Diamond Anniversary: Romance & Reality

Today, my parents celebrate their diamond anniversary (that's 60 years, folks). That is a very long time. They have been married through eleven presidents, seven popes, and far more important to them: two kids, five grandkids and nineteen homes.

They are very much of The Greatest Generation. They were born & raised in Minnesota and grew up during the Depression. Dad joined the Marines in September of 1941, finishing Boot Camp in time for Pearl Harbor. He spent most of the war in California and North Carolina ~ the year-and-a-half in Samoa he downplays. He wanted to be a fighter pilot, instead he maintained runways. He says he's not really war vet because he never saw combat. I disagree, he was in easy roundtrip distance of the Japanese base in Kiribati and it is a reasonable assumption that American pilots (and their postwar progeny) consider him a vet and appreciate his service. Mom spent the war in a small farm town and probably suffered as much privation as Dad. She didn't have to worry about being bombed, but she had no luxuries like indoor plumbing.

Ruth & Frank's wedding day.

Mom graduated on D-Day and promptly moved to Minneapolis. Dad was discharged and went to LA to drive streetcars. A few years later, Dad moved back to Minneapolis and attended the University of Minnesota. About the same time, Mom moved to San Francisco. Towards the end of the Korean War, Dad joined the Navy. Home on leave, he met a girl at a party who suggested he look her up if was ever in Frisco. Then the Navy sent him around the world.

Come spring, his ship returned to the US and stopped for a week in San Francisco. Finally, they were in the same city at the same time. Frank called the girl, who had started dating someone in the meantime. The girl convinced her roommate to show the sailor around town. At last, Frank met Ruth. They began dating. Ruth moved back to Minneapolis and the Navy sent Frank to DC. Romance progressed quickly, they met in late spring and by September, Frank called Ruth to propose. They married in December and headed to Washington and their first home together.

In time, they lived in Virginia, Florida, Maine, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Arizona, Illinois & Minnesota. They drove up and down the Eastern Seaboard more times than they could count. Their first child was born while Dad was thousands of miles away. Mom battled cancer. Dad finished his stint in the Navy and enlisted in the Coast Guard. Suddenly, they were living together more than they were apart. Dad kept getting transferred; Mom kept packing & unpacking the household. But now, for the first time, they could be together for extended periods.

In Hawaii, after their twentieth anniversary.

They moved. And moved. Adopted a child. Bought a house. Got transferred. Moved again. Then Dad retired from the Coast Guard and they moved to Minnesota. And never moved again. (Kidding ~ eight homes after the military.) They bought a house and settled down. They got jobs and raised their kids. They joined the American Legion and the VFW. They studied ballroom dancing. We travelled on vacations. None of my friends did that. But the peripatetic years had left their mark, my parents wouldn't settle for the same four walls day after day.

In Canada, about twenty years ago.

They've never stood still. In their fifties, they joined a hiking club, an RV club and ~ to the extreme horror of their adolescent daughter ~ took up square dancing. They took vacations without the kids (also something no one else did in the early eighties). For over twenty years they wintered in Arizona.  And they kept traveling. A year-and-a-half ago, we went to South Carolina for my uncle's birthday. This past summer, it was the South Dakota border for a 70th high school reunion. They don't travel alone anymore, but they still get out and do things.

Between them, there have been four cancers, a pacemaker, a permanent catheter and several other medical delights. The morning Mom got her pacemaker, Dad poured her a cup of coffee before remembering she was in the hospital. Mom gets him to all his doctor's appointments. Every time he is hospitalized with another infection, she worries that this is the last time.

Some days, they just plug along ~ others, they revel in. This year, Dad saved his Bingo winnings so Mom wouldn't know he was buying anything and had me pick up a bracelet for her birthday. He's 93 and still sweet on her. She's 88 and still happy to be his wife.

They've cleaned dirty diapers & dog poo. They've danced & seen the country. They go to church together every week. They still like to go out to dinner together. They (usually) have tremendous patience with each other and the curve balls life throws. They don't dance anymore, but they still enjoy music. They are adorable together. They have fun and laugh with each other, sometimes at each other. Through them, I've learned the importance of taking marriage seriously, but not taking myself too seriously.

Last year, at brunch. My flash was too slow, I missed the kiss.

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad!

Rape Is Rape. And It's Always Wrong. Always.

The Vancouver police have a great series of
 Don't Be That Guy posters. Click
 to see more.

Is it that hard to understand?
No means no.
Too drunk to say "no" is too drunk to say "yes."
"Uh" is not "yes."
"Don't. Stop." is not the same as, "Don't stop."

Too many people with power ~ politicians, DA's, police and the media, cannot seem to grasp the concept that rape is assault. Rape is a crime of power. It is violent (usually physically, always emotionally). It is a violation. Rape is always, always, always wrong. Repeat after me: Rape is wrong. Keep saying it until you get it drilled into your skull. No one asks for it. No one deserves it.

Recently, I learned about the Red Zone. Not the football term, exactly, but there is a frightening correlation. In football the Red Zone is the twenty yards before the end zone, it's where the offense asserts its will over the defense so they can score. On college campuses, Freshmen Orientation to Thanksgiving break is known as the Red Zone because of the frequency of campus rapes, particularly against freshmen.

A freshman at Hobart William Smith made it two weeks before she was raped by football players. And then the school violated her all over again. She is a brave, strong woman who is speaking out against the culture of rape. I read her story in the New York Times and alternated between nausea and fury when I read how the college handled her case. Rape is a violent crime. It should never be handled by campus disciplinary boards ~ violent crimes should always be handled by the police.

Wesleyan University had a fraternity so bad it was known as the Rape Factory. In March of 2010, school officials warned students to avoid the building because they could not guarantee students' safety. In the fall of 2010, incoming freshmen were not told of the warning and attended a party. A freshman who was raped that October got no help from the school ~ she reported the Saturday night rape but was not taken to the hospital, nor was she provided a counselor. In fact, she was told to wait for her exam until the student clinic reopened on Monday.

In 2013 another freshman at Wesleyan attended a party at a different fraternity. Pledges at that party were required to strip. Hazing is a form of torture perpetrated by coercion, and sometimes violence. Hmmm. . . can we guess where this is going? One girl wanted to leave (who can be comfortable watching people be publicly humiliated?) Instead of being allowed to leave, she was thrown over the arm of a couch and raped while a crowd watched.

Parents, do not send your children to Wesleyan. I don't care how good the academic education may be, the social education is horrific.

The connection between sexual assault & fraternities is nothing new. My freshman year at Wells College (way back when Reagan was president) we were all invited to a ball for freshwomen held at a fraternity at Cornell. The ball was an annual event ~ the fraternity drove to Wells College, picked up the girls who wanted to attend and drove us to Ithaca. The greeted us with champagne. It was a formal dance. It seemed so very grown-up. And that year, unlike past years, they assured everyone there would be rides home. Some girls took the precaution of signing up for the last campus van of the night anyway. I had a friend with a car. I knew to go to the bar and order my own drinks and never let anyone else hold my drink. I was a drinker in high school, I knew my limits. Nonetheless, I ended the evening on the patio, puking in the corner.

I was very lucky.

Months later, a friend shared the information she'd heard ~ there were two sets of bottles. One for the frat boys & their dates, another for the "guests". Ours contained Quaaludes. Apparently, I have a sensitivity to 'ludes, and I'm very happy about that. Another friend then explained how she had been molested, two others ended up having sex with guys they didn't know and didn't really remember consenting to. Of the seven girls I had known at that party, at least three were sexually assaulted.  No one told either of the colleges, or the police, or even their friends for a long time. They were so ashamed. They'd been drinking. They were at a fraternity.

Here's the deal: they made have made themselves more vulnerable ~ but they did not deserve to be raped. No one ever deserves to be raped. Nobody. Deserves. Rape. EVER!

When headed off to college, one should worry about making friends, doing well in their classes, making sound financial decisions. One should not have to worry about rape. Longwood University gets it, as you can see by their page on sexual assault at their student health webpage. They are very clear about consent ~ they even have good info for victims. They specify that the police will take you to the hospital and the state will pay for the rape exam. Some victims refuse the rape exam because they worry about the bill.

So what can we do? How do we destroy the Red Zone? We destroy the myth that rape is about sex ~ rape uses sex as a weapon, it is about power ~ rape may be the ultimate bully act. We stop blaming the victims. We start blaming the rapists. No one should be shamed into leaving school for reporting an assault; the perpetrator should be shamed into leaving school. They should be tried by the courts, not the school's disciplinary board.

We can watch out for everyone. There are no limitations to who can be a rapist, or a victim. If you see someone who looks too far gone and get a bad feeling about the person helping, speak up. If you're getting nowhere (or you're afraid for your own safety) ask for help. Call 911. Don't ignore that sick feeling in your stomach.

Think of sex like a contract, anyone who can't validly sign a contract cannot consent to sex. Talk about rape; make it clear what rape is and that you are so not okay with it. Create positive peer pressure. If party-goers at the above linked stories had spoken out, maybe those girls wouldn't have been raped. And wouldn't you rather be the person who stopped a violent crime, than the one who stood around watching?