't allowed to be surprised anymore by young men expressing their attraction to her. Especially when they're alone. She was to have expectations, of course, but the society we live in couldn't allow her to be surprised. Graduating from a predominantly white, private high school, she didn't have dating experiences. She was popular, pretty and happy, but didn't have many options at her school, once you counted out the single black boys who weren't also her best friends. (The white ones liked her too. But, that's another conversation for another day.)
I lived the same experience. I graduated from a class of 116, with only 4 blacks... and 3 of us girls. I was popular, active and happy, too. But because I hadn't experienced dating (white boys in the 80s? So not ready...) I only had a theory that I was cute. When I landed on a college campus, it was exhilarating and terrifying all at once. Me, the cute girl for a change. Me, giving out my phone number and actually getting calls. Me, blushing at generic compliments and still enjoying its artificial flavors. My daughter left home with a fierce self-awareness that I have only come to possess. She wasn't wooed by bullshit, but did bask in the new attention. Until the homie homie made his move, too.
They were sharing music. Hanging out on purpose instead of in passing, like they kept saying. It was after midnight. It was his room. A timeless misunderstanding that still shouldn't be so slippery. I remember a similar kiss. I remember feeling wholly responsible for how he/they read the moment. I remember learning that communication is the responsibility of the speaker.
Thankfully, my daughter's moment was, at worst, awkward. Apart from documentary reels, romcoms and social media screens, she's experiencing human interactions in full technicolor out there "in the wild." She's beginning to witness the potency of sexuality and how fluidly our habits of engagement trickle into rape culture. Along the way, we also talked a lot about control, about perspective and about being safe instead of being afraid.
At eighteen and a half, she's a responsible driver and not a huge fan of zoos. I pray she continues to explore life, love, sexuality ... without fear.
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