Me too/part 3/the Swedish landslide

Some call it a revolution. That’s yet to be seen. But it is certainly a landslide.

It’s about 1,5 month now since the actor Alyssa Milano started the #metoo campaign. In 24 hours 4,7 million women had signed the hashtag in 12 million Facebook postings.

I don’t know much of how the campaign has proceeded around the world. I know some about the US. I am quite familiar about the situation in Sweden though, and it is  extraordinary, choking and frightening. But there is also hope and will power.

This last month professionals from different industries have formed their own campaigns under clever hash tags which would be lost in translations if I tried, so I won’t. Coming out as victims for sexual harassments and assaults, as well as letting the country know the dark and silent secrets going on in their businesses.

* First out, here as well in the US, were the actors. 465 women in the theatre and film industry came out with their names and stories. Followed by 653 singers within the opera- and classical scene. 

* The day after 4445 legal professionals testify about assaults and discrimination within the judicial system, they are backed by the Courts Administration. 

* 1300 women in politics signs a petition against sexual harassments and assaults taking place among the elite of Swedish politicians. 

* 1993 women in the Swedish music industry bear witness about sexual harassments and rapes within the industry. 

* November 19, 1139 women in the tech industry speak up.

* The same week 1501 women in the trade unions sign the hashtag #notnegotiable.

* A few days later 4084 journalists had enough of sexism and assaults among the editorial staffs and in newsroom. #deadline.

* The day after 620 dancers join the movement and 1700 students follow.

* #timeout is the hashtag for 2290 athletes, trainers, sports journalists and supporters.

 *November 24, 2400 academics point out sexual harassments and assaults within the strict hierarchy at the universities. And the same day 1382 women within the Swedish Church join the Me too movement under the hashtag #lettherebelight.

This has all happened within a month and I still might have missed some. I am sure more will follow. Some might not though. It is awfully quiet in the business world for example, still a bastion for men. Is it possible for the women on that scene to come forward and tell their stories? I hope it will be, eventually.

So, what will come out of this? Will these thousands of brave women change anything at all?

They must. The insight that sexism, sexual harassments and assaults towards women goes on most everywhere in our society now sits like a hard fist in the Swedish collective stomach. A number of measures are on the table. Like instituting whistle blower functions in work places and organizations. Allowing women filing anonymous complaints. Educating first responders to look for signs and ask the right questions.

The Swedish government looks very seriously on the hard facts coming up and has summoned a number of institutions. Especially incriminating is the 4445 legal professionals testifying about assaults and discrimination within the judicial system, the government is actually chocked from that information. The foundation of trust for the rule of law is at risk if sexual crime is not taken seriously. And, I am thinking, if the judicial system itself is infected and sick by sexism and harassment, how can we trust women as plaintiffs being met and treated with respect and dignity?

The other day I browsed an Australian article picking up the Me too events in Sweden. How was it possible this is happening in one of the most gender equal countries in the world?

My guess is this is happening in most every country in the world. And by this I mean the sexual harassments going on everywhere in the society. The fact that women this fall in industry by industry, organization by organization, institution by institution in Sweden come forward telling the ugly truth might have something to do with equality. 

These patterns have been here for centuries. So has the silence surrounding them. The women wrongfully carrying the heavy weight of shame. The fact that they are finally lifting the shame off, putting it where it belongs might be because it actually is possible after all. I am thinking in many countries it is not.

My day of recuperation

The afternoon twilight is fascinating today. Daylight falling more quickly than I can turn the lights on inside to counteract the outcome of it. Light flurries swirling, embedding my little queendom in white.

This fall has been and is a strenuous one. No catastrophes for which I am very grateful and I shouldn’t really complain, but still one thing after the other. Health issues outside my usual domains, practical problems, little things turning into never endings projects (like getting new glasses, those of you mature enough for progressivs might know what I am talking about) and so on.

This last week in particular has been especially exhausting with two acute visits to the doctors and one more acute health contact. Oh how I have been wishing for a calm and uneventful day. Just one. For recuperation.

And it happened! Yesterday I watched a cute little nothing-film from 1989 with Steve Martin, Parenthood. While sipping my ginger tea doing my nails. A perfect tired Saturday afternoon.

But what was even more relaxing was that I could DO things. Strangely enough I had energy. And my body wasn’t at it’s worst, it was actually pretty good.

Since late summer Mohammed has been one of my home care anchors. While he was cleaning the house, doing the laundry and roasting my granola I was able to attend to some things downstairs. This was possible since I wasn’t alone. Mohammed was supervising my whereabouts.

I fixed my printer, clogged up as usual as I am rarely using it. Finally I got it to work. For the time being. But satisfying for now. And it was so nice being in my beautiful office feeling like someone having an office.

In my yellow kitchen there is a yellow sofa chair in the corner. It’s actually a recliner, everyone’s favorite spot. Next to it a sideboard with a shelf inunder piled up with old magazines and God knows what.

This used to be my favorite spot too. Stretched out in the chair covered in a wool blanket and music from the kitchen speakers. Drinking my tea. Reading architectural- and home interior magazines. Planning and dreaming.

I’ve been looking at that big stack for years now wanting to do something about it. But I can’t because it’s out of my reach. To low down. And as it isn’t high priority it’s not on my list for things I need to ask people to do for me.

But yesterday Mohammed pulled out a stool for me. Meanwhile he was roasting the granola I sat next to the sideboard and went through the pile. Music on. The granola smelling cardamom and cinnamon. Nice company. I browsed the magazines starting at 2003. Memories. And plans that didn’t happen. But also dreams fulfilled.

I cleaned out most of the magazines and today I am looking at the sideboard with great satisfaction and a feeling of accomplishment. It’s finally taken care of and I did it myself!

And the icing on the cake yesterday was when I was able to sit at the piano for a while figuring out some difficult passages in a couple of those Christmas songs my choir is rehearsing right now. It was years and years since my body allowed me to sit upright pushing the keys on a real instrument instead of lying on my couch settling for a dissatisfying keyboard on the Ipad. And I couldn’t have done it today.

I love spending time downstairs, because it’s so rare. It gives me a feeling of owning my home. Or, to be drastic, having a life, if you will. 

And it’s interesting how “doing things” can be relaxing. Sitting at my desk filing papers, I enjoy it so much! No thinking, no figuring out, no handling, no acting, no finding the difficult solutions, no coping, just doing it. And the satisfaction of getting it done, having it done.

I wished for a day of recuperation, and I got one. A good, stable, relaxing and uneventful day. Thank you.

  

A Saturday night ER reflection

Four hours later I was back home, diagnosed by a doctor and with three different medicins. Total cost, 200 kronor = 24 dollars.

I spent Saturday night at the ER, just the thing you love doing on a weekend evening. Nothing really bad, still something I needed to take care of urgently.

 When heading for a Swedish ER the best approach is to bring your patience and something to eat. Because oftentimes it will take hours before you get attended to. We tend to complain about this. And of course, when you are so acute you need an ER it is exhausting to spend hours in a waiting room not knowing when you will get helped. 

So, yesterday, as every time I reluctantly have to give in for the fact that I have to seek a doctor outside office hours, I had to remind myself how available it is in every sense. 

To start with, I live 15 minutes from the top ranked university hospital in Sweden, the one in Umeå. My only problem is nowadays I need a ride there which was tricky on a Saturday evening. But finally Trouble 2 was able to help me out, for which I am so grateful. 

So, only 15 minutes, I know exactly where to go and once there I know the drill. It is all familiar. The wait I am handling like an overseas flight. I know it will take time and there is nothing I can do about it. I settle. And I don’t look at my watch.

When it’s my turn I have access to all the professional specialties, examinations and treatments I need. And it costs 24 dollars.

I have been at the ER in Seattle. Arriving in the ambulance blue lights on. Trouble 1 in critical condition.

- Do you have insurance? I need your credit card.

That’s what met me at the arrival.

My son was out and I didn’t know if I could afford the doctors and the treatment.

It was a horribel day. The care was exceptionell and it all went well, but the huge bills kept coming for a year and although my insurance company took care of it, it was a terrifying experience. 

That’s what I am reminding myself of at the ER on a Saturday night. This is why we are paying our taxes in Sweden. So that no one will be stopped at the entrance, economically examined. No one. The only examination that happens at a Swedish ER is the medical one you need.  

And it costs 24 dollars.

The rain check

It’s a grey, dark and rainy Sunday here at the end of the road in my northern Swedish village, as well as in Seattle. Actually more like a moist drizzle here, and my guess is Seattle is the same.

I remember that day at the gym in Umeå back in winter 1993. The radio was on and there was a report about something in Seattle, probably the music scene. It caught my ear as we were only months from our first trip to that foreign territory I didn’t know anything about. And the reporter asked: it rains a lot in Seattle, how do you cope?

So it rains a lot in Seattle? Ouch. That’s not good news…

A few weeks ago the last brick-and-mortar umbrella store in Seattle closed. No one uses an umbrella in Seattle. If you happen to catch a human being in Seattle with an umbrella, it’s a visitor.  

And do you know in which city in the US the most sunglasses are purchased? Seattle. Jodell Egbert who's the owner of the last bumbershoot store Bella Umbrella in Pike Place Market will move her business to… New Orleans.

As a Seattle native Jodell Egbert should have known umbrellas wouldn’t be a successful business concept in Seattle. But she learned the dying art of umbrella making after she fell in love with a box of vintage ones she bought for her wedding 15 years ago. And she was persistent she would make Seattleites change their minds when laying eyes on her beautiful creations. How did that go? Not so good.

Because here is the thing. The rain is like blood in their veins to Seattleites. They don’t even notice it. Seattleites, Puget Sound, cedar and rain is like one big harmonies organism, only intruded ny traffic. I used to joke with my friends saying they were like poikilothermic animals. Didn’t do a big thing about the seasons, wearing pretty much the same clothes all year round and perceiving being wet as a natural state of mind. Unlike Swedes who live and breath their seasons. And shunning rain as something extremely uncomfortable. 

Umbrellas in Seattle are for wimps. Visitors. Tourists. To live your Seattle life without an umbrella is a regional pride. Or more correct, it’s something you don’t even consider. You don’t own one. They are only in the way. At your house and in your hand. Your hand is for the latte. 

During that first Seattle stay of mine in 1993, Swedish National Television wanted me to do a report about the fashion in Seattle. I looked around. Couldn’t find any fashion. Only grey and beige flanells over worn out jeans. I didn’t know then about Grunge. What about hair dos? Nope. Couldn’t see any. Just  hair. It’s very hard to maintain a hair do in the rain not protecting it with an umbrella. So, natural would be the look. Hair dos are for out-of-towners.

To the defense of the Seattle stance and reluctance when it comes to umbrellas you should know that the Seattle rain for the most part comes as a misty drizzle. Often continuing through the day. The typical rain originates from lower, flat stratus clouds and not from the dense, high cumulonimbus clouds associated with heavy precipitation. That’s why the misty nature of the raindrops. And for those drops umbrellas are an overkill, I have to agree.

By the way, the heavy rain flooding The Killing and the Grey’s Anatomy ER entrance is nothing but bad mouthing the Seattle weather! It’s very rare, I’ve only experienced that kind of rain once, an otherwise lovely december week in 1998. And yes, for that I used an umbrella!

So what’s with the sun glasses? Well, the only time I hear Seattleites complain about the weather is when the sun is out too many days in a row and the temperatures rise. When will we have som relief, they say, and reach for their shades. The summers after 2010 have all been dry and sunny with a dry streak record of 55 consecutive days 2017. It was the longest dry streak in more than six decades, so I am sure Seattle is enjoying the fall rains coming in.

But Jodell Egbert of Bella Umbrella in Pike Place Market has packed up her gorgeous hand made umbrellas for the more bumbershoot friendly New Orleans. “Every day somebody would come in and tell me it was stupid to have an umbrella store in Seattle because Seattleites don’t use umbrellas,” Egbert said. “It made me feel bad.” So, she gives Seattle a rain check until further notice.

Me too/part 2

Meanwhile the world is flooded with Me too-stories, more prominent men with famous faces is dragged out of their dark hidings. Some are not that surprising to me. Others, the kind of homegrown the-boy-next-door family types a bit more chocking. One thing is clear thoguh, they are everywhere. And we haven’t even seen the top of the ice berg I am sure. 

A while ago a young woman close to me told me about her latest visit at a club. Her stories made my jaws drop. 

She had been at this club with a girlfriend and they had been dancing. Because that’s what you do at a club. The two of them had been dancing together. Men had been circling them coming up from behind getting way to close. The two friends told them they weren’t interested and tried pushing them away. That didn’t help much. They fought to save each other from those intrusive males, and they even had to save women they didn’t know on the dance floor!

At one point the young women were sitting together at a table and two guys in their forties (my friend is 25) were approaching them. Started some kind of odd conversation. Again, my friend expressed they weren’t interested in their company and tried to ignore them. The men didn’t waver. Just stood their. And then one of them started licking his lips while looking at them.

I was absolutely stunned being conveyed this image from a club in 2017. Is this how it is now?!

In my youth I wasn’t a big club girl. Well, it wasn’t clubs, it was disco, of course. I really loved dancing and I knew all the Staying Alive-moves. I wasn’t comfortable in the environment though. I was tall and skinny and shy and nobody wanted to dance with me anyway. I was the one sitting in a corner at the table taking care of all my friends handbags while out on the dance floor. It wasn’t that much fun.

So, I don’t have any early experiences of being approached in inappropriate ways dancing and bar hopping. And I haven’t had an opportunity asking any of my more outgoing friends my age about their experience back then. Is this the way it has always been?

I don’t think so. As girls do, we always shared our stories and I don’t remember anything in the neighborhood of what I am realizing is going on out there right now.

What I am hearing today, is men/guys acting more or less like animals in a public setting. I don’t even have words for it. Is the world spinning back words? I can’t even say: has nothing changed? No, it seems things have changed in the wrong direction and for the worst. It’s outrageous. And you men out there heading for a night out, if you don’t start acting like respectful human beings you will be looking at a future with only men on the dance floor, are you sure that’s what you want?

No, we haven’t even seen the top of the ice berg. But what we see and what we hear now is actually causing repercussions in the society. But we have to continue telling our stories. Dragging every single (in this sense) dysfunctional male out of the dark. Being persistent. Raise our sons to good men. I want that ice berg to melt all the way down and make room for a solid ground where respectful men and and safe women can build an equal and good world together. Let's do it.

Me too

It wasn’t until I one evening suddenly was overwhelmed by anxiety and the need of a shower poring over me that I realized what had happened. I had the urge to sit in a bathtub scrubbing me down to my bones. Images I’ve watched so many times in movies. The classic scene. And I was thinking, is this what it feels like? I was 58 years old.

Until only three years ago I felt estranged from stories I heard from colleagues and friends of men approaching them in ways making them uncomfortable. It had never happened to me. And I had never been in a situation where I had been scared of a man. Not even on the street. All alone in Seattle or elsewhere.

I thought the reason was I was so unattractive it wouldn’t even cross ones mind to approach me. I know, of course, that sexual harassment is about power and nothing else. Yet.

Being a teenager I was the tall and skinny girl in a group of already highly developed curvy friends. I looked like a boy. Flat breasted without hips. Guys didn’t look at me twice. And that’s the image of and feeling for myself I have been carrying all through my life.

When I was a journalist I was stunned by female colleagues describing male co workers giving them inappropriate proposals or comments in editing rooms or out on a story. These were thick skinned, vociferous and highly competent women as active as any man in the conference room, always fighting for their story. Yet, somehow, this happened. I didn’t get it. It didn’t happen to me. And the only reason why, I figured, was: as a woman I was invisible.

Now. Some years ago a person crossed my path. We got along and I enjoyed his company. He entered in a time when I was in an extremely vulnerable place. He offered a supporting hand and a warm embrace. I liked the way he held me. It did me good.

He was very volatile though. One day he wanted to be my boyfriend, the next he had a different opinion. Now and then he kind of  jumped me and kissed me. It happened so fast I was startled and didn’t quite know how to react. I just kind of let it happen. And felt weird.

Until that day when we had The Talk. And he announced he wasn’t interested in a relationship. And then jumped me and kissed me. And I kicked him and shouted THIS IS WHERE YOU STOP!

It was that evening the anxiety kicked in. I felt dirty and wanted to crawl out of my skin. Or scrub it away. And I was thinking: so this is what it is like. This is where they have been, all the women in the movies. This is how it is to have your body kidnapped. How can I get it back and make it mine again?

Now, expressing this, I do it very matter of fact. And I am not giving a time frame. Only two people know about this and I have never formulated it in writing before, except to my journal. I need to keep some distance in this moment. 

Of course, this is nothing compared to what women go through. But to me, who during my 58 years of living never had experienced anything along these lines, it was major. Someone had crossed my borders. And I had let it happen. So why?

For one thing, in the beginning I really liked him. The other things was, if I had not been in that vulnerable place I don’t think it would have happened. I was just the perfect prey. In need of comfort. So easy for him to say, hey come here, we’ll figure this out. So easy for me to go there. I was taken advantage of.

There is also a third reason. I was a virgin in this situation. I didn’t reed the signs. I had no idea what was going on. Which is kind of cute, considering my age.

A male friend of mine and me have discussed this a lot. Why it hasn’t happened before. He is not quite buying my idea of being so appalling men would look in a different direction finding someone else to harass.

Instead he says: Maria, you have such body and personal integrity it wouldn’t even come to ones mind to approach you in an inappropriate way.

This is interesting. If that’s true, why is that? The only thing I can come up with is my father. I had my father’s eye, but he never treated me like his princess. I would say he raised me his equal. Moving in this world, I think I see myself a lot like him. Well-dressed and a head taller than everyone else. And I am not defining myself first as a woman. I am defining myself as me.

Why have I not talked about this incident before? Shame of course. And how much was I a part of it? It didn’t happen on the street. I know the criteria is when your body says no. But it took a while for it to do so. It’s those fine lines, the blurred borderland, so difficult to navigate. When a young boyfriend gets a hard on at every hug and you don’t like it. When you are having sex with your husband because it’s passed a month and you really should although you don’t want to.

So, what has this incident done to me? It has harmed me. The “feeling dirty” anxiety is easily trigged. A hug from someone I don’t know that well. Or someone taking an interest in me. I am damaged. And to that, this person is forever guilty.

Immunity. The insight I am not immune to this plague. That’s a shattering realization. This person deprived me of my immunity. Not too long ago someone made me a sexual insinuation. Has never happened before. I was so stunned I couldn’t even respond. Again, the need of that cleansing shower. Is this how this works? When you have once being robbed of your borders they aren’t visible anymore?

I feel like someone snatched away the protective mantle I have been wearing through my life, and at 58 I started wandering the world naked.

My fall recipe - and a belated P.S.!

P.S. I am so sorry if I offended anyone buy questioning your authenticity as a reader! The thing is, I have such a hard time imagining people being interested in the thoughts and reflections from my little corner of the world, especially you being far away, on a different continent even. But to you who are, I am honored and grateful you are taking  your precious time reading my stories. I will from now on try picturing you as human beings of flesh and blood with your own stories, not annoying heart lacking robots. Thank you so much! And oh, I would love to hear your stories, please tell me, let me get to know you!

As I have mentioned before the northern Swedish summer 2017 was cold, windy and wet, actually the summer with the lowest highs since 1862! A record I quite frankly could live without. But it so happened my life happened when that happened…

Then there is always September. Now and then September delivers. Sun, breakfasts outside, even an Arnold Palmer in the afternoon. So how about this year? Nope. The month was the least sunny September in 30 years. I mean, come on!

If you have followed me through the seasons for a while you know I am not a fan of fall. The light falling makes me panic, so does the cold. So what do I do to survive?

I add light.

It started many years ago with the spotlights under my grandfather’s old apple tree, shooting through the greenery, and in the winter up the snow. It’s really beautiful. 

Later I (read my sons and their cousins) put light chains in the two small maples we planted next to the picket fence. I wanted to create the feeling of Holiday Westlake Park in Seattle here in the woods. Ah my impossible ideas…  But it worked for me! I used to sit at my kitchen table dreaming about Seattle, feeling a little bit closer. Now, the maples grew taller and light chains don’t last forever, so they are gone by now.

I live at the end of the road. And that’s something I am enjoying. My next door neighbor is on the other side of the grove behind me, I can’t see the house but I know he is there. In front of my front yard to the south there is forest, to the east another grove and fields, to the west fields stretching to Torrberget, Dry Mountain.

I I would turn all the lights in my house and garden out it would be completely dark here, except for a street light at my carport. And I would see some lights from the next road across the fields to the east. That’s how it was when I first moved here 36 years ago. One lamp over the front porch of the house. That’s it. Looking out the windows on a winters night you didn’t see anything at all. Pitch black. Great for northern light spotting though!

We added a lamp at the coach house/wood shed, oh a light out there! Then one at the door of the baker’s cottage, that’s nice! A lamp in the cottage window made it look like a little gnome lived there, cute! And the lights framed this place at the end of the road, made it feel welcoming and cozy.

People often ask me if I’m not afraid of the dark. No, I’m not. I often feel lonely. And depending on how severe my back pain is that loneliness can be very scary. But it’s not the dark that scares me.

I don’t like the dark though. And that’s why I am chasing it away with lights.

Some years ago I extended the garden with spotlights shooting straight up the tall pine tree at the ditch marking the border between the front yard and the fields south of the baker’s cottage, wow, what a change! I treated my dad’s big ash tree - which once was a small plant he brought here from southern Sweden - with the same recipe. He was a big plant thief my dear father. The 64th latitude isn’t the natural habitat for an ash tree, but somehow it acclimated and now constitutes the south east corner of my garden, lit up in the dark.

I also have a spotlight directed to the old outhouse at the edge of the forest ending my place to the south. And then there is the big rock in the middle of my mother’s sea of lupins in front of the outhouse.

The latest addition to my garden illumination happened last fall. I had been thinking about it for a while. There are two lilacs guarding the baker’s cottage, one at each front corner. Wouldn’t it be nice to have them lit up? 

Yes it was! I quite don’t know how to express the feeling as my inner image transforms into reality when it comes to illumination. To turn the outer switch on is to turn my inner switch. My soul expands and glows!

So am I happy now? Content? Happy yes, but content, no way! There are more inner images waiting to come to life. Next year, hopefully, my new cherry trees will be lit up. They mark the border of my garden to the west, and I can't wait see those sparkling, fulfilling the illuminated framework of my place in every direction!

There is one downside to my obsession of illuminating the dark here at the end of the road though. Light contamination. The Milky Way isn’t as clear as it used to be, and the Northern Light sometimes first catches my eyes on Facebook…