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During the “getting to know each other stage” with our partner, we usually share some of our past, family, friends, adventures, work, and relationship histories—with my most recent ex, I shared everything! I am an open book to anyone I find myself comfortable talking to. Little did I know that too much honesty would bring me no good in a relationship. I told my ex about a man I dated several times in the span of one year but didn’t count as a relationship, since the man said he didn’t want to be tied up in a relationship. How did he use this against me? He formulated in his mind that I basically sleep around with men. Bullshit, isn’t it?
From day one, I had been nothing but open and honest to the ex; the very first day we met, I let him check my phone—social media profile, messages, etc. There were few times I tried checking his phone—not because I thought he was cheating, but merely because I wanted him to feel what it’s like when someone’s reading your private messages. I’d intentionally dig and ask the same questions he’d usually ask me. Of course he got upset and didn’t like me asking questions.
I was enjoying his attention and concern at first; I was very obedient sending photos and sharing my location when I was with friends, when I was about to hit the bed, when driving, when in church, when at work, and so and so forth…so when did it hit me that there was something odd about this?
When I realized that despite all the photos and location, he constantly called and sent messages checking who am I with and what am I doing and he got upset if I didn’t respond immediately. For Pete’s sake! When I have people around me, I pay so much respect to them that I don’t hold my phone during face-to-face conversations; that explains why I can’t attend to his calls/SMS immediately, and had I not sent photos and shared my location already?!
That’s when it hit me—it wasn’t just simply sharing photos and location; there was an underlying trust issue. I never gave him a reason to doubt me, but he was suspicious all the time. Even when I’d be working and didn’t get to pick up my office direct line, he would be upset and would ask me to explain what the fuck I’m doing in the office!
It was a short-lived relationship—four months. And during that four months, I could have bought three Louis Vuitton bags and three pairs of Christian Louboutin shoes had I saved the money instead of spending it with him. This might not sound much for some, but for an average Jane like me, that’s a whole lot of money (this doesn’t include the money I spent in the salon, on clothing, makeup, lingerie, etc. all to present myself well to the ex). The thing was, I voluntarily spent as much as I could, but still he counted in my face every penny he spent on me. Whenever he did it, I just kept mum because I don’t see it as a mature gesture for me to enumerate hat I had paid for.
I’ve been in the UAE for seven years now—not to brag, but I’ve been to different places already, low/high-end restos/hotels/clubs/bars/pubs, off-road trips, name it. He was a newbie in Abu Dhabi when we started; what do you expect from a newbie? The desire to explore, of course! And that’s what we did—wined and dined everywhere we fancied! I felt great knowing I was with him experiencing his “firsts” here, so how does this become a sign that he is an asshole?
When we were having a real talk and he sarcastically claimed that he is “relatively rich.” What popped in my mind when I heard this was, “If you are, then why the hell do you count your pennies and demand that I spend?” Instead I simply asked, “and how does it benefit me?” His answer, “I take you to nice places, you get to eat steak and drink wine.” I swear to God, every drop of blood in me boiled with what I heard…but!…being a nice girlfriend avoiding argument, I just simply responded, “I have been doing the same even before you.” But he couldn’t be stopped. He said, “I’m not sure you have.” WTF!!! We eventually ended up arguing!
If you experience this more often than not, chances are he’s a dick face!
If your man labels his mom “Bitch,” what the fuck do you expect from him—that he would call you his “Princess”? Dream on, ladies! It was over a dinner convo while we were talking about family. He was comparing his mom and dad on how they handle money and how his mom just gives away his collection of wine to their house guests. I was tongue-tied when he said, “She’s a bitch!” I told him, “You don’t speak to your mother like that,” and he took it wrong. He was expecting me to be on his side. I didn’t know what the true story was, but calling your mother a “Bitch” because she gives away your wine? Unacceptable!!!
So this, more or less, explains how he got the courage to strangle me once while we were in a fight. Should have I expected to be treated like a woman that I am, when he calls the woman who gave birth to him a “Bitch”? Hell, no! And this is why he easily tagged me as “Cunt” just five days ago (will get to that story some other time).
These words are for the one looking for hope; for the one questioning whether they’ll ever truly be okay. These words are for us all.
Beyond Worthy, by Jacqueline Whitney
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By Rob Wilder
July 6, 2004 11:56PM (UTC)
Just before Christmas, my 2-year-old son, London, started saying the word "pussy." As the father of two, I understand that new words stick to 2- and 3-year-olds like toilet paper to the bottom of your shoe, yet this ideogramic discovery struck me as different from the others.
The first time London uttered the word, we were sitting at the dinner table -- me, my wife, the boy and his 7-year-old sister, Poppy. London had just declared that he was finished with his meal and, not restricted by the rules of eating that the rest of us subscribe to, he began to run around the room, holding a Thomas the Tank Engine figure in the sticky tunnel of his closed hand. "Pussy!" he yelled, Thomas above his head, weighting his fist like a roll of pennies.
My wife and I looked back at him in unison, not dropping our forks, but definitely halting the chew. "What did he say?" she mouthed at me, careful not to alert our daughter that this word had some thorns.
"Hey, London," I called as casually as I could. "What did you say?" I forced a phony smile to throw him off the scent.
"Pussy." He cocked his head. He waited.
He searched around the room, trying to find an object to attach to the two syllables. My wife is a folk artist and there were many objects among our many collections for him to choose from -- bottle-cap men, ceramic cars from Mexico, strings of red chile lights. He spun around and then pointed at me. "You!" he said gleefully. "You are a pussy!"
I suppose, in retrospect, we paid far too much attention to an otherwise harmless word that I'm sure would have faded, like all the other sounds my son gives voice to during any given week. "Pussy," however, captivated us. I'm a writer and high school teacher, so the music of the word alone grabbed me, not to mention its myriad meanings. (I'd recently purchased a meat mallet, and couldn't stop using the term -- saying it at home, in my classroom, in my car: Where is my meat mallet? Who stole my meat mallet? Have you met my meat mallet?) For my wife, it was her love for all things taboo. A 2-year-old with that word in his mouth was deliciously naughty. Because we gave London the third degree over this one term, he soon realized its power and said it even more frequently than I mentioned my new flesh hammer.
A former student of mine, who is now in college, visited us one afternoon to tell us of her upcoming trip to the town of Hana on the Hawaiian island of Maui. The road to Hana is famous for its twists, turns, waterfalls, and potential for carsickness. Since we had experienced this firsthand during a vacation the summer before, we spoke of Hana in great and nauseating detail. London darted in and out of the living room during our chat and then sidled up to my student, the Thomas figure now replaced by Buzz Lightyear, and asked her, "Hana pussy?"
My student tried to be polite and asked London to repeat himself -- which he did, but now with a more affirmative statement: "Hana pussy. Yes, Hana pussy."
She sized us up and asked sincerely, "You guys watch a lot of porn around here?"
"Pussy" is a funny word because its taboo or profane meaning is slang and not definitive. Its beauty is in the eye of the beholder. A simpleton would say that since London knows neither the profane meaning nor the feline meaning of the word, anyone who thinks he's uttering an obscenity is perverse -- but hearing "pussy" out of context and out of a young boy's mouth, most people cannot help being offended, intrigued or both.
My older brother and his wife recently split up, and my sister-in-law is quite wounded from the separation and impending divorce. I phoned her to offer my ear and, as is habit in my family, put my daughter on first to say hello and tell her aunt about her busy suburban life of spelling, tap dance and horseback riding. She then passed the telephone to her younger brother, who shouted enthusiastically into the receiver: "Hey, you big pussy!"
I snatched the phone away, sending him into hysterics, and prepared to start the long explanation about "the word" and our fruitless investigation of its origin and subsequent embarrassment, but my sister-in-law snapped.
"What did he just say to me?" she wailed, and then wept like La Llorona.
London had evolved into a short, scurrying time bomb. My wife and I take our children everywhere, and London, loaded with that one lexical bullet, ticked along to birthday parties, various parks and playgrounds, and the grocery store. And he lived up to Chekhov's rule of drama: If you have a shotgun in the first act, it has to go off in the second. London hitched otherwise mundane modifiers to his new linguistic engine. He called our butcher "stinking pussy," his playmate Augie "Robopussy" (after a terrible Alvin and the Chipmunks video); even my father became the benevolent "Grandpa pussy."
Most people thought our anxiety around the word stemmed from a nightmare of our son becoming a foul-mouthed sailor at preschool, dropping the F-bomb, smoking Luckies and drinking mouthwash. I hesitate to admit I kind of loved the anticipation of the adult reaction to my little Don Rickles: the p.c. glares in our direction, then the pat questions about leonine friends at home, or perhaps overhearing our bedroom TV blasting videos you can only rent with a photo I.D. after midnight.
"Pussy" made the boring dinner party tolerable, the dance recital closer to a punk rock concert. "Pussy" broke the structure of our soccermomstrumental week. The part I didn't foresee was the discomfort people felt even discussing the metafact that London had become this cunning linguistic prodigy.
We were at a holiday party, and I was thinking about all this: language, meaning, interpretation and the profane. One of my current student's parents also attended this festive get-together and the couple asked what I was working on. About eight people huddled in our wine-slurping circle, eating imported tomatoes that had been dried in some exotic sun. I hesitated telling them, but figured we were all enlightened liberal adults -- and besides, the point still remained: London did not know what the word meant. It was just a "fa" in his song, a narrative scrap blowing in his mind's dust devil. So I said: "I've been thinking a lot about pussy."
The chewing stopped, mouths held the wine a beat longer before swallowing, the glances no longer seemed casual or mildly flirtatious. I let the sentence linger longer because I was my son's father and I wanted to experience fully what London had discovered: the power of a word.
Rob WIlder is a writer and high school teacher in Santa Fe, NM.
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