Will you raise him right?
It was a big day but I didn’t cry until I heard him sing— a new-to-me musician. Joel Adam Russell. I wonder if his mama raised him right or if she just got lucky (perhaps he had papas - what do I know).
This morning at work my young adult daughter called. 2000 miles away she cried as she spoke, but this cry was different, “They arrested him. He’s in jail.” There was a hint of relief in her voice. She pressed charges 20 months after the rape and today the system worked in her favor. Today the system served her well. Sometimes life’s legal checks and balances keep us safe, but sometimes they keep us stuck and the latter was feeling all too real until today when the district attorney delivered the good news of his arrest.
The arrest of a bad man, or maybe a good man gone bad… that part is not for me to know.
I don't know what makes a good man. I know I was raised by one. I know I married one. I hope I’m raising one, but I’m not naive enough to think I have that much power. Influence is a beautiful thing, until it’s not.
My son is only 10 but we already talk about consent. We lead with curiosity. We aren’t afraid of hard conversations or uncomfortable silences. He’s only 10 but he knows the blood of a period, he knows the curves of a healthy body, he knows the compassion it takes to connect with a human whose world is different than his. We’ve talked about abortion, we’ve talked about sex, we’ve talked about the complexities of some of life’s hardest realities… but will he be a good man; is talking about something enough? Or will the influence of youtube channels and politically elected sexual criminals weasel their way into his sculptable mind?
Boys will be boys, but what kind of boys will they be?
I don’t know Joel Adam Russell, but I know the lyrics in his song. They hit home tonight; straight into my heart like the knife that it was when I learned about the rapist who penetrated her uninvited.
I heard the words your body, my choice
there’s a big dick swinging between your thighs
and you can have your way and keep standing upright…
Maybe it’s the gentle swill of his voice. The strum of the acoustic strings. The comfort of his bearded face. His calm but fierce wisdom. Whatever it is, I cried. I listened 5 times and I cried for the first time today.
For all I know the arrest was short lived. It’s possible that the day went by, someone paid someone else some money, he left the barracks, and he’s kicking back a beer with his friends (do rapists have friends… are they real friends? Do they know he’s a rapist?) For all I know he’s been through this before and he’s just rolling with the punches until the next time. I want this to not be true. I want him to pay for what he’s done, but I know my limits. I know that what I can and will control is my own experience and the ways in which I love and show my daughter that she is worthy beyond measure no matter what a judge might someday rule.
On my laptop Joel Adam Russell sings:
There’s always a bigger fish in the lake
and I never met a piece of shit I couldn’t break
Right now the 2000 miles between us doesn’t feel far enough. I made the mistake of finding him on Instagram. Not Joel, the other guy, the bad guy. His smug ass face is staring back at me, two young blond girls on either side and it’s taking everything I have not to vomit up the brussel sprouts I just ate. He violated her because he could, because someone’s influence emboldened him. Yesterday I said I hoped Nancy Mace someday rots in a mens bathroom, but I wouldn’t even will the bad guy on her. I wouldn’t will him on anyone.
I wish I could take him away from my girl, away from all the people who have been violated— away from their past, present, and future.
My daughter will rise above. My daughter will thrive. She’s one of the lucky ones. She is loved. She is cherished. She knows that his assault was about him, not about her.
But I know that this assault, all the assaults, aren’t just about them, they are about us. They are about the lessons we teach, the behavior we accept, the influence we have, the boys we raise. Maybe that’s the hardest part to accept, that we can’t raise all the boys to be good ones.
