Roaming Through Life

Articles from November 2016

Sunrise, Sunset

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This is not a political blog, but anyone writing on a public site cannot ignore saying something about the incredible Clinton/Trump election.

Sometime around June, 10, 1940, I remember my parents sitting at the kitchen table in our Paris apartment, talking intensely. They were not paying attention to me. I was 8-years-old. We were having a very light supper, strawberries and cream. I liked strawberries and cream and wanted more but hesitated to interrupt them. When I finally did, my mother smiled apologetically and said of course, I could have more, and then went back to talking.

The Germans had defeated France. The French government was fleeing. Thousands of Parisians followed suit and started riding or walking out of the city. My parents were trying to decide what to do. I never forgot the tension in that kitchen. Finally, members of the greater Messing family decided to try to hire a driver with a truck, no one in the family knew how to drive, and this is what we did, taking almost nothing with us.

I have remembered the feeling of the tension in that kitchen all these years and this is how I felt this election day. Of course I did not have to go into exile. But how could I not be tense as Americans were choosing a man with no governing experience and no knowledge of international affairs to lead our powerful country. In previous elections we all had preferences and of course who we chose made a difference. But never were the stakes so high. We have good reasons to be very afraid of the consequences of this election.

Our personal lives will continue. We will go to work, take children to school, get groceries and exercise if we can: sunrise, sunset. We will be subjected to countless commentaries trying to explain why the people rejected a brilliant, experienced woman and chose a completely unprepared, unprincipled man to lead us. I don’t expect to be enlightened. Long after I am gone, historians will begin to study this election. In the meantime I hope the nation survives with its great ideals intact.

A Walk in the Zoo

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Recently accusations of sexual abuse of young gymnasts surfaced. Coaches and a team physician were allegedly implicated.

Last year, comedian Margaret Cho revealed that she was a victim of sexual abuse between the ages of 5 and 12.

Sadly, the sexual abuse of children is a story that never ends. These brought to mind three stories of my own and a few involving my friends.

When I belonged to a woman’s group, then known as a consciousness-raising group, every woman in the room had a tale to tell. Florence, who grew up in Brooklyn, remembered the doorman of the apartment house where her friend lived. As a teenager she was a frequent visitor. The lobby had a phone where she would call to let her friend know she was coming upstairs. One day the doorman approached her from behind and put his hands on her breasts.

Doris remembered vividly an incident when she was a 4-year- old. Her family was vacationing at a small hotel. As her parents were getting ready to leave, a maintenance man approached Doris from behind and put his hand inside her little ruffled sun suit. She ran to tell her mother. Her mother laughed. “I don’t know if I should let you write about this even though no one will know who you are talking about. I will be very upset seeing it in print,” Doris said, before finally agreeing to let me go ahead. “The experience still resonates with me.” These assaults, even those that might be considered not so serious, do not vanish from the victims’ memories.

My own stories include the fairly common experience of a man exposing himself to me when I was a teenager, in this instance in the subway. When I was a grown woman, I spent a week-end at a friend’s house in South Kingston, Rhode Island. Another friend was there with her two little daughters. The four of us took a walk on Moonstone Beach at Salt Water Pond at a time when the beach was deserted. As we passed, a man in the water chose this moment to rise up. He was naked. My friend and I quickly turned the little girls around. I still don’t know if they saw him.

A more serious incident occurred when I was about 7. We were living in Paris at the time. I walked home from school to my close-by apartment building. A man walking ahead of me went upstairs. No elevators in that building. Fortunately we lived on the second story, He rushed down when I stopped in front of my door. I assume he did not know I was standing in front of our apartment or he assumed no one was home. He kissed my cheek. I thought he was a friend of my parents and I was not frightened. At the time parents did not necessarily lecture their children about being wary of strangers. Then he unzipped his pants and told me to kiss his penis. That’s when I started yelling “maman, maman”. He flew downstairs as my mother rushed to open the door. When I told her what happened she ran after him, but of course, not even knowing what he looked like, did not catch him. I do think that her prompt action has saved me from any long term distress.

But that incident is not the one that has lodged itself in my mind and heart. This is the one I carry with me and regret deeply. When my children were young, my husband and I took them to the Bronx Zoo. A group consisting of a man, a woman and two children were walking just a bit ahead of us. Somehow I got the impression that the man was not the husband or father of the family but a friend. The woman started walking faster with the boy. The little girl was about 5- years- old I guessed. Then I saw the man raise the little girl’s dress in back and put his hand in her panties. I wanted to race ahead and tell the mother. But I hesitated to mix in the affairs of people I did not know. I have never forgiven myself.