Cauldron Anthology Issue 9: They Who Were Spurned cauldron9finalproof | Page 13

All she knew, all the pain these secrets portended that she didn’t foresee.

All the women who keep quiet, who hold the transgressions of predatory men inside their
bodies because they fear that telling will rupture their skin, rupture the lives they have built in spite
of this burden. As it often does.
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I judge my mother harshly, and yet my mothering in many ways was an amplification of hers,
of the reserved distance and rigid expectations of my childhood.

When my children were young, I left them dangling by the threads of their own emotional
resources, swinging over an abyss of childhood terrors, their mewlings and pleas drowned beneath
the thrumming of my heart in my ears, always my heart in my ears, attuned to distraction, forever
restless, never settling into the comfort cadence that welcomes a child to find respite in a lap, a hug,
a word of reassurance. Always running from the moment, the moment too fraught with perilous
memories that might surface above the waters if I stopped beating those waters into turbulence, my
inner world a cacophonous sea. All in service to my own secrets.

Where exactly did I live, if not in the moment? In the “What’s to come? What needs to be
done?” Crumbs on counters and diapers in pails, handprints on windows and soap scum in tubs,
dust streaks on mantels, dog hair in drifts, bloodstains on sheets. I narrowed my existence to
low-ceilinged drudgery and refused to kick open the door and squint in the light, smell the wonder
of fresh-skinned children with dandelion offerings, jammy kisses, chubby arms circling my neck,
wide eyes searching my face.

I looked away. To the detritus of my day. Their innocence too poignant to bear.
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What is it women hope to gain from this cultural moment in time, exactly? Justice? A sea
change? For men to stop acting like beasts?

Does sea change impact the mountaintop of power? All we need to answer that question is to
reflect for a moment on our mountaintop.

It’s easy to despair. For every Eric Schneiderman, we have a Donald Trump, a Clarence Thom-
as, a Bill Clinton, a Brett Kavanaugh. For every Bill Cosby, we have a Michael Jackson, an R. Kelly.
For every Harvey Weinstein, we have a Les Moonves, a Louis C.K., a Woody Allen, a Roman Polans-
ki. For every Bill O’Reilly, we have a Sean Hannity, a Garrison Keillor, a James Rosen. Men who—
even if they suffer a momentary repercussion—climb back up the mountain.
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Cauldron Anthology