Tell them why:
With V-Day fast approaching and One Billion Rising on behalf of women, I join others the world in speaking out, but I never consider myself among the victims.
Those years of spanking, with the belt, on my naked bottom, over his lap–those were a legitimate act of parental discipline, right? And the time when I was a grown woman, home from college… and he hit me across the face with the back of his hand; not once, but three times; that wasn’t the kind of wrong where you press charges because I had mocked the authority of the man who provided for me, right?
When does standing up for yourself shift from disobedience to claiming ones rightful place in the world? And what earns that place?
Money or size?
And what about respect? How is that come by? Does it only flow in one direction? Who decides?
These are the questions I’ve asked myself as a woman, but up until now I’ve never realized that I was among those violated. Until my husband punched our door in the middle of a heated argument, and then kicked the wall beside the bed until the sheet rock collapsed on itself; then, I realized; this is about “them,” this is about all women.
My first thought was the children. My teenager remained safely behind his closed door while my 12 year old called out from his dreams. I rushed to his room and sat beside him until he settled back into a softer sleep.
Then I quickly returned to the bedroom, grabbed my things, and headed downstairs. I considered leaving, as I had in college when my father gave me the black eye, but where would I go and why would I go?
I made up a bed on the couch and put the phone beside me. The room was dark except for the glow of the wood stove so I could barely see my husband arrive at the bottom of the stairs.
“Don’t come any closer,” I said. “I’ll call the police. I mean it.”
He said my name desperately, unbelievably, before resigning himself to leave. I ached for his grief but I felt afraid of him at the same time. His outburst had triggered a lifetime of vulnerability and intimidation.
I wondered if I was to blame like I had been as a child… when I was bad; or as a young adult when I was disrespectful. I was reminded of what my in-laws once “joked” in a heated moment when they felt their son was victimized by my constant demands: “Maybe he takes you out back and beats the crap out of you.”
I tried to fall asleep, but I kept thinking about the wall, and about how that could have been me, and about how some woman somewhere was definitely being kicked across a floor while her children screamed. I was definitely not returning to that room until the wall was repaired.
When the floor creaked above me, I froze. When another tall figure appeared by the wood stove, I sprung upright, and reached for the phone, ready to dial.
It was my oldest son. He lay down beside me in a space that was smaller than a single bed even though our queen had been too close for his comfort for years on end. He wrapped his arm around me and took my hand in his.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He stayed for an hour. We talked. About ourselves. About anger. About self-expression. About power. About helplessness. When I heard the floor creak again, I moved my hands through the blankets, but I couldn’t find the phone. My son asked what I was doing, and at first I said, “Nothing,” but then I attempted to explain the vulnerability that is unique to women.
He listened attentively and then apologized for not coming to me when he first heard his father’s outburst.
After he left, I lay there, softening, wishing for my mother, wanting the comfort of my husband. I suddenly understood how a violated woman might return to the lover who had abused her.
I remembered that my father once confided to me that he’d hit my mother “only a few times” when she was overly emotional. I was appalled; and couldn’t understand why she hadn’t stood up for herself or for me when he hit me. But we were both petite women, and he was towering. That and the fact that my mother was born only twenty years after women claimed the right to vote; and I would be ten before “marital rape” was a crime in every state. That kind of subjugation lives on covertly in the dynamic of the culture for generations.
My own husband is a kind, gentle man, not prone to anger, but he grew up in what could be a volatile home, as did his parents before him. Those legacies don’t just disappear. Not without attention. And consciousness. And courage.
I began to realize that the threat I felt was not so much about the man upstairs as it was about the position of women throughout time. My mind turned to all those who are terrorized the men in their lives–by lovers, fathers, brothers, husbands–in the past and in the present–and especially those among us who are too threatened to get help.
I woke the next morning, in my own bed, with a pounding skull, and a tight jaw, and a stiff neck. “This is trauma,” I thought. (And I hadn’t even been touched.)
I decided that our wall wouldn’t be repaired right away after all. That we would use it as a reminder of what is at stake. Particularly today as our lawmakers deliberate over VAWA: The Violence Against Women Act.
I am certain that whatever rights and protections are bestowed upon women are bestowed upon us all; just as whatever trauma is inflicted impacts us all.
Kelly Salasin, February 11, 2013
Scroll down for tips on prevention, inspection, treatment & follow up. (Share your own success in the comment section below.)
I thought we were hosting my sister and her new baby for Thanksgiving, but instead my son came home from school with… LICE! Our relatives checked into a hotel and we spent the holiday week giving thanks while picking, oiling and avoiding physical contact with loved ones.
“Can I hug today?” my son asked each morning.
I’ve been terrified of lice for decades. I first read about them in The Thornbirds when little Maggie’s head was shaved; and later trembled as a teacher when my students lined up in front of the school nurse. But even when lice infested children sat beside me or when I had my own children, and we were all exposed–visiting company, best friends, classroom trips–we remained lice-free.
Apparently, lice is not so easy to catch. Honestly.
Still, I enacted my own preventative regime (see below) which was part science/part lucky charm. As the years passed, however, I grew lax. My son grew his hair. His class grew infested.
He had been scratching for more than a week when something unidentifiable fell off my own head. “What is this?” I asked my husband. Neither of us could tell, but later that same day something else, unidentifiable, fell out; and I jumped into action…
The moment my son arrived home from school, I made him stop on the porch so that I could examine him in the bright afternoon light.
“I don’t have lice, Mom,” he said.”They’ve already checked me at school.”
He had been repeating this line for weeks, and I had wanted to believe that his scalp was dry from the wood stove, but now I wasn’t giving up…
I searched and searched and searched until I spotted what might have been nits at the back of his head (those tiny, translucent, sesame-seed-sized eggs, attached to one side of hair shaft, like a cocoon, with an adhesive as strong as super-glue; See video below #1); but I couldn’t be sure. His hair was dirty-blonde, iridescent-ly so, which made identification almost impossible.
“Let’s go up to the bathroom,” I said, “and bring the standing lamp from the living room.”
Under bright lights, I searched the same section of hair and thought I saw something… move.
After a mutual freak out, we returned downstairs to search the internet for what to do next, and we found some fantastic resources which quickly transformed us from victims to investigators/scientists.
We returned to the bathroom armed with information and began the process of combing (see video below #2.)
What I discovered?
Dozens and dozens and dozens of live lice–virtually invisible moments before.
(I’m itching just thinking about it. Aren’t you?)
After our initial outrage and disgust, we were curious…
How were the lice able to set up such an impressive, covert operation?
Why hadn’t my husband been infested given that he lays down with my son each night?
I decided not follow our school’s protocol for treatment given that they had failed to find or prevent lice from spreading (which probably had more to do with individual families and their ability to continue with the rigorous follow-up required. See video under #3). Instead I reached out to other families who had successfully treated (and prevented the return of lice), and I pieced together my own rigorous attack plan.
(For obvious reasons, I chose not to use “pesticides” on my son’s scalp; particularly given the fact that reports indicate that lice have not only grown immune to them, but have evolved into “super-lice” in response to these chemicals–See video under #3.)
In my exhaustive research to be sure we would eliminate lice from our home as safely and quickly as possible, I found the best of the best on the web. In compassion for other families (and in the hope that you do not spread it to us again :), I have compiled those resources and our own protocol here:
This video, from the excellent resource, Head Lice to Dead Lice, helps orient the family to what is in store–with a much needed sense of humor.
Part II of the video with the 5 Step Plan (Video under #3 below) is helpful for making sure you don’t re-infest your household after the initial removal.
This video from, The Hair Fairy, lends the whole picking process a doable, matter-of-fact-ness, instead of our own earth-shattering doom. We relied on their thorough combing process (with a nit comb and hair conditioner) during our first treatment and thereafter. I will use this again if ever I suspect head lice in the family. It’s how we found ours and it’s how we continued to ensure that we didn’t re-infest.
Though lice can happen to anyone, it’s up to us to make sure we don’t re-infest our own households by not following through with the necessary treatment. This 5 Step Plan from Head Lice to Dead Lice takes you through the steps from treatment through follow-up–including letting others know. (Note: We chose olive oil and essential oils over pesticide– with successful results on an infested head.)
Here’s what we did from start to finish over a three-week period.
1) CHECKING: Checked head in natural light for nits, then under bright lights with a magnifying glass.
2) COMBING: Applied AMPLE conditioner (ours was tea tree) and used the combing process (See Video under #2) until we found: NOTHING. That first night this took many hours. We added conditioner as needed. Wiped bugs onto tissues and disposed of them. Washed the comb in hot, soapy water before successive comb-throughs and had our son repeat the process in the shower–using tea tree shampoo and conditioner (since we weren’t using the pesticide); and then did the combing process all over again; this time carefully searching each section of hair for any remaining nits (See Video #2.) Lastly we used a vinegar rinse (diluted) to help dislodge nits before combing again.
3) OIL: We doused our son’s hair in olive oil and applied diluted essential oils (eg. tea tree, lavender, rosemary, eucalyptus) before covering it with a shower cap and securing it with a t-shirt or bandana.
a. We vacuumed the entire house with special attention to beds, couches, chairs etc.
b. We changed all the bed sheets and washed dirty ones in hot water along with any clothing worn recently.
c. We bagged up things we couldn’t wash: stuffed animals, decorative pillows, fancy coats, hats, scarves or we put them in the dryer for 20 minutes on high. (It was freezing outside that week, so we put all the bags on the porch.)
d. We covered the couch with a new sheet each day.
e. We repeated the vacuuming and washing/drying daily until there was no sign of lice/nits in the house.
f. The infested persons avoided bodily contact with others and with couches etc; and also wore a bandana until there was no sign of lice/nits on their head for 24 hours +.
5.) FAMILY: The entire family oiled up that first night and then every 4 nights after for 3 weeks (as per the 5 Step Treatment Plan–video #3), including checking/combing in the morning before the oil was washed out.
This is our family’s time-tested protocol for lice prevention (Note: If we had followed our own protocol during the recent lice epidemic at school we would not have spent Thanksgiving dealing with them!):
1) Coats, hats, scarves into dryer after school
2) Head blow dried after school
3) Hair gel/essential oils (diluted) applied to hair in the morning before school as a deterrent
EXTRA PROTECTION 4) *If it’s a particularly bad school infestation, we apply the olive oil overnight treatment and use a nit comb in the morning to check with a magnifying glass. (No matter what the result, our hair appreciates the conditioning.)
*Note: we also keep tea tree shampoo and conditioner (and other strong essential oils) on hand to use once a week or more regularly when lice is active in the school.
See video under #3 above for more prevention tips.
Adolescence is a period of rapid changes. Between the ages of 12 and 17, for example, a parent ages as much as 20 years.
So yes, I’m still talking about the Father who used Facebook (and a gun) to teach his daughter a lesson. This is my 5th post, in what has become a series–given all there is to reap from this incident and its reverberations around the world.
Although the use of a gun is central to my expressed concerns, I see this more as an issue of power, and more importantly–an issue of how we react when we feel: powerless.
I must confess that I’m biased. I pack a lot of personal power into my 5 foot 2, mama frame. As the oldest of 8, leadership came early. That combined with a love learning and children led me to teaching, where to no surprise, classroom management came easily. When I asked my sixth-grade students why they behaved so poorly for a colleague while behaving so well for me, one replied on behalf of the class, “We know you mean business, Ms. Salasin.”
Unfortunately, parenting a toddler was nothing like managing a classroom. I quickly found some wonderful mentors to guide me as a new parent. When my first-born approached double-digits however, things got”stickier”– climaxing on the day that he refused to practice his violin and dashed out of the house defiantly after I told him to stay.
I was beside myself with thoughts of crushing his will.
When we finally did pick up the “conversation” again, things quickly grew heated, and I actually threatened… to break his toys… before breaking into a smile, shocked at myself. (We both shared a belly laugh then at how ludicrous and desperate I had become.)
This was a turning point for me. I knew that my “rule” in the home had to be adapted in order to remained connected to this emerging man. I didn’t want to give up my personal power, but neither did I want him to grow up without his.
Another mentor appeared. This time with a practice: Non-Violent Communication (NVC). A parent group was formed, and I began studying and applying this subtle, but paradigm-shifting orientation toward power and needs. Most parents came because their kids wouldn’t listen; I came because I wanted to be sure that I listened.
Within months, my oldest was able to use NVC as a powerful tool for communicating what he needed. More often than not, he got what he wanted because he was able to connect to the depth of his needs and share them; and I wanted to respond. Equally instrumental, was his growing ability to understand my needs; and respond, accordingly.
Now this son is 16, and his younger brother is following in his footsteps–using communication that connects and relates. This doesn’t mean that we don’t have moments of frustration or that we don’t lash out from time to time; but we know how to rebound and reconnect; and we practice this every day; and it has truly been amazing–particularly in relationship with a young man who is getting ready to head off to college.
I feel proud. I feel proud that my boys have grown up witnessing and respecting the power of a woman; and I feel equally proud that they know how to understand and express their own needs from a place of strength–and connection.
In our home, each voice is respected. This doesn’t mean that I shirk my role as a parent to guide and teach my sons. I am a strong guide, and they don’t always like it; but they are accustomed to it.
At the same time, I work to help them develop the skills they need to leave me… and hopefully return someday–as a friend.
Powerlessness is a scary thing. It makes a powerful woman like me resort to the threat of breaking toys. It led a man in my community to take the life of another. Being present to powerlessness, without acting out, is the truest test of courage and love.
In desperation, we may think that we have no choice, but that’s not true. The exciting thing about needs is that they are not mutually exclusive. A teenager can have a need for autonomy; and a parent can have a need for respect; and both of these needs can met.
It’s only our strategies that are be in conflict, and with creativity and presence, strategies emerge that meet both needs.
I don’t mean to imply that there will be no conflict or pain, but that there is a way–in our homes and in our communities and our wider world–to respect the needs of ourselves and others–with strategies that support both.
The place to start is self-compassion. Had Mr. Jordan deeply connected to his feelings, he would have realized that he was sad and angry and frustrated. These feelings would have pointed to his needs for respect and consideration and even power; and in his connection to these needs, he would have felt compassion for himself in this challenging role of parenting a seemingly ungrateful child.
In the space between connecting with himself and later his daughter, he would have tended to his hurt in whatever way brought him peace. For me, it is yoga and a visit to my therapist and walk with a good friend on a country road. For someone else, it’s sailing or hunting or Tai Chi.
Fully connected with himself, Mr. Jordan would then be ready to explore his daughter’s needs–even in the face of her hurtful Facebook postings.
He might guess that his daughter was needing greater autonomy or that she might need a greater understanding of how the household roles were shared. He could respond to his daughter in a way that not only set limits but also engendered respect–not for his power–but for his feelings as a man and a parent.
I’m not saying that this is easy. As a parent of a teenager, I know how often my son needs a reality check about how the rest of us feel. I also know that this characteristic self-absorption is a necessary edge of adolescent development. Thus I endeavor to provide those reality checks without shame; whenever needed. That doesn’t mean I never get angry or use my anger to more strongly communicate my needs.
It is important to note here that there is an inherent imbalance in the parent-teen relationship. Teens make it their full time job to claim independence; while our role is only part-time. In this imbalance, we often resort quick to fixes: Shooting a laptop for instance. Videotaping it and putting it on Facebook. Or maybe something less dramatic, but equally disconnecting.
On the other side, parents hold a greater measure of basic power: the money, the home, the food, the clothes, the keys, and often size and strength (at least for fathers and daughters.)
Despite how many applaud Mr. Jordan’s definitive line in the sand, most have come to realize, through deeper reflection, that his display of power was one of helplessness and hurt, not one of instruction and love.
He made a mistake, one with great ramifications, but in doing so, he provided the rest of us with an opportunity to look at where we feel powerless, and what we do about it.
Kelly Salasin, February 16, 2012
Other posts on this topic:
It’s Valentines Day, and I wish I wasn’t festering over people applauding a man who shot his teenager’s computer to teach her a lesson; but I can’t help myself.
Maybe Valentines is a perfect day to rant about the nature of LOVE.
Love is not boastful.
Love is not proud.
Love does not videotape himself wearing a Stetson with a stogie in his mouth as he unloads a pistol into a laptop.
But I’m not writing about that today. I wrote about that yesterday. And yes, I know it wasn’t a Stetson, but he wished it was.
What would he have worn if it was his son?
Given Mr. Jordan’s machismo, he might have though twice about publicly humiliating his testosterone-driven offspring. The tragic results of those kind of father-son “lessons” make regular news.
Which brings me to another beef I have with those who claim that this was a case of a child learning respect. As a lifelong educator, I will now turn to the dictionary to address this gross misunderstanding of the word in question:
1 a feeling of deep admiration for someone;
• the state of being admired in such a way;
• due regard for the feelings, wishes, rights, or traditions of others: respect for human rights.
Perhaps Mr. Jordan’s daughter respects his aim, his camera presence, and even his follow through with a threat; and maybe that’s all he was after; but my guess is that he wanted his actions to create within her: “due regard for the feelings, wishes, and rights of others,” and this alas, is best taught without a weapon.
Commenters on my original post: a Rebuttal to a Father who used Facebook to Teach His Daughter a Lesson, took issue with the focus on the gun. “It could have been a bat or a set of stairs,” said one. (He also accused me of being a peace-loving pansy and a drinker of Mochachinos.)
And it’s true, both a bat and a set of stairs could have been the tool of retaliation and humiliation; but I’m moving on from that focus to the more insidious act of Mr. Jordan’s intimidation.
A gun is designed for killing. That’s a plain fact. And a revealing one at that.
Would Mr. Jordan still be a hero if he had done this to his son? Would others applaud him? Would they still call his action “love”? And would he be alive to claim it?
And how will Mr. Jordan feel when his daughter marries a man who teaches her to respect her husband in the same way?
Kelly Salasin, Valentines Day 2012
When correcting a child, the goal is to apply light, not heat.
Is it just me or are there others who are equally disheartened by how many people have applauded the dad who shot his teenager’s computer after she used it to bash him on Facebook? And I’m not just talking about parents of teenagers. Young people think this guy is cool.
Is this really our country? Is old-fashioned humiliation considered heroic parenting? Are we seriously claiming that intimidation is an expression of love?
I’m sorry, but this particularly obnoxious teenage apple hasn’t fallen far from the tree. You don’t teach someone respect; they learn it.
To be honest, I haven’t read this troubled girl’s Facebook post or her father’s outrageous videotaped response–because I know it would only outrage me further; and what concerns me is not one misguided parent, but all those who applaud him.
Have we become a country that is so afraid of our teenagers that we celebrate their alienation? Do we have so much shame about own youthful abandon that we need punish someone for absolution? Or have teenagers become the scapegoat for our disillusionment with ourselves and this country?
Recently a colleague bemoaned American parenting when she read that French toddlers were capable of sitting at a dinner table for over an hour; while American children demand immediate gratification.
This isn’t about AMERICAN CHILDREN, THIS IS ABOUT AMERICAN CULTURE!
MIRROR, MIRROR, on the wall…
Kelly Salasin, February 2012
“Will my kids be safe?” a friend asks about beginning to blog.
I consider the age of her children. “I think the greater threat to children is not speaking up,” I say.
Yesterday, I read a piece on the Huffington Post by a highschool classmate of my son’s. Margaret addressed our culture’s current obsession with “sharing.” Her point was well made, but I’m happy to see the pendulum shift away from secrecy. No doubt discretion is needed as this clear-headed writer suggests, but I think this rocking into the openness is a necessary step.
I grew up in an alcoholic family where the drinking wasn’t kept secret. My father told me that my mother had a disease. We talked about–what it looked like; what we could or couldn’t do to help. My father was the only one who would talk about it.
When someone got seriously sick, we talked about that too; and when the neighbor’s teenage daughter attempted suicide, my dad told me how; because I asked. As a physician, he had been the first on the scene.
My father also sat me down to talk to me about cigarettes–told me that he and my mother hadn’t known of their risks when they started smoking. He said that I could smoke. At home. In front of him. I would pester my mother for puffs, but I never started, though she died from never stopping.
I talk to my own sons in this same candid way–as things come up, or when they ask, or when I can tell the time is right. I include that which my father left out–sexuality.
Once I became a teenager myself, my father stopped talking, at least about the gritty things that I was facing in my day to day:
My mother’s depression.
My emerging sexuality.
My exposure to alcohol and drugs.
Maybe he didn’t know how.
It’s not surprising. Most parents don’t. How would we know?
Which is why I blog about the conversations I have with my boys. As a lifelong educator and writer and a life lover, I want others to have an example of what an uncomfortable or solution-less real-life conversation with a teenager looks like.
And I want to hear back from my friends and readers; because parenting a teen is life-defining work, and working on it in the dark isn’t nearly as rich as stretching it out in the light together.
So my opinion is that privacy is over-rated. I prefer transparency. For not only does that allow others to learn or differentiate or improve upon what is offered, it also releases the drama of “story.”
For what is essential can’t be taken away from us by sharing. Our being-ness doesn’t get robbed on a blog. Our life’s details and woes are simply garments.
Does that mean that I think everyone should strip themselves of story for others? No. Not unless that’s your calling.
There is a conundrum however in that calling–in that the fibers of my own drama are intimately woven into the stories of those who are closest to me–like my sons; and those who grew old with me–like my friends and siblings; and those who loved me first–like my parents and aunts and uncles and boyfriends.
They may not want to disrobe with me, no matter how far apart our threads have become.
Which brings me to a line my late grandfather used to say, “When it’s your time, it’s your time; but what if it’s the pilot’s time?”
Kelly Salasin, last day of November, 2011