The greatest source of my oppression, it seems, may -- with healthier interpretation -- be the road home to myself.
There's real power in what I've used to keep me small, scared and petrified.
It's my talent for being aroused by those for whom I feel the most respect, love and joy.
My arousal has been a source of shame to me for my entire life.
First, it was the Baptists, who found any sexuality --especially a girl's -- perverse, evil.
Next came the Lesbians, who didn't MEAN to oppress me, but who were coming from their own damage, and didn't know what they were doing.
Underscoring all that was the incest.
I realize a lot of people believe that children, especially young girls, shouldn't be sexual before A Certain Age (to be quibbled about by "experts," and not discussed here). Yet, I remember, from Developmental Psychology classes, that little boys in diapers are perfectly capable of healthy erections, and that this is completely normal.
It seems to me, what's good for the gander is probably good for the goose, too.
Of course, in our sexist, phalocentric culture, nobody paid any attention to sexuality of very small girls. If they can't SEE a sexual response, it must not be there, right?
Besides, girls are property of men. We'll cut off your clitoris, before we'll allow you to feel anything healthy and normal, like sexual desire. Clitorectomies were common among Western Europeans, during the Victorian period; it was done in infancy. Women all over this world, right this very minute, are mangled and mutilated, and contributing to genital mutilation of their girls, for "religious" reasons.
Females are to be sexless -- at least, until and only in heterosexual, monogymous marriage. Oh, we can be DECORATIVE and PROVOCATIVE and very arousing to men. But we are not allowed to be aroused.
I have a whole theory about the sexual power of adolescent girls, which I won't go into here. But I think a MAJOR source of humanity's beauty is stunted by our dismissal of adolescent womanhood as "silly, immature, gawky," etc. Let's just say that, in a healthier culture, adolescent girls' sexual energy would be revered and honored as sacred.
The last remnant of that is Mary, mother of Jesus, who was barely a teenager. But we sewed her up, too, with that "immaculate" crap. Hell, even Jesus' siblings didn't apparantly, pop her cherry, according to tradition, if not scripture!
So, if we can't acknowledge the beautiful strength of adolescent sexuality in girls, we'll never even examine sexuality in younger girls.
The first orgasm I remember having happened when I was about four years old. I was being bathed and intentionally fondled with the wash cloth. I won't discuss it here, because it distracts from my point. No, I shouldn't have been fondled: not in this culture, not under the circumstances in which it occurred.
Psychologists will argue that I was stimulated too soon, awakened too early. Buster, I've got news for you: I was already awake! In a healthier circumstance, my sexual response would never have been interpretted as "unnatural!" If it's unnatural for small girls to feel arousal, we wouldn't be developmentally CAPABLE of arousal, you idiots! OBVIOUSLY, little girls are sexual!
It's you ADULTS who have the problems, not the girls! Get OVER yourselves!
I am not advocating stimulating little girls -- not by any stretch of the imagination -- in order to examine their sexualities! PLEASE don't think that!
But watch a little girl, rocking herself, blissfully. I'll bet you a dollar she's masturbating. And small children engage in group stimulation, all the time. Playing doctor, I'll show you mine, if you show me yours.....kindergarten orgies, I'll bet you!
SO, my major source of shame has been arousal. I should never have been incested; no child should. Children depend on adults; for an adult to take advantage of that dependency is selfish, cruel and sick beyond measure.
But I felt pleasure from it. And I felt horrible shame about that. As much as I feared incest, I also enjoyed the stimulation. That does terrible things to a kid's head!
I think this may be the source of my emotional intensity. Every person on the planet whom I've genuinely loved -- or greatly respected and admired -- has been a source of arousal for me. I've wanted them. My heart soared for them. My body ached for them. Not forever, and not all the time, but my capacity to love is intrinsically connected to my capacity to feel aroused.
I've always felt guilty and ashamed. I dismissed them as "adolescent (!!) crushes," immature.
Bull crap!
That adolescent talent of attaching arousal to that which profoundly interests one is a beautiful, sacred thing.
I'm now learning to enjoy this profound and beautiful talent.
My entire body yearns for that which I find beautiful.
What's the shame in that?
It looks like real power, to me!
My arousal has inspired some of my best, most moving, creative work. It has nursed me through times of bleakness and dullness. It has informed and inspired me.
Yet, all my life, I've been telling my sexuality to shut up and stay out of my life!
How utterly sad!
I thought there was something "wrong" with me! My god, it's the most RIGHT thing about me!
I can LOVE! Deeply, well, profoundly! Quickly -- sometimes, immediately.
I fill with energy, joy, a strong urge to nurture.
And I've told THAT to shut up?
A male friend was at my house yesterday. I put myself through minor torture awhile back, because I wanted him. I made up all manner of bad stories about myself because of it: I'm ugly, ridiculous, immature, silly.....
He knows about my internal process about him, sort of. He knows I was worried my intensely sexual attraction to him might interfere with our friendship and collaboration.
Well, he was sitting in a small chair yesterday, his long legs almost reached his nose. His baseball cap was crooked; his shirt collar was, too. He was intensely focussed on something he absolutely loves to do, getting it right. His eyes crinkled and shined happily as he worked. His jaw hung open, unselfconsciously engaged in doing his thing.
I was standing in the doorway, smoking. I turned and saw him there. He looked about eight years old. He was just disarmingly adorable.
I said, "you look so cute!" and told him why.
He was so into being happy, he didn't have time to put up the Adult stuff. He looked up at me, startled, and said, "I AM cute!"
And it was all true. In that instant, he sat there: the thoroughly-engaged little boy, the Seasoned Professional, the Expert, the very sexy man and the playful child.
I said, "well, you ARE The Most Squeezable Butt In Albuquerque!"
We just laughed!
I can hug him so tightly now, he grunts. I can love and respect and thoroughly enjoy him now.
Because I saw myself, feeling ashamed that I was aroused by him, but didn't hate myself for it or hide it. I had told him! Oh, incompletely; I'm still figuring all this out for myself, of course.
But he knows I want to squeeze his butt. And, frankly, I think it's good for him, too!
We all need validation for who we really are and what's really beautiful about us.
Why NOT tell another person how we feel about them?
It made my day, when that guy, passing me in the street, turned and said, "you're really beautiful!" Total stranger. It felt great! I knew I FELT beautiful, but had no way of knowing if I might look ridiculous.
So, I'm letting it go, this shame about how intensely I feel, especially arousal.
I have a real talent for feeling. I'm not going to tell it to shut up.
I'm going to enjoy it, nurture it, protect it from exploitation, follow it to creative outlets.
In a way, I'm lucky I was incested. I can't pretend I haven't been a sexual being, my entire life. I can't pretend it doesn't matter. I can't pretend it isn't profound and poignant.
I'm facing what was the source of so much self abuse and I'm loving it. I'm embracing it. I'm holding it tenderly and protectively.
I'm making amends to myself for not knowing enough to have done so, sooner.
I'm grateful I can love as intensely as I do, as quickly as I do, as often as I do.
I just finished transcribing a lecture, in which a guy refers to Ghandi. Apparantly, Ghandi said that, if one person could genuinely and fully love, it could transform the world. The lecturer added that, in this post 9/11 world, we could use about a thousand Ghandis right about now.
Maybe I'm one of them?
I've always said my capacity to love is one of my best talents. I really feel it's what I was born to do.
How can I, and why should I, pretend I don't feel what I feel?
Don't people NEED to be loved? If I can do that, isn't it my duty -- to myself, if not to anybody else -- to try?
Good bye, shame.
Hello, Love.
