So How do You Like Me Now?

Once I Moved through life as if I were on a European highway. I traveled fast, feeling secure that my lane was designed and built just for me. It enticed me, engaged me, excited me. There were no bumps or obstacles, no wrecks or detours. I knew where I was headed. I had no reason to think that would change.

But suddenly, with what seemed like vicious, mysterious plotting, an obstacle appeared in the road. Actually, it was more like a brick wall. The self-confidence that had given me so many opportunities had now carried me to the brink of disaster.

Like a temperamental lover, life took from me--abruptly and without warning--the comfort of my predictable existence. Like a victim of a thief in the night, I had been robbed of all that was familiar. And then there was the pain--pure, raw and complex. There were no bruises, no visible signs of my terror, only an inner trembling that would not go away. So I sat, shaken and dazed, simply watching life pass by. I saw curious stares with no concern, moving lips without voices. My fear was met by others' fear. My longing was met by cynicism from others. I was forced to face the future alone.

•

Mike Tyson was an imposing presence, yet he was still just a boy. He was handsome and he had an unerring sense of quality. This was not altogether effortless; it was part of everything he wanted to be. But for now there remained the boy, a little younger than I, who had come a long way in too short a time. Although he still had remnants of genuine innocence, much of that was pushed aside by the emerging man and by the difficult experiences of a brief but tumultuous life. Some of his innocence may have been forced. A lot of it was deliberate. He had learned that his guileless displays were more subtle manipulators than his physical strength, and they were far more disarming. They had the potential to be more deadly.

This weaving of man and boy, strength and vulnerability, was not only enticing, it was electrifying. He smiled and relaxed. He liked me. It was like a re-union of old neighborhood friends who understand just how far from home they are. Our glances gave reassurance and comfort and familiarity.

I had never had a relationship so complete, so intimate. There was never any uneasiness, no having to think about what to say or how to act. There was no getting dressed up, made up or done up. For the first time, being myself was easy. I had always strived for perfection, but I had never felt perfect. I was perfect for him.

And in the beginning he was perfect for me. He became my comforter, my protector, my supporter, my sustainer. He was the strong, reliable, constant male presence that I was missing. He satisfied a basic criterion I had established for my relationships with men. He always showed up. Not only when he said he would but even when I didn't expect him and needed him most.

•

I was about two years old when I lost my father through divorce. My first memory of him--or the absence of him--is of sitting in the window, waiting for him to pick me up. My mother had dressed me in pretty clothes, and I remember climbing onto the sofa to be able to see out the window. I waited and waited for him. It felt like an eternity. He never came, and I remembered very little about him after that until I was much older.

As the years passed with little contact between my father and me, I lost trust in him. I have never been able to heal that breach of trust. Afraid of being let down again, I placed few demands on any man, as long as he showed up.

This standard of judgment can be quite stringent. How many men have I known who could not keep the simplest commitments? I wish my father had been there to teach me that relationships go beyond showing up, that commitments go beyond time and date and go straight to the heart and soul of the relationship. By being there, he could have helped me understand the strictest commitment--namely, that the person with whom we are engaged in a relationship should be concerned for our well-being, our growth and our unfolding, and that though they are not responsible for this process, they should do nothing to impede it.

But if my father--the first man in my life, my first love--did not love me enough to keep his commitments to me, why should any other man?

Although I say that commitment is important, perhaps I have not really insisted on it, nor do I even really expect it. I was never taught what it means to be loved by a man. The man who could have taught me best was not there to teach me. And for those of us who are fatherless daughters, my heart breaks because, until we resolve our feelings about our fathers, the first men in our lives, we will be disappointed again and again as we search for the man who will show up.

•

We were practically inseparable after our first meeting. We were like two children who had each finally found a best friend as well as a partner in mischief. Discipline had always been important to me, but with (text concluded on page 130) him I felt free. We were wildly happy.

Early on in our relationship, I had a job to do in Vail. We kissed goodbye, and we were both sad. I left Los Angeles and he made the long trip back to his home in Catskill, New York.

The day after I arrived in Vail, I was miserably sick from the altitude. I was also miserably lonely. When he called to check on me, I learned that he was equally tormented. When he discovered that I was sick and somewhat frightened by this experience, he comforted me by telling me he loved me--for the first time. I was so sick, but I was happy.

As time passed, I seemed to get sicker, and I could barely get out of bed. The telephone rang. It was him again. He wanted to talk only for a moment, which was uncharacteristic of him. During that brief conversation, he assured me I would be fine and that we would see each other soon. We hung up, and I lay back and closed my eyes, hoping the room would stop spinning. Then there was a knock on the door. I felt too weak to answer it. When I finally did open the door, there he stood.

•

We slipped into our roles quickly. I was to be the caretaker, the stronger and more deliberate one. But since I was the woman, I also would become the wicked one. Perhaps circumstance, as well as gender, had ideally suited me for the role. After all, wasn't I more sophisticated, more worldly, better educated? Wasn't I also less a victim of poverty, less a victim of inner-city circumstance and, generally, less likely a victim?

We often spent the night at my mother's apartment. It was far more modest than our own home, but that was where we were both comfortable and somehow comforted. I recall one night in particular when even there he was having trouble sleeping. This was common when he was training for a fight. He would stay awake far into the night, hoping to be distracted from the obvious pressures. When I finally got him to relax and fall asleep, we cuddled close on the twin futon. We stayed interlocked all night, as we did when we were at home in our huge bed. But on this futon I had to hang on especially tight to keep from falling onto the floor. On this fitful night he let out an unfamiliar, desperate scream. He had dreamed that he'd been knocked out and had lost the fight. We talked about it. We laughed about it. And as we went back to sleep, he squeezed me even tighter. He was a little afraid, and I was more afraid.

We were different, yet so much alike. There was one thing in particular that we shared: a profound and overwhelming fear. But we also shared a common reaction to our fear. It was natural for each of us to fight harder, to, as he described it, "turn the fear into fire." While some people are paralyzed by fear, it fueled our desire. At the time of greatest fear--fear of love and intimacy, fear of trust and mistrust--we engaged in the fiercest battles.

I recall him saying, "I'm not going to fight anymore. I am going to fight only you." Maybe he was really saying, "I will put up a furious battle to keep things the way they have always been, the way I have grown to trust them to be. It is difficult for me to trust. Becoming a man is difficult for me, especially in the presence of someone I love, in the presence of someone who thinks I'm already a man. How can I confide that my greatest fear is of failure, and that my greatest failure would be failing you?"

But I was a girl with fears of my own, putting up a fierce battle of my own, striving to become a woman, or perhaps not to become a woman. Yet we were desperately in love, with all the anxiety, grief, pain and torture that desperation brings. We had no idea that the only battle to be waged is within each of us, and the victory is triumph over oneself.

•

"Man, I'll never forget that punch. It was when I fought with Robin in Steve's apartment. She really offended me and I went bam," he said, throwing a fast backhand into the air to illustrate. "She flew backward, hitting every fucking wall in the apartment. That was the best punch I've ever thrown in my whole fucking life."

--Mike Tyson, As Recounted by Jose Torres in his Book Fire and Fear

Of course, that was not his most deadly or even his hardest punch. But it may have been his most devastating. It was devastating for me because, though there was no permanent physical harm, the emotional hurt was painful and lasting. I became the third generation of battered women in my family. The cycle remained unbroken.

The punch was devastating for him, too. He wanted desperately to break his own cycle of violence. But there were many obstacles preventing him from doing so. As the heavyweight champion of the world, he was exempt from the rules of civilized behavior. He had been condemned for his brutality in his early life, but then he found his way into the boxing arena, where brutality was not only condoned but expected and richly rewarded. This paradox must have been terribly confusing to a young man struggling to establish values.

•

After our relationship ended, everything was crazy, out of control, upside down. It's been a while now, but not long enough for me to be comfortable with the memories. My mom and I recently went out to a movie. A good movie always makes me feel happy, and there is safety and peace in the darkness. As we left the car and headed toward the theater, a young woman shouted at me, "You deserved to get your ass kicked. He should have killed you."

I continued to walk, never acknowledging her taunts. I felt bad for me; I felt even worse for her.

•

I have had childhood dreams realized, and I have had unimaginable nightmares become reality. As a result, a new direction for my life has emerged.

Becoming a woman is one of several difficult experiences that I must endure in life's journey. Nothing has caused me more agony. Getting acquainted with, and finally being comfortable with, one's sensuality is complicated. It can be especially burdensome for a woman. Embracing one's femininity can become confusing when, by virtue of your femininity, you are under suspicion. As daughters of Eve, we inherit the legacy of original sin. We are tempters of man, seducers of the world. Ultimately responsible for all evil, we carry the burden of the fall of man. Therefore, we are in constant contrition, always striving to be absolved of its stigma.

Like many who are oppressed, we struggle to distance ourselves from those who share our curse. We want our oppressors to accept us, to love us. We say what they want us to say. We do what they want us to do. We attempt to forget the pain and suffering of those with whom we share a common oppression. We begin to blame the oppressed for their oppression.

"What did you do to make him hit you?" is the question we are asked and, worse yet, that we ask ourselves. Whether in rape, battery or harassment, time and time again the blame is put back on the victim when the victim is a woman. Suspicion and accusation sometimes seem to validate mistreatment, not only in the minds of men but often women as well. Perhaps it is because even now women do not like or trust one another the same way men do. On the contrary, we are suspicious. As women, therefore, we face a double-edged sword of suspicion--from our own sex and from the opposite sex.

I have tried absolution by perfection. I have tried absolution by submission. I have tried absolution by assuming blame and responsibility for others to the point of not taking care of myself. But rather than struggle to be absolved, I will--with an uneasy, yet mature courage--embrace being a woman.