Sisters.net

Last night some featury not-quite-coherent bit of news surfaced on my radar, alleging staggering statistics of on-campus rapes among Columbia freshman.   So I read a little further, with my own prejudices and skepticism, and learned the alleged perps are not predatory intruders but matriculating Columbia athletes and students.

As a mother, I know freshmen don't have the best judgment.  They are prone to the excessive drinking and partying that is part of the 'independence' declaration of college life.  Suddenly kids are forced to  set curfews and boundaries and I remember occasionally wishing I could blame my mother when I lacked the courage to say no to one thing or another.  Sex?  Pretty much a passionate 2-thumbs up, but another generational can of worms back then.  It wasn't until I was a young adult, pursuing a career, that I really encountered tough boundary issues and power ploys.

My son at the age of 19 was accused on Facebook of being a 'deadbeat dad'.  This by another sophomore who had skipped a day or 2 of the pill and wanted him to pay for her over-the-counter pregnancy test.  She used to call my house at least once a week in a coke-induced panic-- her apartment was on fire, someone was trying to break in-- -anything to require his presence at 3 AM, and to spend the night.  It was like gender-reversed rape when he'd arrive, exhausted and emotionally bullied by her threats and schemes.

In no way would I ever suggest that any of these Columbia women had not been assaulted; what does confuse me, in most of the cases I read--- is where is their head, their thinking, their 'sisterhood'?  I grew   up in an era where pervy uncles and drunk friends of our parents would cross lines and make suggestions.  Pediatricians touched us inappropriately and told us 'the boys are going to love this' when you get a little older.  Our bosses and mentors in our first jobs pressed their suited groins against us and groped us under the desk.  Did we tell our mothers?  Our teachers?  We did not.  But we told each other.  Our friends, our cousins--- whomever-- we told each other-- we confided, we confessed, we exchanged  humiliations and nightmares.  And we grew collectively stronger.  Once we shared our fears, we could look at them and decide what we could do.  We developed a collective jury of our intimate female peers.

We all knew who liked rough sex, we all knew who kissed and told and who disrespected our preferences.  And we knew what to do about it.  Of course there was always a girl among us who was attacked or assaulted without warning.  But we backed her.  We went to the police if we had to; we held each other's hands for abortions, we raised money and protected each other.  We navigated the free-love era with our hearts and brains and one another.  We learned to give love and take love, to try things and not fear them, and to trust our instincts.  I'm not sure, in this Kardashian age, where my son and his girlfriends had seen the Paris Hilton tape a year or two after Bambi,  that there is the sense of a 'net' among women.

Mothers in 21st-century New York City are pretty protective.  We interview and interrogate and hover.  No one is going to touch our baby with impropriety.  Doctors are required to have a female PA present during exams.  We have discussed sex so much our kids don't want to know what we knew.  They want to do it and have it and they want to act like rappers and ho's when they feel like it.  For all the soft porn and T & A & P everywhere we look, sex and love seem just a little cheap.  Girls are desperate and often date the B list.  Women my age are lonely and court guys they wouldn't have given a light at a bar in 1985.   Most guys who take advantage of women do so because no one stops them.  No one confronts them.  Not a tribune of Columbia administrators, but the girl they dissed and her girlfriends.  In my day, that guy wouldn't have lived to tell the tale without a beating from someone…and he wouldn't have dared repeat his offense.  Not in the same geographic hub.  For all the face booking and internet gossip and instagram posting,  how the f--  is the sisterhood failing women?

I am about to do a 'women-in-rock' fundraiser for anti-violence and domestic abuse.  We conscious warriors who have often waded through catcalls and ass-pinching to play our music with pride. We swam upstream to survive the sexist prejudices in a male-dominated musical world.  We support each other, we share, we talk, we rock and we are loud.  My message to the Columbia freshman-- stop blaming the administration for failing you, and start showing up for each other.  Use your brain and instincts and avoid men who are assholes.  An ounce of prevention, etc… protect your assets and stop spreading yourselves so thin.  You are not victims-- you are smart enough to manage your life.  You have a goddam voice and you can arm yourself with a few lessons in self defense.  Be generous with your sisters and see where you are and get out while you are safe.  And don't be afraid to love the ones who love and deserve your righteous body.  That is our legacy and our just dessert.  Amen.

Let Her Eat Cake

So… how long ago was it that we had the cartoon of Paris Hilton in her little sexy devil costume entering Hell, with Satan himself licking his chops like the Red Riding Hood wolf, the flames all around, and the caption, of course: ‘It’s hot!’

Well, I guess prison, or the version poor Paris experienced, was not air-conditioned. Paris got a heat-rash…or maybe it was a yeast infection, or prickly heat or jock-itch or something unattractive. And she was afraid to pee, or worse. Like the entire world audience hasn't seen everything and more. A potty shot, compared to that video, would be fairly demure. Can you imagine what the press is offering those prison guards for such contraband? Better than a winning lotto ticket and certainly worth losing one's job over. Heck, even if you'd have to do time-- I'm sure prison-guards get special inmate-status. It would be like getting a huge gratuity from Paris. A pay-back. Because there's no actual tipping in jail. But can you imagine the paycheck for that one little Kodak second? And then the book deal...

Did you ever notice how pathetic your child looked in time-out posture, with that sad, tilted face, all baby-cute and sorry…and the second you give the signal, he is back again pulling dog tails, smashing his little sister over the head and whacking balls around the living room? I wonder occasionally how many times the Hiltons actually punished their children. They are so apparently lenient and doting through all the unattractive public displays from which their lovely daughter has not only emerged unscathed, but profited. She and Britney Spears have written the new book on shame because any behavioral deviation is now processed not as embarrassing or incriminating, but with a shrug and a new interpretation of the word pride. Complete lack of shame is a punk-rock thing. Edgy and bold. Not too long ago Fergie, who peed in her pants onstage, shrugged her shoulders, and actually was admired for what might have sent an older-generation celebrity to a sanatorium. The new breed of publicists taught these girls: don’t be embarrassed, flaunt your errors. Own them and smile. The rest of the world will be wanting one, too. Your popped boob will be looked at millions of times worldwide on Youtube, your celebrity stock value will skyrocket. Shame is in the eye of the beholder.

Has there been any other frontpage news since poor little Paris went to grown-up jail? And I thought she had all that practice slumming it with her friend Nicole in those reality shows where they actually had to cook and shovel things and vacuum. I guess when you’re earning millions it’s fun to take out the garbage on camera. So was it the lack of entertainment in prison? The lack of audience? What caused our girl to break down during her little time out? I’m sure no one touched her. I’m sure she didn’t have to use the community showers or feel threatened. In fact I’m sure her little cell is nicer than your average low-income motel-room. Better than some college dorms. But whatever—it provoked a full-blown anxiety attack or tantrum which required some unspecified psychotropic drugs to subdue.

And our Paris was so contrite—had learned sooo much from her 2 or 3 days in the cheery quarters which are cleaner and larger than the average New York City apartment. Until they decided to send her back for just a little bit more time. Obviously 'No' is a word not often heard in the Hilton household. What does one do for a celebrity tantrum? We all feel so sorry for her. NOT. How in Hilton Hell did that LA sheriff make such an insane decision? It took a Bob Dylan epic song and years of pleas and political demonstrations to get Hurricane justice. But the Hilton brat? Well, it seems her grandfather partly funded this particular sheriff’s re-election campaign and called in the favor. Rich people are smart. Why, in this day and age, Marie Antoinette would have an ankle bracelet and plenty of cake.

And did anyone else notice the tiny item in the Post on Friday relating how the younger Hilton had been mugged near Penn Station. I’m sure he was innocent, too… maybe copping some drugs, flashing his wallet around, whatever. Maybe he was jealous of the attention his sister was getting. Maybe he wanted to join her, keep her company---a Hiltonian sacrifice for his family.

So now what? Jail didn’t hurt Martha Stewart any, but she didn’t have a public melt-down, either. She wore her poncho for the photographers and went home. Personally I can’t afford any more summer holiday than a daytrip to the Rockaways on the A train. That jail cell looks to me like an all-expenses paid holiday from my whining teenagers. No such luck for the mildly and uncelebrated wicked. I won’t get a book deal or a prison sentence and if I did it wouldn’t be worth a mention in the papers. Crime doesn’t pay, for poor people. Not like for Paris and Martha and their fortunate jurors and guards.


My kids have their Free Paris wristbands which someone has already made a small fortune out of. They wish their parents had named them after a European hotel, also. Then they wouldn’t need a stage-name in the future. The Hiltons had it all figured, I guess. All under control. And if little Paris has to spend two weeks without alcohol and drugs in her little cell, at least now she’ll be prescription medicated and it won’t be so bad. Like nitrous oxide for the rich at the dentist’s office. And she’ll lose a few pounds, be able to swap clothes with the anorexic Nicole, write the 23-day Celebrity Prison Diet book. I spent worse summers at Girl Scout camp. With poison ivy.

Here’s a little game: Remove the word ‘prison’ from Paris Hilton…what’s left? All you anagram fans can go to town on that one. Maybe she’ll get to play solitaire scrabble in her cell and figure it out. I wonder what she is reading: Dostoevsky? Kafka? Arthur Koestler? Tough to concentrate when you have cell-phone withdrawal. My son just lost his and he is having a Hiltonian tantrum. Maybe he can borrow one of Paris’ while she’s not using it. Just think of all the rollover minutes she’s socking away.

And a little sisterly caution to Paris: Don't forget to flush.