SMARTY PANTS

I was born in June, but I became me oh, about March. I didn’t know that this would be the best time of my life.  More’s the pity if you can’t remember the gentle, reassuring warmth of the timeless sea rocking you. One with the world—no, the World itself.

We can all hear while still in the womb, but few are sufficiently fortunate to receive an early education through the pulsing walls of their mother, as she taught her first grade students. I suspect it was her sprightly voice delivering my first knowledge base that helped sharpen my hearing.

What was fortuitous for me posed small problems for my family, because I was reluctant to talk during my first three years. I wanted to think and absorb the daylight scene. I was busy absorbing and disinterested in verbally engaging.  I already knew there were three people in my family: Annie Harris—Mom, quick-witted and energetic with soft flowing dark hair and twinkling eyes, although I wasn’t sure what color her eyes were; Harry Harris—Dad — balding, horn-rimmed glasses, smiled a lot when he looked at me; and Tristan Harris, big brother, who took some getting used to.  Just kidding, he was at that awkward age, I think they call it.  I soon learned to recognize my own name, Jenny Harris.

The information I took in visually, however, was brand new.  I had to sort out colors first, having no idea what colors were when my mother pointed them out in her classroom. Although I was slow to learn my colors, I spent days absorbing my family’s features.  Mom had lots of hair, and it was curly.  Dad’s hair wasn’t much so I didn’t know if it was curly or not.  Tristan’s hair was longer than my dad’s, and not curly.

For a long time I studied their eyes, but not knowing colors I couldn’t label them at first. They were all crinkly and reassuring, however. The family was glad to see me, although later I caused problems for them.  I gained weight and crawled as they expected, even walked and ran.  But as the months passed and they peered at me expectantly, I didn’t talk.

Mom took me to the doctor regularly and finally told him about my not talking. He looked at me and smiled.  “She can. There’s nothing wrong with her vocal chords.”  He tapped his eyeglasses on his hand and said, “Can she cry?”

Suddenly Mom recalled my word-free howls when displeased, and laughed.  “Can she ever!”

The doctor gave me a conspiratorial wink and said, “She will when she wants to, I ‘spect.”  I knew he was my buddy.

Soon after I came out, my family got a new member.  A black and white kitten –Mom said it was a girl– came to visit, and stayed.  Mom thought she had been abandoned, which made me feel sorry for her, so I kind of mothered the kitten, I guess.  Her lips were colored—I later learned they were “pink,” and Tristan named her “Tulips.”

While other children might hug their blankies, I had my Tulips to snuggle with.  Note that I considered myself a child from birth. There wasn’t a lot of baby still in me at birth, other than size.

Mom was intuitive, which means comprehending without being told. She could tell from looking in my eyes that I understood more than I let on, so from almost the beginning she began to read me stories.  I sat in her lap and followed along, and that’s how I learned to read—painlessly, the way it should be.

We soon used up the story books left over from Tristan’s childhood and so one fine sunshiny day Mom popped me in the stroller and headed for the library.  Oh, that magnificent building!  Mom gave me a choice of books, by holding several out until I pointed at one.  Or two. (I was secretly reading to myself when Mom wasn’t around.)  Tulips would snuggle and purr, and I would silently read.

Mom took me to the library every week, and gradually I began pointing at books for juveniles, not infants.  Intuitive Mom got the hint, and followed my lead in reading selections. So it was that one evening in my third year, as we were dining on spaghetti and meat balls, I said my very first word.  It was not “spoon,” which I was reaching for, but “Meowr.”

I was half joking, but Mom became tense and said, “Don’t over react.  We don’t want her to become mute again.”

They resisted handing me the spoon, however, until I said the magic word, thereafter continuing to live up to the new name they gave me: “Smarty Pants.”

Luckily my uniqueness was kept secret, even from the neighbors, who had no children.  We just took me for granted, a blessing compared to what some special children are exposed to in the media. My dream was to become me.

I can remember back to when Tulips was “fixed.”  I was horrified.  I didn’t want to be fixed!  What if my mother had been fixed?  I knew Mom had enjoyed teaching school and I also knew I was a bump in her road.  As the family’s ever questioning pest, I asked her about it.  .

Her answer was reassuring, just a warm hug, a kiss and her dear smile. Then she added, “We chose to have you. When you grow up you can choose what you want to do with your life”. That sounded pretty good to me, so I went back to Tulips and Google.

My folks had retired to Costa Rica, that’s why they were unable to accompany me to the meeting with my rapist, as had been recommended. The Restorative Justice people made an exception and allowed a friend to join me in the session, for emotional support. They didn’t realize that Mitzi had also been raped by Hairy Harry Findley, the perp.

I’m Allison, another survivor, I first met Mitzi in my livingroom, when she attended a small women’s consciousness raising group composed of women survivors of sexual assault who were slowly learning to think of themselves not as victims, but as survivors.

We waited for Hairy in the prison psychologist’s office at Greenville State Prison. The phone had been pulled to avoid interruption, and Mitzi and I had ten minutes to wait, alone in the office. A one-way mirror offered reassurance of safety. At the time I remember wondering who the reassurance was for, him or me, since although my rage had cooled during the last year, I knew it was capable of swift re-ignition. For all my moxie, I was conscious of a dry mouth and banging heartbeat.

Mitzi and I both wore loose shirts, loose jeans and tennies, presenting as asexual as possible for the session. The stated purpose of Restorative Justice was to heal, not to dissuade reoffending, but my purpose was the latter. I’ll admit, however, that the motivation for the meeting (I thought “confrontation”) was a tad murky–I wanted to look my attacker in the eye.

We heard a small click, the door nob turned and a corrections officer ushered Hairy in, handcuffed, and guided him to a chair opposite us, across a table. He was anything but appealing as he sat slouched in his bright orange prison suit that revealed long black hairs that covered his arms and the back of his hands. A five o’clock shadow had apparently sprouted in the past hour or two, but his head was shaved. The officer left us alone.

Although I assumed Hairy’s presence was due to the hope of making a positive impression on the Parole Board some day, I said, “Thanks for coming.”

He dropped his head in acknowledgement, without making eye contact. My ears started ringing and I had to briefly shut my eyes to get centered. I said, “Why are you here?”

“Here? Do you mean in prison or in this room?”

I silently gritted my teeth. “I know why you are in prison, believe me. But why are you in this room with me?” He paused. “Curiosity.”

“What do you want to know?”

He was silent.

“Do you regret the sexual attacks?”

“I regret prison.”

“But not causing the physical and psychological harm you did to me?”

He did not answer.

“Have you ever been raped? I hear that sometimes happens in prison.”

He rolled his shoulders and snarled, “Not likely!”

“Were you mad at me? Did you want to hurt me?”

“Yes. Yes, I wanted to hurt you and all women who play so hard to get. I belong to Incel, and women won’t have anythjing to do with us. We can’t get any!”

“Any–love? Tenderness? Friendship?”

“Pussy!” He shouted.

I had read about this group of unattractive men who had clustered on an internet blog, and that their activities have been referred to as “weaponized misogyny.” Mitzi beside me was squirming uncomfortably in her chair as he ranted.

“It’s true,” I said in an aside to Mitzi. “Evolution scripts females to be attracted to males who have the most regular features.”

Hairy’s face turned red and he gave a subdued roar when he overheard me speaking to Mitzi. “It isn’t fair!”

“Nor is it fair to rape and destroy a woman’s healthy sense of self for a life in which she sees herself a victim of herself!” I frowned, regretting having used the victim word myself.

Hairy didn’t respond immediately, but began fingering his fly, whereupon I rapped sharply on the one-way mirror. I was glad to note that he wore a puzzled expression on his face as he was led out to rejoin the prison population. Mitzi sighed. I squeezed her hand.

“No, a lot’s not fair.”

By Nan