Things We’re Afraid to Say (The Answer Is: No)

By Maria Padhila

The other day a woman I like posted something about having just learned what a tulpa is and being afraid to think about something lest it manifest in all its scary glory.

She was kidding, but this intersected a little too neatly with some similar thoughts I’d been having. I’m planning to take my daughter, Tobi, to her first burn. She’s been to some parties. We talk a lot. She’ll have one adult, usually two, with her at all times. I know others will be bringing their kids. I have tried to prep her for this six ways to Sunday. She’s going because SHE wants to and has begged and begged for years.

Recently, when I asked her to name some of the happiest times of her life (in order to get her mind off feeling sick), one of the times on the list was “when I was hula hooping at that burner party.” (Others were helping her aunt pick out photos for the market stall where she sells her photos, going on rides at a neighborhood fair with one of her best friends, and touring San Francisco with her grandparents. I am telling myself, “see, this is a well-rounded life. She’s doing OK.”)

At the same time, because there were some incidents of sexual assault at Burning Man this year (as there are every year), the people at our small regional burn have been talking, debating, arguing, expressing and talking some more about ways to make our space completely safe.

And that made me nervous. People talking about how to keep our space free and safe made me hyper-aware of all the possible dangers. Was this a good decision?

I’m not asking that question because I want community input. We’re going to make our own decision on this one. I asked the question of myself.

I love our small regional burn; it’s a great blend of people and art that come back year after year, and new arrivals and ideas. One of the best things about it is what’s called BED, or the Bureau of Erotic Discourse, which is a project that started at Burning Man and has spread. Similar things go on at other similar events. And it’s not what you think!

At our small event, it works like this: a challenge is issued to all camps to take responsibility for being safe places. The goal is creating a culture where consent is not just mandatory, but a given — essentially, by talking about how no encounter can be possible without consent, this dynamic should eventually become a given. Camps that take up the challenge put up a poster or similar indication that they’re a safe space. (I’m not even going to say things like ‘true’ or ‘legitimate’ consent, because I think you get that it’s either consent or it’s not.)

BED also sometimes does participatory presentations with discussions and exercises. I’ve participated in these. What happens is that you talk about consent, what consent means, and what doesn’t constitute consent. We did some roleplay that consists of simply saying “no” when someone asks to be with you in any way, and stepping in to ask about what’s happening when you see someone being pressured.

It was extraordinarily, radically liberating to me to simply say “no.” It was also a little embarrassing that at the age I was then — maybe 45 or 46? — this was the first time I’d fully felt that feeling.

Just saying “no.” Pull away from the vision of Nancy Regan, and feel it for a minute. You don’t have to give an excuse. You don’t have to apologize. No explanations. No please or thank you. You don’t have to shout or smile when you say it. Just “no.”

“Hey, would you like a drink?” “No.”

‘Hey, how about walking back to my tent with me?” “No.”

“Can I hug you?” “No.”

Or: “Don’t hug me.” “I don’t want to talk to you.” “Don’t touch me.”

Oh, but that sounds so mean! How can you be so rude! Why can’t I hug you? What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?

Just “no.” And silence.

You can do this. The world doesn’t fall in. Your friends and lovers don’t leave you for your evil behavior. In fact, you’re surrounded by a community that supports your simply saying “no.” And if you get pressured beyond that, that community will have your back.

This is actually the way I’ve raised Tobi, and we’ve talked about it and practiced it. She’s practiced saying no and yelling at me and others who are close to us. I don’t know why it should be revolutionary that a little girl should not have to hug anyone, even a relative, if she does not want to. Why is it so unheard of that a child would be allowed to set his or her own boundaries, without being questioned or ordered to act otherwise?

Yeah, I would definitely ask her later about whether a certain person bothered her in particular, in some way. I ask this because I want to show her I respect her instincts and want to hear more about her thoughts and feelings. Once she told me she was scared of a guy whom I know well but who she had just met, because he had on a scary costume. I said I know him and I know he’s OK, but we never have to be around him if you don’t want to. It’s OK, and I won’t be mad, and I love you and believe you when you say you’re scared.

I’ve got her back. All she ever has to say is “no.”

All the stories I’ve heard from people who have been assaulted or abused have some element of people not talking and listening enough — I’ve never encountered one involving people talking about what was going on too much. I don’t know if I’m doing it right; I never do. But I can’t, I just can’t, not after what I’ve heard from friends and read from writers, not talk about this. I can’t not spell things out, really clearly, in a way I hope anyone can understand, no matter their age or mental or emotional abilities.

You can say no. You can tell someone to go away. You can even scream and kick and hurt. I will have your back.

I think there’s this sense that bubbles up from people to the tune of: you can’t let a child dictate what adults do! You can’t let her grow up thinking it’s OK to be rude! If he doesn’t hug Aunt Eunice, her feelings will be terribly hurt! You can’t let him get away with deciding these things for himself!

Oh, but I can. This is not a matter of eating too many gummi bears and feeling sick. This is not saying no to homework. This is just something that I feel by instinct and logic is absolutely OK. So this is how I do it.

I just refuse to believe that talking about, thinking about and planning for the possibility of a bad thing happening somehow makes it manifest.

Not in this area. Because everything I’ve seen shows me that it’s silence that hurts.

Despite my ostensible transparency, I have a bit of an agenda here. I want her not to be the person who is flummoxed when they get on their own and get their first taste of freedom. If it’s absolutely clear from the beginning, through practice, that freedom takes responsibility, the chances that she won’t scramble her brains or her body improve.

So she sees an intoxicated person behaving oddly or badly? We talk about it. I try to tailor answers to questions to a level she can understand, as I have all her life. Here’s my party line: everything you eat and drink, and even what you breathe, is medicine. You don’t take medicine unless you need it (yes, you need air, smarty-pants). When you grow up, you should talk to someone who understands medicines and get guidance so you’ll take the right kind and the right amount for your body. Any medicine (yes, even air) can make a person sick if it’s not right for them.

I don’t know if I’m doing it right, but I know we’re talking.

My mother-in-law has a saying: “Your mule and your child will always make a liar out of you.” It could be that years from now, Tobi will behave in ways that disregard all she’s learned and seen. She may stop talking to me. Or not. I can only do what I think is right, and keep hope open that it really is right.

The second aspect that comes up is the question: why would you take your child to a place where she would need to know how to do all this?

My answer is that every place I take my child is a place she needs to know this. Once at the regional burn, there was a groper on the loose. He grabbed my breasts and assaulted several other women. He was caught and dealt with. Once, walking home from doing an interview at Dupont Circle, in broad daylight, an area busy with professionals, shoppers and tourists, packed with restaurants and bars, an upscale area in the middle of Washington, D.C., a man grabbed me and groped at my ass and groin.

I called the police as soon as I could. That groper was not caught. Yet I never hesitate to walk at Dupont Circle.

This is the sort of catechism I recite with Tobi, just once in a while, at random, as we’re walking or driving:

“Do you remember when our car was stolen?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think it was my fault that the car was stolen?”

“No.”

“But I parked it on the street. We don’t have a driveway. It was just out there on the street where anyone could take it. Are you sure it wasn’t my fault?”

“Yes, it wasn’t your fault.”

“Well then, whose fault was it?”

“The thief. It was the thief’s fault.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t steal other people’s things.”

After 9/11, relatives asked if we were going to move out of D.C. Weren’t we worried about terrorists? My stock answer: “Maybe you’re right — maybe we should move to Oklahoma.”

Our regional burn makes it clear in all the guides to what’s happening that there are some events that are kid-friendly and some that are not. Camps with public displays of sexuality are usually grouped in a sort of Amsterdam row that’s easily avoided if you want to avoid it.

Experience, psychologists and social scientists will tell you that the chances of encountering a predator in the kink, poly or swinger communities are about the same as in any other community. People assume that kinky people, for instance, are more dangerous. They assume kinky people have dissolved all boundaries and believe anything goes. From knowing people in that community, I know that these people generally have stronger, more fully articulated boundaries than anyone in the mainstream. They have to, because they can’t fall back on assumptions about boundaries.

So we’ll go and have fun camping out and making pancakes and roasting marshmallows. We’ll go to the hoop jam and the recycle-your-t-shirt workshop and acro-yoga and the costume walk-offs and lots and lots of dance classes. We’ll hang out and paint our faces and our arms and do our nails and do our hair and dance and walk around and see the bright lights, then go back to our tent (and Chris will sit out by the fire, keeping watch like a dozen Secret Service agents).

And if anyone bothers us, we’ll know what to do.

I hope someday no one will have to wear a special badge or put up a poster to tell the rest of us that this area is safe and that the person here is a mensch. Which word, you know, simply means “human being.”