The Gift of No

On finding my voice

**For the sake of this essay, I am going to use women as examples of victims since assault and violence is primarily perpetrated by man to woman. I acknowledge men and the LGTBQ community, especially trans black women, experience significant violence as well. Those are different subjects for a different day.**

It is 2016, and I am standing in the middle of a circle of mostly women in a self-defense class in San Francisco. We are a diverse group, all ages, sizes and ethnicities. Most of us are visibly nervous, unsure of what to expect, shifting from foot to foot, fidgeting, a lot of eyes busy scanning the floor. A woman whose name I do not know yet is standing next to me, shoulders hunched, trembling from head to toe as if her own voice might startle her. Greg, the course leader, has a calm, assertive demeanor that seems to put most of us at ease while he explains that the program is trauma-informed. “We know everyone comes here with a story, and not always a good one. Consent is key here. No one will touch anyone else without permission, and if you need to step out or stop at any time, that is encouraged and welcome. Please pull me aside if you need to and we can work through things.” As he goes over the schedule and what we will learn, he explains that most self-defense and safety is body language, environmental awareness, and the power of your voice. The first exercise is to stand in this circle together and collectively, at the top of our voices, yell “NO!” ten times. I look to the young lady next to me. I can feel the trembling of her legs on the mat below me. Instinctively, I reach out my hand, and her cold sweaty palm grabs it.

I was a quiet, shy child of parents who were overly concerned with safety. I was a good girl. I attended Catholic school, I did my homework, obeyed my parents without question and only spoke when spoken to. I am not sure I even knew the word ‘no,’ beyond being asked if I wanted seconds. My dad was a gas and electric man, and my mom was a night shift nurse. The language of death and disaster were not hidden from me. When you left the maintenance yard of dad’s company, there was a safety checklist for the workers; to make sure to have enough gas in their tanks, oil in their engines and even adequate windshield wiper fluid. One of the checklist items was to ensure a working CB radio so dispatch could know where you were at all times in case of emergency. Electricity can maim or kill. Dad worked with me on personal safety from an early age, teaching me to be aware of my surroundings as a woman, and a petite one at that. When I left for college, he gave me a Louisville Slugger to keep under my bed and pepper spray to keep in my pocket for nighttime classes, of which I had many. I was no stranger to danger. Little did he know that I had already encountered a malevolent man.

I have been a consumer of true crime since I was eight years old as a child of the 1970’s and 80’s. I’m sure some parents policed the media their children consumed. Those were not mine. They demanded to know where I was at all times, but never what I was reading or watching on TV. We had a summer cabin in Lake Tahoe that had an endless supply of paperbacks left behind by previous renters. As an avid reader, I consumed upwards of 20 books in the two weeks we’d visit. ‘Helter Skelter’ by Vincent Bugliosi about the Charles Manson murders snagged me into the world of murder and mayhem instantly. I also read Robert Graysmith’s book about the infamous Zodiac killer.

I was hooked and I had it bad. What made these bad men click? Why did they do what they did? It was a place for me to focus my anxiety. Somehow I thought if I learned the ins and outs of these and other cases, maybe I would learn a helpful formula to stop those things from happening to me. At night, trying to fall asleep, I would mentally rehearse what I might do in any given situation thinking that would prevent said thing from materializing. Of course, the boogeyman in my own life had not been a stranger on a dark road, or a crazy cult leader, he was a man I dated. A man I trusted.

In 2016, I discovered a podcast called “My Favorite Murder.” Two comedians, Georgia Hardstark and Karen Kilgariff, bonded over their love of true crime when they met at a Halloween party. It sounds terribly insensitive, a true crime comedy podcast. What Karen and Georgia do is examine these cases with compassion for the (mostly) female victims, while quipping about pop culture, the patriarchy and the ways which women are not believed when they report rape and domestic abuse. They also highlight the ways in which women are expected to be polite and compliant in potentially unsafe situations, ignoring their own inner voice, even when it tells them to run. They were having the man versus bear debate before the #MeToo movement had started, and it was teaching multiple generations of women to “Fuck Politeness,” which is one of their catchphrases. When a strange man approaches us, we don’t have to be helpful or kind, especially if our gut instinct is telling us to get away. Karen and Georgia are very open about their own struggles with mental health, especially anxiety and depression, normalizing medications and talk therapy. They highlight stories of marginalized communities that don’t get the media attention they deserve, opening up communication about how the culture can collectively do better. I found a community that shared my same worries. I found a home to place my fear.

Around this time, I read the book ‘The Gift of Fear’ by Gavin DeBecker. When I finished, I decided to turn my lifelong fear of stranger assault into a superpower. I signed up for a self-defense class. In the book, DeBecker reminds us that our intuition, our fear, is actually a necessary evil built into our nervous systems. Self-defense courses are something he recommends as a means to harness our power and develop some skills to shine light into dark corners and eerie alleyways. Gavin’s book has been criticized for victim blaming women who are victims of domestic abuse. I did not read it that way. It felt to me that he was trying to empower women to get out of dangerous situations. He acknowledged the danger of doing this as women’s lives are at the greatest risk when they try to leave their abusers. The one true tenet of this book is that your body will tell you when you are in danger, that your fear is a gift that gives you data, data you might need protect yourself. Self-defense classes are a tool. This book changed my life.

In high school, I had two serious boyfriends. Both were jealous, possessive and full of red flags that could have been planted on my front lawn and I still would have ignored them. Neither of these boys thrilled my parents, but they knew forbidding me to see them would only encourage me. My dad referred to the second boy, Gage, as a Con Man at the ripe old age of 18. He had movie star good looks, intense blue eyes, and a smooth baritone voice that could melt my resolve. I was attention starved, and I could not believe a boy as beautiful as Gage could love me. We were secret best friends for two years, talking on the telephone deep into the night behind my boyfriend's back, when he lured me to break up with my BF. He promised he wouldn’t be so obsessed with me, and I believed him. Initially, every interaction between us was consensual. Gage was a master at getting what he wanted, I often found myself swept up in the moment. One night, things weren’t consensual. I had no words for it at the time. Unhinged, I left his house and broke up with him. I told no one, and blamed myself. The shame kept me smothered and soundless. After all, I was with him, making out with him, saying yes the whole time. Could I change my mind? Wasn’t it my fault for being a tease? I couldn’t go to my parents, so I concealed it. Gage, who had likely never heard the word ‘No’ in his life, didn’t stop there. He showed up everywhere I was, parking down the street from my house. He went to our high school principal and threatened to kill himself. He called and left rambling voice messages on my old school answering machine. He even showed up at my early morning cheerleading practices to try and get me back, waiting by the dark entrance to the locker room to accost me. I even saw his car a few times at my new college a couple of hours away from home months after the assault. I’ve looked over my shoulder ever since. It was my penance for being a bad girl.

One evening in 2015 while watching television with my husband, our landline telephone rang displaying Gage’s name on the caller ID display. We both saw the name, but Mike didn’t recognize it. I immediately panicked when I told him who it was. My palms started sweating and my heart was off to the races, galloping in my ears. By this time, social media was a thing, but how did he get my phone number? I took my husband’s last name when we married. More importantly, what could he want 25 years after last seeing each other? Mike encouraged me to pick up the phone, but I was scared to. I had since acknowledged what happened to me in therapy, but all of those coping mechanisms quickly disappeared after seeing his name. A few evenings later, Gage left a long rambling message for me, asking if I could call him. Reluctant and curious, I did. Hearing his voice was a key that unlocked a tomb I thought I would never open again. He was calling to make amends for his behavior in high school. It turns out that he had a lot of turmoil and abuse in his background that he never shared with me when we were together. He became addicted to drugs and alcohol, and had been sober for a number of years. He was also very sick, disabled by a genetic condition that had taken away his ability to work. He said I was last on his list for his amends, but the most important. It wasn’t lost on me that most victims of assault don’t get an apology, or even recognition, for what they’ve gone through. I was grateful for it, but I also wanted to never speak to him again. Some things are better left in the past.

Throughout the years, talk therapy helped me sort out why I was so attention starved that I was willing to take whatever scraps friends and lovers threw at me. I spent periods of time single, and at 29 years old, met my husband who is my healthiest, least co-dependent relationship. He is funny, kind and respectful of all of my wishes, not just those involving my body. It has taken a long time to learn who I am, and through Karen and Georgia, I became emboldened to embrace taking up space in the world. As a person, and most of all, as a woman.

This led me to this circle, with these people in a self-defense class, holding the hand of one. I whispered to her before the exercise was about to happen, “What’s your name?” She squeaked out, “Sharon. Yours?” I answered, and a tear fell down her cheek as she gave me a weak smile. Greg stood in the middle, and counted to three as he yelled so loud, the walls shook. We all joined, “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” Halfway through, the volume had doubled, our voices strengthening with each bellow creating a slight rattle of the windows. It felt like lightening coursing through my veins to hear the crescendo of my voice, echoed by the others, gathering speed like a freight train. The most amazing part was scanning the circle, watching chests puff out, spines straighten and voices get stronger with each holler. Each individual’s strength was kindling for the people nearby. “NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!” I turned my head, watching Sharon, witnessing firsthand the pain and trauma tumble off of her shoulders as her voice rose amongst the rest. Now she was the loudest, learning the strength, the gift, was in her all along. Tears streamed down our faces, and I realized it was in me, too.