Having a Parent in Jail - Taboo Tuesday #13

When I was about five-years-old, I remember my mom pulling me aside -- her eyes set by a hard-lined brow, her tone grave. She meant business. 

I matched her expression -- ready for some real shit to go down.

"Quinn, I need to explain something important."

From a very young age I recall keeping a little folder in my mind for vital things adults told me -- things I should remember. This was a folder moment.

"If you're ever getting arrested -- don't argue with the police. Just go along with what they're saying, even if they're wrong. It's okay if you go to jail, you tell the truth in court. We'll get you out. Okay?... You promise ?"

After that conversation, it didn't matter where I was -- in my kindergarten desk, hanging from the monkey bars, on my nap mat -- I felt damn ready for when the pigs busted in.

It may surprise you to learn, however, that this kernel of wisdom was minimally relevant to the next thirteen years of my life. 

Where all the jail be at?

...Much like other advice my mom gave me in the next few years:

"If a cop tries to breathalyze you, refuse it. That's within your rights. Demand that they give you a blood test instead, gives you more time."

"If someone's shooting at you, run in a zig-zag-- not a straight line! You're easy pickings that way."

"If you get kidnapped, act like you're crazy. Just scream and kick and talk about nonsense things. They'll let you go."

Ain't nobody wants to steal a crazy person.

Child Quinn thought the world was a lawless dystopia where not even the cops got yo back.

The thing my mother probably failed to take into account was that I was a little white, sane girl with money.

She only had "white" and "girl" in her favor, and that apparently wasn't enough. 

It was hard to blame her though. As a mom, you teach your kids to avoid what's dangerous. 

My mom knew jail as a dangerous place -- whereas I know Sprinkles Cupcakes to be a dangerous place.

It's all relative.

I'm told one of the first times my mom got arrested was when I was an infant. She apparently taken me to the doctor for a check up, and when the doctor left, she walked around the office filling her pockets with various implements-- you know, gloves (presumably to blow up like turkey balloons later), wet wipes (for rib eating), syringes...

The doctors thought this was unacceptable, and so they killed the party by calling the cops. Todd came later and sprung us.

But I'd already seen the hard life.

Over the next ten years, mainly, she got arrested for a myriad of reasons. 

Here are some of the things I learned that you are apparently not allowed to do:

1) Steal a doctor's prescription pad and write your own prescription, even if it's just for your drug habit.

2) Steal many other things, from your friends, stores, and/or strangers.

3) Drive under the influence of drugs and/or alcohol 1 - 4 times.

4) Fight with a police officer.

And various other equally wholesome activities.

As  a result of these hobbies, my mom was frequently in and out of jail during my childhood. It started from such an early age, however, that I just thought it was normal.

I figured that most moms were in jail some of the time. It was just like a mom thing, you know, like baking cookies, sewing the holes in your pants, or suicide.

Who's with me?

Initially I didn't feel weird about it -- it was troublesome that she wasn't around, but it wasn't shameful. It just... was. We didn't think differently about her when she was in jail -- it was a long trip. She was still loved us in spite of circumstances.

I vaguely remember being in preschool and my mom was supposed to be incarcerated for something like a year. Before she went, she wrote 365 letters to BOTH my brother and I.

That comes out to... 730. Ha! Did it.

She gave them to Todd to give to us, one a day. In each letter she talked about how she was happy and safe, how she missed us... and in every single one was a tiny Abba-Zaba.

It was all very nice, I just remember opening each letter and being disappointed every single time it was an Abba-Zaba.

Because that is THE worst candy you can give to a child who can taste.

Regardless (we've established my mother didn't always make the best decisions), it meant a lot. We never forgot her, we never stopped loving her.

Then school started and I quickly learned that you can't tell people your mom is jail, because people are very close minded about the whole imprisonment thing. They would either think I was lying, they'd become scared, or they'd make fun of me. So... I just didn't tell them.

The very worst reaction people would have, though, was that when they would meet my mom, they weren't nice to her.

And I'm like -- bitch, she didn't steal your rubber gloves to make into turkeys, sheeeit. 

I just pretended like it didn't happen. I'd tell people the nice things about my mom, and leave the rest hidden with all the extra Abba-Zabas.

We were fortunate, in that my mom's particular issues with the law subsided along with her illness when I was a teenager.

It's a weird thing to talk about because still... it feels kind of normal. Jail was just that shitty timeshare she would occasionally book. 

I wasn't the person who was most affected, maybe because I was so young. I didn't have to do anything. Probably asking my brother, my father, or my mom (although good luck getting an answer) would yield different results.

I remember when we were in elementary school, and my mom had lost her license because of all the DUIs -- which, I absolutely admit, not her finest work.

So every day for ten years or so, she picked us up at the bus stop. And that sucked. 

Then, suddenly, several years in... she started driving her car again, sans license. 

She was still a little crazy and had spray painted a shoebox pink. She then filled it with like... ten half used cosmetics then stuck it in her trunk. Her plan was that if a cop DID pull her over, she would just tell him she was a Mary Kay salesman and that she needed her car for work. 

Impeccable.

While I will spoil the story and tell you, thank god, we never did get pulled over -- my mother was a constant wreck looking for cop cars possibly tailing her. Every ten seconds we were driving she would ask: "Is that a cop behind me?" With utter panic Every. Single. Time. For years. When it got dark, it got worse, because she'd be glancing back every two seconds.

Finally my brother -- at the age of like ten, found a way around it. He told her not to worry because cop cars had to have round lights, while all other cars had square lights. My mother -- though a PhD, and WAY smarter than I've ever been -- was a very gullible woman. She believed him, and after that we didn't hear about her fears nearly as often.

That's one example of how it affected him in a way it didn't affect me. I thought everything was normal. He recognized there was a flaw in her thinking, and he felt like he had to be the adult and step up and rectify it. That's way more stressful.

Then I can't begin to imagine what my dad was thinking during this time. What do know is that when she was in jail, he did ask for full custody... but we still saw her every day. He felt like it was important that we see our mother and know that in spite of her illness, in spite of some of her actions, that she wasn't a bad person. I'm very happy to have been offered that opportunity. 

I'm also very glad -- as selfish and horrible as it is -- that my mom was an educated white lady.

Because let's be real -- my mom did some shitty things. But after she went to jail for the umpteenth, with some admittedly serious work, she picked up the pieces of her life again and became quite successful. I  don't know that could have happened if she wasn't an educated white lady.

I'm thankful she wasn't a casualty of racism, power abuse, or fear. No one is predisposed to be scared of a 5'4" blonde woman.

Except my boyfriends! Zing!

None of the guards were very cruel to her -- I don't know, but it probably helped that many of them had white mothers, wives, daughters who looked like her. When she got out, people were largely sympathetic, at least some were. She got work again. People weren't reticent, for the most part, of having her around. She could rent where she wanted. When she was driving without a license, she went years without someone pulling her over.

And yet her crimes were worse than lots of folks who face much scarier realities.

I have no idea how the fuck some people come back from that who aren't afforded the luck my mother was.

And for all of her bad choices, it worked out in the end. Neither of her kids ever did anything into trouble. No sir, I don't even like jay walking -- nuh-uh, I've seen first hand what crossing the line can do. Still, of course, I didn't listen to her lessons. That was some crazy shit.

No, all that caution she tried to instill in me about cops kind of back fired. Getting arrested with her, I found cops to be magical beasts who gave you tasty snacks from vending machines and little sticky toy lizards.

So I definitely feel for the good ones who, in recent days, have to struggle to keep the peace... but man do the bad ones piss me off -- and those who support them. The people who claim fearful actions, abuse, murder are justified because of the victim's history.

I maybe don't know a whole lot about law, but I can tell you that you don't know shit about someone's history from a rap sheet or a photograph. Certainly no one deserves to die unfairly at the hands of someone who is supposed to protect you and give you sticky lizards.

People aren't bad, they just do bad things sometimes -- I imagine it goes for both cops and robbers. 

Let's just hope that when someone does do a bad thing, they don't have a gun in their hands.

---

That's it. There's my rambling preaching for today. Tune in next week when we talk about how a lady tried to shank my mom in jail and a group of white supremacists saved her.

Awkward.

JK I'll probably talk about something important... like periods.

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I Liked Being Catcalled - Taboo Tuesday #12

A couple weeks ago, I was walking down Santa Monica looking fresh as a muddafuckin prince.

Out of nowhere, this kid -- maybe 13-years-old (I could have birthed this little shit), flew past me on a skateboard and grabbed my ass.  

And I don't even mean brushed/slapped/embraced my ass. 

This gremlin-turd managed to finagle his hands BETWEEN the cheeks for a solid shake.

By the time I spun around he was nearly a block away. And the first thing that ran through my mind was -- who's going to look like the victim if I chase after this overdue abortion and knock him into a goddamn storm drain?

Ultimately I didn't do anything. Because I never do anything. Instead I just walked home, furious, muttering about the things I COULD have done while psychically trying to make the line of cars nearby forget what they witnessed.

Before this ass-ass-ination of my self-worth, I felt amazing. One of those good hair/good face/good clothes days. Suddenly I felt like shit. I felt dirty, vulnerable... invaded.

This child, someone who probably still eats Go Gurt and watches Sunday Morning cartoons, just made me feel powerless.

 Not the patriarchy! Nooooooo!

During the thirty minutes I walked back, I tried to think of something equivalent. Something I could tell him that would make him realize what it feels like to be walking down the street and have someone objectify you.

Because I get it. For many straight men, they just don't understand. Getting your ass touched by a girl in public might feel like a compliment. Women aren't expected to sexualize men, so when they do it can feel special, unique. 

You don't have to be wary about who you let stick their lumpy key into your lock.

You aren't a defeated conquest when someone gets into your pants -- you are the conqueror. So what would make this kid understand what it felt like to be violated in that way?

There isn't a perfect answer, which is why I think it's so hard to explain why cat calling (and its assault-y cousins) are more upsetting than complimenting.

You: "But Quinn, there's a big difference between assault and catcalling! How DARE you relate the two!"

Ah yes, clever Goblin Shark reading my blog. I have also heard the "not touching, can't get mad" defense.

And in the way my brother did when I attempted to use the same argument as a child, I will slap you down . But before that, let me talk about when I remember getting catcalled for the first time.

I was 12-years-old... and my body looked much the same as it does now.

 So trust me, no one thought I was an adult.

This was the year I learned that ten squirts of stolen perfume was not apparently an adequate replacement for deodorant, the most important thing in my life was keeping my Giga Pet alive, and I still wore t-shirts with holographic puppies on them.

Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

I literally was still buying chocolate milk for ten cents more when, on the weekend, a high schooler decided to eye up my penguin-like physique and follow me around a bookstore asking if I knew the "humpty-hump."

You: "Yeah but that's unusual. When I say that cat calling isn't so bad OBVIOUSLY I'm not talking about pedophiles."

Clearly, Goblin Shark, I get that a nearly grown-ass man who is sexualizing children isn't the norm... that it was an unfortunate situation. But it's also not wholly uncommon.

I'm not deluded. I don't think I was an exceptionally sexy kid.

Even though I am.

Go ahead, ask your female friends about the first time they remember being catcalled. I think you'll be surprised to learn that it starts early. Not every woman has a timer strapped across her tits, poised to go off when she turns 18 so that men can start ogling her.

But boy, Sharks, do I have a product for you.

And the effect of that attention, is that from a very early age lots of women are molded to believe that their bodies are on show for the men who treat them like they are. You feel like the thing that's important about you is the thing people 'compliment.' You aren't old enough to discern truly important things adults tell you from the shitty things adults tell you. 

That sexualization ends up getting all tied together with the other aspects of who you are and what you value, resulting, sometimes, in bad situations.

The catcalls increase as you age. As a teenager I dressed in certain ways because people responded to it. 

I was still a child and I was looking for affirmation from adults, as we all do. 

Then it got to the point where my age wasn't easily assumed anymore. A man would say something crude to me, only to blush and edge away after my mom would tell him I was underage.

Zing! Sweet mom burn!

By the time I WAS an adult, I actually felt reliant on catcalls. 

There were many times when I was a senior in high school and I didn't want to go to school because I didn't feel like I looked good enough. The idea that men found me attractive was more important to me than learning.

If men didn't call out to me while I was walking home, I felt like I was ugly. It had become a given: if some dude yells that he likes my sweet calves, then I'm attractive.

Still, I didn't like it when men called out to me. I didn't like that I couldn't walk to the grocery store without feeling like I was on display. I didn't like that I had to take alternate routes around whole buildings and streets to avoid guys shouting out disgusting remarks.

But it became an addiction of sorts. 

If I didn't hear those things, then I didn't feel worthwhile. I had been taught by my experiences to see my primary worth for strangers as my appearance. That's the only thing anyone seemed to care about... and they cared enough about it to pay attention to it and call me out. I might not like it, but it was important to them. It made me important.

Then came the year that I briefly went insane.

That year I was anxious every second of every day. Having to talk to people I KNEW was bad enough. The idea that strangers would come up to me, demanding my attention, made me really frantic. I became a hermit. I left my room only to buy food from a vending machine downstairs and to lug my laundry to my dad's house.

I used to be a very outgoing, gregarious person -- and suddenly talking to strangers was too uncomfortable. I hadn't done anything to these people, and yet creepy old men wouldn't give me that shred of privacy you hope to expect from decent people.

Sometimes you feel like shit and you want to just walk to the doughnut store to buy all the doughnuts to eat in the dark of your closet, and yet some asshole hanging out his window, sucking through his teeth as he stares at you, won't allow you to have that privacy. 

Nobody wants to be seen 100% of the time, and women aren't afforded that decency. 

After the anxiety let up and I was 'myself' again, I questioned my reliance on catcalls. I learned to value myself beyond my upper thighs. I didn't dress in a way to gain attention (not that I think that's justification to be shitty toward people anyway. EVEN if a guy has 'Kick Me' on his back, you don't fucking kick him, asshole.). 

I refused to make eye contact with strange men. The attention was uncomfortable and I thought if I made steps to stop it, I could.

Then the world kindly informed me:

It doesn't matter how I'm dressed, what age I am, if I'm with my mom, my dad, my grandparents. I'm free game to be vocally sexualized, rudely propositioned, and stared at because... I'm a woman? I'm outside? Sometimes my skirts don't reach my knees?

Well fuck you Goblin Shark! 

*GASP*

Sometimes it's hot outside, and sometimes I want to wear my pretty dress in peace! I just want to look fabulous for me!

And yeah, it sucks to have people staring at you when you're minding your own business. Looking at you like you're in a zoo.

It sucks to have people whistle at you. You know who people whistle at? Pigs and dogs. Do I look like a mother fucking pig-dog to you?

Don't answer that.

It sucks to have men, twice your size, shouting things at you. Telling you they want to take you home and how 'mind blowing' they are. 

It sucks more when they start following you down the block at night, stepping on your heels and whispering the same things in your ear.

It sucks when a man grabs you by the wrist while you're crossing the road, and won't let you go until you agree to go out with him.

It sucks when some asshole smacks your ass and a kid sees it and decides to try it out later when he has a skateboard to escape on, just in case his experiment doesn't work. Just until he's older and more confident in his ability to do what he wants to you for his own pleasure without you being able to stop him. 

It fucking sucks that there's jack shit you can do to stop it unless you cover yourself in a bed sheet everywhere you go.

"Hellllllo Miss January."

So don't try to tell me that I should take it as a compliment when a guy sitting outside a store stares at my ass and tells me I'm beautiful.

I know the difference between a man who's mentally undressing me and someone who genuinely likes my dress. I can figure it out in languages I don't speak. I've had eleven years of practice.

Compliments are one thing -- but they can also be a disguise for a horrible behavior. One that confuses women's worth in their own minds, one that makes you feel like a thing on display, one that forces little girls to consider the vile nature some people think about them in.

So no, I don't think catcalling is complimentary. Even if you're not trying to hurt someone, even if you don't touch them...

... know that they probably have a history that your comment, your look is getting tied into that includes terrible things. 

You're telling these people how you value them and their contribution to society. 

And you know, I kind of hate that argument. That one that asks you to consider us women as your mothers, your sisters.Why not just think of us as people?

It's so crazy it just might work.

I wish I didn't have to think up a way to make that kid on his skateboard understand what he did and the effect it had on me.

I wish he just knew that I like him grabbing my ass about as much as he probably would if some gross dude came up and grabbed his.

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