A Soap Box Memorial

Sixth grade was a hard year for me.  I attended three different schools by the time the year was up.  The last school was Alicia Intermediate in Marysville, CA.  That’s where I met Misty.

Sixth grade also happened to be the year that my great-grandmother began to influence my understanding of sex.  I was twelve years old when she told the kid behind the counter at McDonald’s how proud she was of me because I was going to be a virgin when I got married.  I craved the kind of praise Grandma liked to slather me with, so I just smiled and nodded as if this was a perfectly normal thing to tell a kid working at McDonald’s.

My mom had always been pretty open with me about sex.  She was 18 when I was born and my biological father chose not to stay around to be a part of my life.  She didn’t want me to make the mistakes she had.  She didn’t want me to do anything I wasn’t ready for.  For that reason, she took more than an average interest in making sure that I knew what my options were and that “NO!” was always one of them.

So between Grandma’s influence and my mom’s influence, I came to understand that sex was something I should wait for.  As far as Grandma was concerned, I should never do it.  It was a bad thing.  Boys will try to pressure me into it.  She was right about that.

So in 7th grade, we moved one last time.  I began attending Yuba Gardens Intermediate, and Misty moved there, too.

Misty had no desire to wait.  She wanted to “lose her virginity” as soon as possible.  I don’t know when she did, officially, but she was working on it in 8th grade.

I was not the most pleasant teenager.  When I thought I was right, I’d be extremely sanctimonious about it.  Misty called them my lectures.  In fact, that’s how I found out about most of her adventures, because she’d tell me that she needed a lecture.

Misty and I had a falling out in ninth grade.  It was because I was shooting my self-righteous mouth off and being anything but Christ-Like.  She switched to a Christian school for a while, and though we have connected now and then throughout the years, I haven’t seen her since the late 90’s.

This past week has been emotional for me, and Misty had been on my mind.  When I found out that she had died, I assumed that was why she had been on my mind.

I know she struggled with addiction among other things.  I believe that addiction is a means of medicating oneself when one feels completely without value.  I don’t know why she would have felt that way, but I know that her father wasn’t really a part of her life.  I also know that she knew the negative things that people have said about her.

I don’t know that her addiction is what killed her.  I do know that she’s also battled brain cancer.  But I am overwhelmed with sadness for my too-soon departed friend.

I’m also angry, again.

By now, you’ve probably noticed that the image at the top of this document gives the definition of the word “slut.”  I won’t say that I’ve never used this word, because I honestly can’t remember and knowing what a self-righteous twat I used to be, it wouldn’t surprise me.  I know that I have not used it in decades, because it’s one of many words used to denigrate women for behaviors that are applauded in men.

I don’t think I ever called Misty a slut, but many did.  What I found ironic, even back then, is that many of the people referring to her with that word were boys who clearly enjoyed her attention.

This topic took particular prominence in my mind, yesterday.  Drew and I were watching something in which a murder victim was described as the kind of girl who sleeps with men for money or gifts.  I was thoroughly annoyed by that description, because no one found it necessary to describe her killer as the kind of man who has to give gifts and money to get women to sleep with him.  How is one behavior scandalous while the other is not?  In fact, the man giving gifts to get a woman to sleep with him is somehow the victim.

This idea burrowed into my brain, and then I came across this meme on Facebook.   (Go ahead.  Read it.  I’ll wait.)

I commented on the meme with my observation about the kind of woman that murder victim was, and one person commented, “Gigolo.”

Now my brain is banging against my skull, so I have to share this to get it out of my head and off of my chest.  A gigolo, if you somehow don’t know, is defined by the same dictionary that gave us the lovely definition of slut above as, “a young man paid or financially supported by an older woman to be her escort or lover.

Similar: playboy, beau, admirer, escort, companion, toy boy”

Isn’t that charming?  Certainly not derogatory.  In fact, there don’t seem to be any words in the English language to define men in a derogatory way with regards to sex, unless he can’t perform, that is.

“Gigolo” is such a charming concept that my high school marching band played the song “Just a Gigalo” as part of our field show!  “I’m just a gigolo, and everywhere I go…”  Can you imagine a marching band performing to “I’m just a prostitute, and baby I’m so cute…”  If you can, you should probably write science fiction.

Ok, Jenna, what’s your point?

1. This is not an attack on men.  I know dozens of wonderful men.  It would take me a whole other entry to list them and what makes them so wonderful.
2.  It’s never too late to acknowledge that you could have done better.  Well, unless the person you may have hurt dies unexpectedly.  Then it’s too late.