We Remember and We Shiver

I keep a short list of ideas for this column on a scrap of paper on my desk, but those topics got bumped this week. The unfolding story of sexual harassment and New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo has revealed some cobwebs in my mind that I thought I’d swept out long before my seventh decade of life. We remember, and we shiver. Thus, a trigger warning for those who are shivering in light of the news reports from New York.

 

Like the women in Cuomo’s circle as outlined in the AG’s report, like nearly every woman my age or indeed, of all ages, I have personal experience with sexual harassment and abuse. The images are  faded but vivid. A man fumbling with his zipper in the darkened confines of a Greyhound bus. Repeated kisses on the lips when greeted by an older colleague. The stubble of whisker brushing against the cheek in the long embrace of a community leader. Trembling while reading the obituary of a man who groomed and abused fifty years ago. Even after many years, we still smell the sweat mingling with aftershave, taste the salt of our confused tears. The body remembers.

 

For my age cohort, the images are complicated due to the lack of vocabulary available for a girl coming of age in the 1960s and early 1970s. In high school, certain boys were known to have “roamin’ hands and rushin’ fingers,” and we developed tactics to slow down the boyfriends who wrestled with the buttons of our blouses and their own raging hormones. But when those hands and fingers belonged to an uncle, a teacher, or a youth group leader, we had few words to use for their insistent touch. What do we say? Who do we tell?

 

As we got older, the hands continued to touch, now joined by off-color words and workplace demands. Writing in her column last week, USA Today’s Connie Schultz tackled this subject, and told of an incident of sexual harassment in the newsroom years ago that she initially attempted to ignore. However, when she witnessed similar actions towards a young intern, she realized that her own lack of response had made her an enabler of her boss’ advances. 

 

I bristled against that description. When used regarding addiction, an enabler implicitly accepts the abuse and allows it to continue. Since when should a victim, often with limited resources, less experience, and little power, get described as an enabler? Am I my brother’s keeper?

 

The answer is complicated. Many victims are not in a position to confront the behavior, nor should they ignore the fear they feel, as they have genuine reasons to be afraid. And, as Robin Williams repeatedly tells the long-abused Will (Matt Damon) in “Good Will Hunting,” “it’s not your fault.”

Unwanted sexual advances, whether defined as harassment or abuse, are not the fault or responsibility of the recipient, even when guilt and shame repeat the lie. 

 

But when do we have the responsibility to act, even knowing it’s not our fault? Often, as Schultz describes, it comes when another is in danger, is suffering. Ashland writer Sarah Wells pointed me to the work of Mark Labberton in “The Dangerous Act of Loving Your Neighbor.” He writes about suffering that relies “on the complicity and distraction of our ordinary hearts.” Ouch. As Wells explains, this overwhelming suffering is “too much for one person to carry . . . all the suffering in the world is not mine to bear. But some of it is.” What Labberton suggests is that we pick one focus, and make the work of justice for that single injustice the passion of our heart.

 

Our work of justice may expose a hostile work environment or care for the Afghan refugee. It plants a garden, submits a letter to the editor, or teaches a child to read, and stands in solidarity with one who suffers. Henri Nouwen reminds us that “courage often starts in small corners,” and that image offers hope as we take a step forward, establish our rhythm, and join hands with allies. Once again, MILCK’s words echo: “I can’t keep quiet . . .”