Teaching Through Trauma: Sexual Violence and Sex Positive Parenting

You may recall that over the summer I caused a bit of a stir with my article, "Sex Positive Parenting, or, We Don't Touch Our Vulvas At The Table." In that post I talked about sex positivity and not shaming children for exploring their bodies, and how honesty empowers and protects children.

I've done a lot of talking about this in the months since. I've spoken at conferences, gone on the radio, interviewed on podcasts... it's been a wild ride.

But part of what I've been doing has been very quiet. And that's what I'd like to talk about now.

Since that article came out, people have been writing to me to ask advice on how to talk to their children about sex, with massive caveats.

Parents who were victims of childhood sexual assault.
Parents with children who were born from rape.
Parents with adopted children who came from a foster system that permitted gross sexual misconduct.

I had advocated honesty, total honesty, about sex and biology. I talked about explaining IVF and cesarean sections to children.

So what about these questions? What do you tell a child, honestly, when the honest truth is both horrible, and unacceptable?

I spent a lot of time thinking about this.

I always told those parents at least one thing, "Whenever you are ready to talk to your child about this, make sure you know that it is not their fault. Make sure you let them know that, no matter what happened to them, or to you, they are not to blame, and they are not diminished by having this as part of their personal history."

I recognized as I wrote these words, in endless variations, over and over again, how little they could do to heal the gaping wounds their parents have.

But as more and more parents wrote me, I felt more and more the need to discuss being sex positive with children in the context of a world filled with sexual violence.

You see, in addition to talking about sex positive parenting, I'm a member of the RAINN Speakers Bureau. I talk to groups of teenagers about rape culture and sexual violence. I talk a great deal about consent and power dynamics and the reality of rape versus the popular mythology.

And I always explain, when talking about sex positivity, that this is a way to protect children from rape culture. That when you empower children with the correct names for their organs, and an understanding of what is and is not appropriate, you can protect them from becoming victims. And more importantly, you can stop them from becoming predators.

This is little comfort to children who are already, in some way, victims.

So when speaking to a child about human biology, about how a sperm must meet an egg, and how that sperm usually comes out of a penis when it is inside of a vagina, is that the time to talk about rape?

As much as I, as a parent and a human being want to say no, it's not the time, I can't. I think that it is the time.

I think sooner is generally better, within reason. I wouldn't attempt to explain rape to two year old, but when a child is able to intellectualize human reproduction, I think it's not too soon to come clean with the facts.

And the facts are this- reproduction is beautiful. It is intimate and loving, it is a way to show that you care, and that you don't want to hurt somebody. Just like a hug, or a pat on the head. But sometimes, people do violent things that look like nice things. You can hug somebody too tight and hurt them. You can hit, instead of patting. These are things nobody should do, and that all of us must learn not to do. But sometimes, people do these things. And sex and rape are like that. Rape is not sex, it is turning sex into a violent act. The way a slap and a pat on the cheek are not the same, however closely they may seem to resemble each other in their mechanics.

These are comparisons a child can understand. And so long as the explanation of what rape is, and how it is related to the reproductive process, blame and shame for the child can be minimized or eliminated.

The problem is, rape is shameful. Not for the victim, but for the rapist. It is a shameful, awful thing to do to another human being, and yet people do. And because of the profound shame and discomfort regarding sex we share in our culture, the shame and blame is often misplaced onto the victim. This happens not because it is shameful to have been raped, but because as a culture we are all so afraid of sex that we cannot distinguish between an act of affection and an act of violence.

Telling a child that they are the product of a rape is never going to be easy. It should never be easy, because talking about sexual violence shouldn't be easy. But we still need to do it.

We desperately need to do it. Especially with children.

I've heard the advice, especially among adoptive parents, to associate the rape with the birth mom. To make it about her, not about the child. I understand this impulse, but to me it reeks of victim blaming. We should never associate a crime with the victim, always the perpetrator.

I have a confession. Until I began working on writing this post, months ago, I had not talked to my five year old daughters about rape. Not explicitly. I had done it obliquely, in terms I thought they would understand. I explained rape culture in terms of "hurting" rather than "sexual violence," because explaining to my children what rape is was something that I thought could wait.

I don't think it can anymore. Not as I've forced myself to sit down and read letter after letter from parents who can't wait. Who don't have the luxuries that I do.

And so, I told my daughters about rape. The five year olds, not the two year old. We read "Where Did I Come From?" and I paused after we finished the page that describes sex.

"You know," I said, "Sometimes people do that to hurt each other."

SI looked at me like I was insane. "They do. Sometimes, one person will want to do that, and the other doesn't, and it hurts them. The book says it feels good, and it does, when both people want to. The way hugging feels good. But it doesn't feel good if your sister chases you and pinches you, right?"

"I don't like that when RH does that," DD agreed.

"Yeah. So sometimes, people try to do that to other people who don't want to. And that's not okay. That's not the same thing as sex, it's something else entirely."

And we moved on.

I didn't use the word "rape." As I've discussed before, it's a hard word to use. I've gotten better at writing it down, the more and more and more I practice at it, but it's so much easier to write "rape culture" than it is to write "rape." And it is infinitely more simple to write than to say.

I did not use the word "rape," and I did not say that it had happened to me. Although I know if I'd let the conversation linger, the question would have come up, and I honestly don't know if I could have answered it.

I really, truly, genuinely don't know.

But this is important. It is vital that our children know what rape is, and that it is fundamentally different from consensual sex acts.

I can't recommend my script, because it is still full of holes. I still have no idea how I will one day tell my children that I was raped, twice no less. But it's something I've known since before I became a parent that I must do.

I, and all parents who have survived sexual violence, need to be the face of survival for our children. Not because we choose this, but because we are and always will be their role models. Because what we say and do is what they believe is the right way to say and do anything. And if we maintain a silence about being assaulted, we teach them that what is right and proper is to be silent. But it is not easy. It is never easy.

And if I cannot tell them this without the constant weight of my own misplaced shame, what would I tell them if they were born because of rape?

I know I would tell them that it wasn't their fault. I know I would tell them that I love them, and that nothing that anybody did to me before they were born has anything to do with who they are now.

And I know I would try to have those conversations now, while they would simply inform the facts of their existence, rather than complicate their already difficult adolescence when they must somehow correlate the facts of their burgeoning sexual identities with an understanding of the nature of the act that created them.

This is not easy. This is not simple. This is not fun. There is no solution to how to teach your children something traumatic. Ever.

There is no easy way to explain death. To explain that yes, someday mommy and daddy will die. Yes, someday they will die.

There is also no easy way to explain that human beings are capable of profound suffering, and worse, inflicting it upon each other.

The one question a parent asked me that truly haunts me is this, "There was a line in your blog about how only your daughters have the decision to have sex, but obviously that is not true in the case of rape. I know someday I will have to explain that women are supposed to have the right, but they don’t always. Any thoughts from you in this case?"

My thoughts are these- rape is not sex. The act may look similar, but it is not the same.

There are many ways for a baby to come into the world. They all begin the same way- sperm meets egg. But that can happen in so many ways.

Sex. IVF. Intrauterine insemination. Rape.

None of these are the same.

It is not your doing if your were born thanks to IVF. It is not your doing if you were born as the result of rape. You do not carry the weight of that act. You are loved. You are so loved. And when you are old enough, you will know the difference between what is affection and what is abuse, and in that way you are more than anything that came before you. You are empowered and precious.

This is what I would say, my thoughts.

To those parents whose children came from sexual assault, I would say I have no idea how difficult this conversation will be. I cannot begin to imagine how painful it will be. But remember, the fault always lies with the person committing the crime. Not you. Never you. And not your child.

We can be honest, even if it hurts. We must be honest when it hurts.

Especially when it hurts.

Because children are not obtuse. They see us struggling with our honesty, and it teaches them something important. It teaches then that no matter how hard honesty is, it is essential.

When we are uncomfortable, or in pain, and continue on- it teaches them about bravery.

They are watching us all the time, and they are always learning.

Let them learn the unspoken. Let them learn how utterly horrifying rape is by watching us struggle to even say the word. Let them learn how important it is not to use reproduction as a weapon by seeing how repulsed we are by it. Let them learn how much we love them by holding them and loving them through our own pain and trauma.

Let them learn bravery by watching ours.

I will keep trying. I will keep trying to do better.

And keep sending me letters. I will read them. I always read them. And if I think I can help, if I think there is anything I can do to lesson your burden, I will.

I hope someday, that is a lesson I can pass along, too.

Bodily Autonomy- End of the Month Controversy

Having a uterus makes life complicated.

It shouldn't have to. After all, more than half the people on the planet have one. But along with the uterus comes, theoretically, the ability for it to become occupied.

And there is an intense debate raging in this country about who an occupied uterus belongs to.

As a person with a uterus, I think this is pretty clear. I think it's a black and white proposition- the uterus is mine, and I get to do what I want with it. I can donate it to science when I die, I can have it removed if it becomes diseased, I can take medications to regulate how and when it sheds its lining, I can have it surgically altered so that my eggs can't reach it.

This is called "bodily autonomy." It means I have the right to do what I want with my body, uterus included. And we, as a culture, care a lot about bodily autonomy. We care about it so much that we make sure it's protected even after death.

That's why you can't just harvest all the kidneys and livers people on those wait lists need from conveniently dead people. We respect the wishes of the dead, and if before they died a person said, "Please do not cut open my body and give my kidneys, liver, lungs, heart, valves, corneas, or any other parts to other people. I would like to be buried with them, according to my own traditions and customs," we say, "Okay, cool! Keep your organs!" And then we let them take their parts to the ground with them.

I know, this is very morbid. But follow me for a minute here.

There is a small but organized and vocal minority that says all of this bodily autonomy changes the moment a woman decides she wants to control how her uterus works.

See, birth control doesn't just prevent a woman from being pregnant. It's so much more. It allows women to count on a precise 28 day cycle, which begins and ends on the day of her choosing.

I can't tell you how many working women I know who coordinate their birth control with a weekend, so that if their period comes heavy or uncomfortable, or brings with it mood swings or migraines, they know they'll have those symptoms over a weekend- minimizing the impact on their jobs.

I can't tell you how many women I know who neglect the "off week," and simply eliminate their periods from their lives for months and months on end.

Having a period is a tremendous inconvenience, but it is much less so when you know precisely when it's going to happen, or that its associated complaints will be minimized medicinally. I would think, for this reason, that any employer who wanted to get involved in the process or whether or not their female employees had access to birth control would opt for yes.

Who doesn't want to ensure that their employees won't get nauseated or headachey or depressed on a monthly basis?

And considering the notorious "mommy tracking" women experience, being passed over for promotions and opportunities because their employers fear becoming less of a priority to them than their children, the additional protection of ensuring a lack of pregnancy is kind of icing on the cake.

So why on earth would an employer want to deny their employees access to birth control?

It's because of this idea that a woman's bodily autonomy ends where her uterus begins. This small, vocal, organized minority believes that a uterus really only serves one function- to produce more humans.

So if a woman takes a step that might prevent her uterus from producing more humans... they can't have that.

We have a problem in this country, in that this small, vocal, organized minority has a lot of money, and with that a lot of power. And they're using it to promote an agenda that people with uteruses aren't really people, and shouldn't enjoy the same right to bodily autonomy as people without a uterus.

It's because of that vocal minority that women who experience the tragedy of still birth are being charged as murderers.

But it's not just the uterus that's up for legislation and prosecution. More and more, it's any distinguishably female characteristics. A woman in in Arkansas was arrested for drinking a beer while breastfeeding, and charged with child endangerment.

Yes, drinking and breastfeeding is generally bad. But breastfeeding is hard, and many doctors and midwives have advised women for centuries to drink a little beer or wine to ease painful or stressful letdowns. This woman drank two beers over an hour and a half, and as a human being and legal adult, that is her right. But is it child endangerment?

Would somebody have called the police if it was champagne, and she was at a wedding?

More and more, I fear the answer would be yes. Because that small and vocal and organized minority is organized. They are waging a campaign to shame and humiliate women who dare use their uterus, breasts, or ovaries as they please.

Because when you have bodily autonomy, it means you're a person. Like any other person.

And that means you have the right to equal pay. To fair treatment. To privacy between you and your doctor.

Each step this small, vocal, and organized minority takes to remove another organ from a woman's bodily autonomy is another step towards their proof that women aren't human anyway. And once a woman has no right to control her uterus, her breasts, or her ovaries, what's next?

Vaginae? Feet? Brain?

We're not collections of disparate parts, to regulate and control. We're people. With the same rights to control what we do with our parts that corpses enjoy.

And whether or not you agree with abortion, I think we should all be able to agree on that.

Learning the Ropes

Last week, the Blogger Idol judges joked that our next assignment would be erotica. Of course they were lying, but we didn't know that. It made me want to go back and revisit a guest post I did over the summer, unfortunately, it seems the link is broken! So here it is again.


This was originally published on The Toy Lady Writes A warning to parents, aunts, uncles, etc... this is undoubtedly TMI. Proceed at your own risk.

And if you Blogger Idol judges are reading, maybe next time you'll think twice about asking us contestants to write about sex!

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Shhhh...

There was no doubt he'd been in a sex shop before. There's something about being a twenty something man in the United States which implies going into sleazy porn shops and sad, alcohol free strip clubs is a right of passage.

We'd been dating for a long time, or what passes for a long time when you're just out of your teens, and we were feeling experimental.

"Want to go get a new toy?" I asked, my eyebrows wiggling. He grinned back. "Oh yeah!"

But it wasn't to the dimly lit Rod's Basement I took him, it was our friendly neighborhood feminist sex shop.

He'd walked by dozens of times, and never realized what was inside. the friendly, blue and white picture of a comfortably fluffy bed didn't register. "I thought this was like a Linen's N' Things," he muttered as we walked under the "Early 2 Bed" sign.

The inside was clean, spacious. Along the wall ran a shelf covered in the merchandise- available to pick up and test out before you buy.

The walls were covered with slogans, with posters for local feminist pornos and staff recommendations for anal beads and nipple clamps. There wasn't a single picture of a naked woman, bending down and wearing outrageously long fake nails. There were hardly any pictures at all. After all, feminists sex shops are about sex- not about using exploitative images to turn on repressed men.

He circled a display of packies, he eyes popping out of their sockets. A cheerful woman in a short, spiky haircut and Rivers Cuomo glasses walked up. "Can I help you find something?"

I could almost hear the saliva evaporate from his mouth. I stepped in.

"Yes, we're looking for some new toys."

"Excellent!" she beamed. "What kind of stimulation are you looking for? Clitoral? G-spot? ...p-spot?" She gave him a conspiratorial grin, and he blanched.

"I think clitoral, to start." M gave me the kind of look that kills.

"What?" I asked, "Do you want us to get something aimed for a prostate?"

The friendly sex shop worker chuckled, and pointed to the corner nearest the door. "Over here, we have a wide variety of bullets and accessories."

"Perfect."

He stared at the vibrating eggs and gelatinous cock rings, and shook his head.

"I have no idea what any of this is."

Well, tonight's going to be fun, I thought. "I'll pick something out. Why don't you go sit in that chair? It looks comfortable."

Gratefully, he speed walked to an oversized armchair next to a coffee tabled loaded with books, and avoided eye contact with everyone.

The store clerk led me around the store, and we talked about the strap-on harnesses, about which ones were intended to attach to the thigh- obviously designed by women- and which weren't, but could be useful with a packie. She showed me their latest selection of glass dongs, the outrageously expensive hand crafted silicone vibrators that recharged batteries by sitting on their sleek, contemporary stands.

I picked out a vibrating silicone ring and a dildo shaped like a seal, and joined M.

"Ready?" I asked him. He didn't respond. He stared at the pages of the book in front of him. A beautifully illustrated how-to guide, filled with detailed pen and ink drawings, titled, "The Art of Fisting." One broad, clean page displayed two women, one with her hand inside the other up to the wrist. The other depicted two men, in a similar pose. All four characters looked happy, the women's bodies realistically rounded, one of the men without hair and wearing glasses.

I patted him on the shoulder and dragged him up to the register. He glanced over his shoulder at the titles still laying open on the table, "The Smart Girl's Guide to Porn," and "The Multi-Orgasmic Man." The woman behind the counter beamed.

"Ah, that's a wonderful book, isn't it? Really fantastic stuff, if you're willing to take the time to learn." He goggled at her.

As we left the store, he leaned and whispered in my ear.

"I've never been in a sex shop like that..."

"No kidding," I snarked at him.

"Did you see there was a porn selection?"

"Oh yeah, ever seen 'Bend Over Boyfriend?'" He gaped at me.

"Anyway, when you feel like picking up a flogger and some silk rope, let me know."

Less that two weeks later, he was dragging me into the store again, to enroll in the frequent buyer's program. It was all I could do to keep him from setting up a registry when we got married.

He never went into Igor's Dungeon again.