Coins, and the Sides Thereof

This is a post years in the making. For something on the order of three years now, I have been trying to articulate this in a way that everyone can understand. I have tried in the past to make my point, but the signal has always been lost in the noise.

So this week we have yet another sordid tale of a young woman teacher preying on young boys. I am not concerned here with the media treatment of the tales. It is a factor, but I think we all know what the media folks are up to.

No this is about adult humans preying upon children than the effect it has.

First, lets get some common ground. As a society we have decided that rape is a sexual act performed due to force or coercion. This covers anything from a brutal physical attack to using fear and power to force the victim. In other words, it is sexual contact where at least one person doesn't want it and cannot stop it. Another fact about rape that is almost universally agreed upon is that sex has little or nothing to do with rape; rape is about power and control.

With that in mind, it is clear to me that these teachers, no matter how pretty they may be, are as harmful a predator as any male who commits the same crime against girls.

Bold statement. Now I have to back that up.

Lets view them as opposites. The victims and predators are each sides of the same coin; different but still part of the whole.

Lets take that female teacher, male student case and invert it. Imagine a male teacher preying on a female student. Oh wait, that is actually more common - it just doesn't get the press play that the other combination does. Still, we view him as the predator using his position, age and proximity to coerce students into sexual acts. We revile him and view the girl as a victim. We as a society cannot believe that the girl may have initiated the contact. Even if it is revealed that she may have done so, we offer no quarter to the adult because he is an adult and is required to deal with that situation responsibly. And of course no quarter should be given, he is still a dirtbag. And if the student didn't initiate the behavior, then how is the teacher any different than a priest who is guilty of coercing young boys into such activities? The methods must be largely the same; shame, threats, flattery. And largely, I feel, on reputation - we as a society have traditionally condemned and humiliated young women who might not be "pure" of mind and body.

So returning to the original situation; what is the different dynamic?  For one, an adolescent boy is expected to want sex. There is probably a physical component to this, but still, as young men we are expected to go to great lengths to have sex with any willing female partner just as much as young women are expected to avoid it. What this does is give a female predator, particularly one who is attractive, a very powerful tool. Boys are not allowed to say no. We don't allow boys to say no. Imagine for a moment an attractive adult woman offering what he is supposed to constantly want, and he refuses...remembering what a snake-pit middle and high school was in my past, I can only imagine the humiliation and ridicule that would be heaped on a boy who refused. Not just peers, but society as well, even family. That can place a woman in a position with a lot of power to abuse. Even if the abuse does occur, he is not allowed to be a victim. I would bet finding help would be very difficult. I am reminded of the days when how a woman who was raped had dressed determined whether or not her attacker was convicted or even prosecuted. He is a boy, so he must be proud of his accomplishment.

I am not saying that either type of abuse is worse than another. In fact I am saying that, like most things comparing men and women, it is different but equal. The effects of a boy being abused in such a way may be far more subtle, but just as detrimental.

An Aside

To be sure, I am absolutely for any teacher who abuses position and children be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. But at the same time, I wonder about how we deal with accusations made against them. I can imagine a female teacher approaching superiors and telling them she is having an issue with sexual advances made by a student may well be dismissed with "boys will be boys" and being told to "deal with it". I can also imagine the terrible fear a male teacher has if he had to approach his superiors to report a female student making inappropriate advances.

Final Thought

I have tried to articulate my thoughts. I fear I have not managed as well as I had hoped.

The Right Moments

The low points in a trip offer much. Grand stories that become grander in the frequency of telling. They offer humor and pain to bring forth sympathy and startled yelps of laughter from those who weren't there.

But the high points, the Right Moments are the ones that stick. The points along the trip that make it memorable. They cling like small limpet mines, waiting to explode at just the right time and cascade lush, profound memories over your monkey brain aching with the labors of normal life.

There are the moments when you realize, right down to your marrow, that you are no longer home. Like Dorothy peering at the Land of Oz and proclaiming it anything but Kansas.

Standing in North Dakota, looking at the first hint of prairie and deep washes worn smooth by the constant wind. This west coast born and raised native learns that the Midwest is anything but a tabletop. Suddenly I am twelve again and devouring a book about the plains Indians that my grandmother had given me. I smell the grass. I feel the wind threatening to etch my bones like the hills beside me.

Cursing the engineer who designed the weak lights on my bike as I drift through a Louisiana swamp. Praising the full moon lighting my way. I have heard others talk of the voodoo creepiness of these places. But now I am feeling the slide guitar strum on the nerves in my neck. The deep humid smells of rotting death birthing life paint the inside of my head as I go to meet someone I have never met before but who serves a restful haven to my storm battered self.

The sweet cold ache of home made horchada on a hot Austin night.

Squatting at the foot of red Arizona cliffs, watching the sun drop to the west. Feeling the cold wind rise up out of bed. Admiring the ochre dust painting my boots as I sit in the shadow of Everett Ruess.

Feeling the cool rain of my home pulling me back as I push those last few miles in the dark. The weight of miles and days resting on aching calloused shoulders. The warm ache of needing a bed shared. The deep need to be mauled by a candy-sticky son.

These are the moments of a long ride that lodge themselves deep. They are kept in your pocket and polished by the years. They are there to be removed and smiled over when the cold winters draw maps of your journeys in the window frost.