I worked as an art director and Bill was my boss. It was a small company that made litigation graphics. Major law firms hired us to provide their attorneys with eight-foot-high charts to display during trials. The lawyers would point like Vanna White to charts for the jury to see from 20 feet away.

I said, “Good morning, Bill.”

The three graphic designers I shared the room with and the four from an adjoining room gathered round Bill to launch the morning ritual of stomach-turning sucking up.

“Bill, you look terrific. Great color for you,” Alicia said.

“How was your weekend with the family upstate?” Leo asked.

Big David starts in about football, “Did you catch the game, Bill?”

I just couldn’t stand it anymore, so I grabbed a stack of folders and headed off to the copy machine with my design layouts. Bill came into the narrow room and leaned against the door frame.

“Busy copying?” he asked.

“Yup,” I responded to the painfully obvious question.

Bill walked over and stood way too close. Without warning he leaned in, reached his hand down and yanked the seat of my cotton stretch pants.

“Baggy pants,” he said disapprovingly.

I whirled around and blurted out, “Don’t touch my pants,” and scurried out of the room.

“Why are you always so militant?” he called out after me.

I winced. My arms burned, my stomach churned, and I was sweating. Once back at my desk, I began putting the copied pages into their corresponding job folders. ‘Damn,’ I thought. The whole reason I wore the baggy pants was so he’d stop staring at my ass.

Every day I went home and combed the want ads in the Times, but I couldn’t find anything even close. I was making good money as a designer, had excellent dental and medical benefits, profit sharing, three weeks paid vacation and 12 paid sick days.

It seemed like it would be idiotic to quit. We worked on exciting highly publicized cases like a John Gotti trial, the Central Park jogger case and the Exxon Valdez oil spill. In many ways I loved the job. The work was fun and challenging. My co-workers and I liked to talk about movies and books, and I adored my supervisor, Leo, who shared my kooky sense of humor. But Bill … Bill was a sexist pig and a bully.

Another day Bill slithered up beside me. He was a foot taller than me, so when he put his arm around me as if he was my buddy sliding a hand around my waist, his hand brushed up against and rested on the lower part of my right breast due to our height difference. I felt sure that this “accidental” fondling was intentional. I froze. I wanted to kick myself later for not calling him on it. This was a man who insisted we attend his office pool party every summer.

Bill had a large second home outside of the city. During my first pool party initiation he took me on a tour. Bill showed me the master bedroom and master bathroom. He pointed to the custom-made shower that had a ledge built in. He said, “That’s so my wife and I can do one of those things married people do.” He gestured with his hand to make it clear he was talking about a blow job. I was aghast. Every year after that I tried to figure out a way to skip the pool party. But the one time I did, he tortured me about it for a year.

One day my co-worker Sherri ran over to me, crying. She showed me her weekly time sheet, with a note in Bill’s handwriting. It said, “I’m very attracted to you.” Bill was 68 years old at the time. Sherri and I were both 26. He was married to his third wife. I felt like scrubbing the time sheet with hand wipes. “What should I do?” Sherri asked me, a worried look on her face.

I didn’t have the answer. For the past month I had been trying to organize the other six women at work to bond together so we could sue Bill for sexual harassment, or at least confront him. Not one of them would agree to help. I tried cajoling them. When that didn’t work I tried getting them as mad as I was, but they all seemed passive.

“How long do you want him to slither his hands across your boob when he’s pretending to hug you?” I asked. They accused me of being too dramatic. I accused them of being in denial.

Day after harassing day, Bill would walk up behind me as I sat at my desk. He would slide his huge meaty hands around my neck until his fingertips touched. It felt like a combination of him wanting to seduce me and strangle me. Each time it happened, I was rendered paralyzed and speechless. One day I’d had it and said, “Don’t touch me!”

That started an ongoing office humiliation that would last for the entire eight years I continued to work there. Bill would sneak up behind me, and he would start to put his hands around my neck but would stop less than an inch away. Then he would make sure that he had an audience and say in a mocking tone, “Oops! No touchy.” All of the brownnosers would give it a hearty laugh and the blood would rush up to my face and ears.

My friends and my feminist mom often demanded an explanation for why I wasn’t taking this man to court. Bill was brilliant; he knew a lot about the law, and he was rich and could afford much better lawyers than I could. I was afraid of being ripped apart on the stand as rape victims often are. I was reluctant to spend all of my meager savings on lawyers and afraid of being fired.

One day I returned from an approved day off. Bill blocked my way to my desk and used his deep, flirty voice, “Ms. Olds” — he always called me that — “please see me in my office immediately. And bring the layouts that are on your desk.” I did as he asked. He shut the door and said, “So, a day off? Are you in love?” I replied, “That’s not something I will discuss.”

He slammed his fist down onto his desk, lurched towards me and demanded, “Why are you so combative? We are a family around here.”

“Bill, I have a family. This is where I work. Let’s talk about the layouts.”

My friend Lorraine gave me an 11″ x 17″ sign that said “What part of NO don’t you understand?” She suggested that I put it on the bulletin board behind my desk. I did. I wanted to believe it would help, but only two co-workers ever mentioned it. Both were female.

Temps often worked the phones at the front desk. There was one large, sassy, redheaded Southern gal named Lucy. She pulled me aside one day, about three years after I had begun working at the firm, and said that I should know that the men doing the same job I was doing were paid more than I was. This was a tricky bit of information. How could I bring it up with Bill without betraying her confidence?

When I had been hired full-time, Bill had assured me that I would receive periodic raises “without even having to ask for them.” This had never occurred. I decided to muscle up some courage and go in for a talk.

“Bill,” I started, “are you pleased with my work?”

“Oh yes,” he said.

“Am I being paid on the same scale as the men?”

“Of course not,” he said.

Did I hear him correctly?

“Ms. Olds, David has a wife and two daughters to support, and mortgage on a house to worry about. It simply would not be fair to pay him the same amount as you.”

I was dumbfounded. Speechless.

The following week I received a raise. Very smarmy way to get a raise, but I was glad to deposit the money.
One day, without my knowledge, Bill took a photo of me. I was leaning over my desk, deep in concentration, working on graphics for a chart. I was wearing an appropriate V-neck top, but at that angle, a hint of cleavage appeared. He passed the snapshot, a zoomed-in view of my breast area, around the office.

Another incident happened while I had to fix chipped type on a chart in a hurry. I knelt down on the floor to quickly restore the chipped ‘H’ on the sign. Bill came through the doorway and said, “Ah, women – just how I like them, on their knees.”

I continued to look for a better job. I went on interviews. My father always warned me never to quit a job until I secured a better one. One November afternoon, Bill called me into his office and told me to close the door. He sat slumped, his brow was furrowed and the sides of his mouth were turned down. “As you know, business has been very slow this year. I am going to cut your salary by half. I’m sorry to give you this news, but I’ve always appreciated your loyalty and I know that you will stand by me during these tough times.” This came as a shock to me and so did my response: “In that case, Bill, I will not be working here any longer.”

It was as if I’d jumped out of a plane with no parachute and was in free fall. But the feeling was glorious and the risk paid off. I went into business for myself, which was terrifying at first. I had a mortgage to pay and monthly bills and feared using up the bit I’d managed to save. But within a month I got a full-time freelancing gig designing college textbooks and that year I made twice as much as I’d made working for Bill. I landed more and more creative jobs, web design and print work, and my writing took off.

It’s been years since I worked in an office. My desk is at home and my loyal dog likes my whistling. I make twice as much money and literally whistle while I work. And there is no longer a six-foot-four goon of a boss grabbing the back of my pants.

The post Fight or Be Fondled – Rising Above a Bully of a Boss appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

To My Civil Rights Activist Mom

In the house I grew up, Mom had a framed letter from Coretta Scott King dated Nov. 10, 1966. It was a letter of thanks. “I would like to thank you very much for your interest in and support of my recent Freedom Concert in Chicago,” Mrs. King wrote. “Much of the success of these concerts depends upon persons such as yourself who devote time and energy in their promotion and support.”

Justice in Winnetka

50 Years Later

On Sunday, July 26, the 2015 Justice Project: The March Continues rally was held in the Chicago suburb of Winnetka, Illinois. The event was a 50th anniversary commemoration of the North Shore Summer Project’s (NSSP) 1965 rally that brought 10,000 people together to listen to the stirring words of Martin Luther King Jr.

1965 Fair Housing Rally

That 1965 rally was the largest gathering ever before on the Winnetka Village Green, and the first time Dr. King ever spoke in an all-white suburb. One of the NSSP fair housing activists and rally organizers was my mom, Sally Wendkos Olds.

My Mom was not a political figure. She is a Jewish woman who excelled at writing and raising three kids with my doting Dad. Both parents wanted us to grow up in a just society of equal rights for everyone. Those rights should always include housing rights. In 1965, she worked as the publicity director and contact person for the Winnetka Village Green event. She also wrote a follow-up article for a Chicago church-published magazine called Community.

Racial Discrimination

The N-Word

My parents raised me to never discriminate against anyone based on the color of their skin – nor their religion. Hence, I took little notice of anyone’s skin-color. Sadly, in 1975, when I was in Weber Middle School in Port Washington, Long Island, there were creepy classmates who frequently called me “nigger lover.”  I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that anybody actually still thought that way; that was my introduction to racism.

#BlackLivesMatter should not have to be a hashtag — it should be a given.

It’s a terrible stain on this great nation that racism still runs rampant here. I’d never bash America because I feel lucky to have been born in such a privileged country, but it is painful to hear what goes on outside of my insulated world of diversity and liberals in New York City’s Chelsea neighborhood, where almost anything goes and people of all colors, religions, and sexual preferences are celebrated.

On June 1, The Guardian wrote:

“An analysis of public records, local news reports and Guardian reporting found that 32% of black people killed by police in 2015 were unarmed, as were 25% of Hispanic and Latino people, compared with 15% of white people killed.”

Don’t get me started on the disgraceful Confederate flag issue. It took the murder of nine black churchgoers in Charleston to order South Carolina to take down its offensive Confederate flag — the utmost symbol of racism and slavery.

FAIR HOUSING FIGHTS STILL IN THE NEWS

One month ago, the Supreme Court endorsed a broad interpretation of the Fair Housing Act of 1968. They agreed with a Texas-based nonprofit corporation that the Department of Housing and Community Affairs and its officers had “caused continued segregated housing patterns by allocating too many tax credits to housing in predominantly black inner-city areas and too few in predominantly white suburban neighborhoods.”

The New York Times Wrote

After the Supreme Court’s decision June 25, The New York Times wrote:

“Much progress remains to be made in our nation’s continuing struggle against racial isolation,” Justice Anthony M. Kennedy wrote for the majority in the 5-to-4 ruling. “The court acknowledges the Fair Housing Act’s continuing role in moving the nation toward a more integrated society.”

SEE ALSO: A White Civil Rights Activist Looks Back on Martin Luther King March on Winnetka Village Green

I asked Mom about the past 2015 event in Chicago because I wanted to know how she felt about the tragedy that not enough has changed since the 1960s. She said, “The North Shore Summer Project opened a lot of people’s eyes to the unfairness of restricting communities on the basis of color or religion.”

Hate Mail

Mom said, “Although I received hate mail from some of my neighbors, the NSSP found that most residents in these northern suburbs were very willing to have nonwhite neighbors, and that it was the realtors who made, and acted on, other assumptions.” Concerned, I asked Mom if the hate mail had scared her. “Instead of frightening me, it inspired me to do more, since it let me know that my efforts and those of my fellow activists were being noticed,” she replied.

That’s rather impressive, don’t you think? Way to go, Mom!

When I asked if anything stands out in her mind about this 2015 event she said, “In one way it was dismaying that 50 years later, at this anniversary, we still needed to be reminded about the importance of fair housing, as in the stirring words of Hilary Shelton, the NAACP’s Washington [D.C.] director. He reminded the audience how crucial housing is in determining the schools children go to, the services residents can receive, and the building of personal assets throughout a lifetime. But,” she added, “the speakers acknowledged good news, too, like the Supreme Court’s recent ruling that building affordable housing in areas that perpetuate segregation is illegal, even if intent to do so cannot be shown. Our nation is making progress.”

In 1965, the Winnetka Historical Society wrote, “Dr. King’s appearance in Winnetka came at the end of a day of rallies in the Chicago area. Though hoarse and exhausted from five earlier speeches, Dr. King urged the crowd to ‘go all out to end segregation in housing.’

He asserted that ‘[e]very white person does great injury to his child if he allows that child to grow up in a world that is two-thirds colored and yet live in conditions where that child does not come into person-to-person contact with colored people.’ Dr. King criticized not only the ‘vitriolic words and violent actions of the bad people,’ but also ‘the silence of the good people.’ He observed: ‘We must now learn to live together as brothers, or we will perish together as fools.’”

Amen to that, Dr. King.

The post An Activist Who Fought for Civil Rights Reflects on Racism 50 Years Later appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

I am featured in this City University of New York (CUNY) textbook for a course on victimology at the John Jay College of Criminal Justice. The title of the textbook is ESSENTIALS OF VICTIMOLOGY. This is the 9th book my writing is featured in and it’s my first textbook.

My 2012 New York Times essay Defriending My Rapist remains on this victimology course required reading list. Therefore, every semester, I speak to the students at CUNY’s Victimology classes. This year will be the 10th year that my essay remains on the reading list.

See also: Interview on CNN’s Dr. Drew Show

In Alcoholics Anonymous (AA), there is a saying, “No matter how far down the scale we have gone, our experience can benefit others.” Because of that, I share what my experiences keep teaching me. And that is gobs more productive than regretting my wayward past. Okay, now let’s get to the list of my writings in eight book anthologies.

Olds Book Anthologies

More book anthologies means more excitement. However, I still feel a rush that my writing has made it this far. And, I shall keep going. This week, I sent in a submission to another anthology. Of course, it depends on if my essay gets a yes or a no. Certainly, I’m crossing my fingers and toes and my ever-loyal pooch, Busta Rhymes, is crossing his four paws. Wish me luck.

Featured Author/Artisan: Dorri Olds, Writer, Journalist, Fine Artist

Creative People … and what makes them tick. There are many books about famous creative people throughout history. You can search the internet for information on Michelangelo, Picasso and also modern-day creatives like Elon Musk, J.K. Rowling or Stephen Spielberg. However, in this book anthology, Michelle Monet interviewed Dorri Olds, along with other creatives to find out what makes them tick.

Easy as A, B, C

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Power of Positive: 101 Inspirational Stories about Changing Your Life through Positive Thinking. Attitude is everything. This is an inspirational and uplifting book with tales about the power of positive thinking. In bad times, and good, readers will be encouraged to keep a positive attitude.

Compassion and a Cannoli

Chicken Soup for the Tea Lover’s Soul: Stories Steeped in Comfort. Is enjoying a cup of tea your favorite part of the day? Is the brewing of a ‘cuppa’ a ritual that centers and calms you? Reconnect with the silent intimacy and introspection experienced while sipping tea.

Skinny Dotty and Her Chocolates

Chicken Soup for the Chocolate Lover’s Soul: Indulging in Our Sweetest Moments. If you can’t live without a daily bite of chocolate, have visions of chocolate truffles dancing in your head, you will savor the decadence of this collection of stories.

Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul by Dorri Olds

Chicken Soup for the Recovering Soul: Your Personal, Portable Support Group with Stories of Healing, Hope, Love and Resilience.

Find inspiration for change and personal growth in each story as people in this dynamic community share their experiences of transformation, of lives reclaimed, of relationships renewed and futures full of promise.

With Help From a Friend

Chicken Soup for the College Soul: Inspiring and Humorous Stories About College

A collection of stories meant to guide, inspire, support and encourage readers throughout their college experiences.

The Charleston Dancer

At Grandmother’s Table: Women Write about Food, Life and the Enduring Bond between Grandmothers and Granddaughters (2001)

What would you give for an afternoon in your grandmother’s kitchen? Leaning over the countertop, you watched as she added the flour, just a little at a time, to the bowl. It seemed like magic.

Oy, Come All Ye Faithful

The Ultimate Christmas: The Best Exp-erts’ Advice for a Memorable Season with Stories and Photos of Holiday Magic (2008). This is an entertaining, touching, and uplifting collection of true stories and awe-inspiring photographs of holiday magic, love, family — and a tad bit of stress. So, here’s to more book anthologies to come. If you’d like to know how I managed to get here, just drop me a line. I want to hear all about your writing career goals, too.

More About Books

My copy-editing, book design, book cover art, photo management, and production for print and ebook versions include:

Healers and Heroes: WWII Combat Medics and Mud and Blood from the Normandy Beaches to The Battle of the Bulge
by Thea Marshall

Good Morning, Tai Chi: The Principles of Tai Chi From the Heart of Brooklyn
by Phil Felice Catapano and Mark L. Fuerst

Frankie and Bobby: Growing Up Zappa
By Charles Robert “Bobby” Zappa

I had the pleasure of working with rock icon Frank Zappa’s younger brother Bobby Zappa on this coming of age memoir, Frankie and Bobby: Growing Up Zappa. The book is full of rich stories that will stay with me always. It would be fun to go back and tell my teenage self that in 2015 I would have this wonderful opportunity to write about one of my favorite musicians.

The post More Book Anthologies: Essays And Short Stories By Dorri Olds appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

“Enclave Reading Series, now in its 12th year, returns to Club Cumming with an absolutely stellar line-up of authors, headlined by the one and only Michael Cunningham, a true master of the craft. Essayist and author Dorri Olds, acclaimed novelist and filmmaker Brian Alessandro, and writer/comedian Eddie Sarfaty will all be taking the Club Cumming stage, comprising one powerhouse program of intellect and wit… As usual the lights will be down low, the drinks will be flowing, and admission is free.” — Jason Napoli Brooks, author (SHELTER), and co-creator, co-curator and emcee for Enclave’s monthly shows.

THANK YOU Honeysuckle Magazine!

It’s a night of wordplay, award-winning authors, treats and fun as the famous Enclave Reading Series rides again at a favorite Manhattan hotspot. On Monday, March 4, 7-9PM, join New York’s literati at Club Cumming (505 East 6th Street, Avenue A), for an evening to remember – with no cover charge. From somebody given to fill The Hours to an expert who knows laughter is the best medicine, a journalist speaking truth to power, and a novelist who can pin down the unmentionable, this is bound to be one for the books.

SEE ALSO: Enclave Reading Series was ‘FRAYED IN NEW YORK’

WHO’S READING? MEET THE AUTHORS:

Michael Cunningham, Pulitzer Prize and PEN Faulkner Award Winner

Michael Cunningham is the author of novels A Home at the End of the World, Flesh and Blood, The Hours, By Nightfall, and The Snow Queen, and a short story collection, A Wild Swan and Other Tales, all published by Farrar Straus & Giroux. The Hours won a Pulitzer Prize and PEN Faulkner Award and was nominated for the National Book Critics Circle Award. It was also made into a movie starring Meryl Streep, Nicole Kidman and Julianne Moore.

Cunningham’s fiction and nonfiction have appeared in The New Yorker, The New York Times, the Atlantic Monthly, the Paris Review, and other publications. A recipient of National Endowment for the Arts, Guggenheim and Whiting Foundation fellowships, he is a Senior Lecturer in English at Yale University.

Eddie Sarfaty (Mental: Funny in the Head)

Eddie Sarfaty, author and comedian, has appeared on The Today Show, Comedy Central’s Premium Blend, Logo’s Wisecrack, The Joy Behar Show, and is a subject the documentaries, Laughing Matters and Heartfelt. He has been featured at the prestigious Just for Laughs Festival in Montreal, the Toyota Comedy, and the New York Comedy Festival. Sarfaty will be reading from his new novel.

His first book, a collection of hilarious autobiographical essays entitled Mental: Funny in the Head, was the InsightOut Book Club’s selection of the month and his essays have been published in anthologies When I Knew, I’m Not the Biggest Bitch in This Relationship, andLove, Christopher Street. In addition to offering stand-up comedy workshops at theaters around the country, Sarfaty teaches at NYU and The Theatre Lab in Washington, DC. keeplaughing.com

Dorri Olds, Author, Essayist, Journalist

Dorri Olds is an award-winning writer — and Honeysuckle contributor — whose creative nonfiction has been published in eight book anthologies.

Before the Cosby and Weinstein scandals, and the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements, Olds’ personal essay in The New York Times, “Defriending My Rapist,” went viral. It became required reading at CUNY’s John Jay College of Criminal Justice and led to frequent speaking engagements. She’s been interviewed by CNN’s Dr. Drew and on CBS, ABC and NY1; podcasts; and radio shows. She is currently working on her first full-length book. DorriOlds.com

Brian Alessandro (The Unmentionable Mann)

Brian Alessandro is the author of the novel The Unmentionable Man (Cairn Press). He wrote and directed the feature film Afghan Hound and co-founded The New Engagement, a literary journal that has published acclaimed authors. His plays were performed by the Neighborhood Playhouse, Love Creek Productions, and Monarch Theater Company. Most recently, Brian completed work on the graphic novel adaption of Edmund White’s 1982-classic A Boy’s Own Story for Top Shelf Productions, which won the National Book Award in 2016 for March.

—

Don’t miss out on this night for the ages! Enclave Reading Series will present Monday, March 4th, 7-9PM at Club Cumming (505 East 6th Street, Avenue A).

To learn more about The Enclave Reading Series, visit theenclavereadingseries.tumblr.com or follow on Facebook and Instagram.

For more info on events at Club Cumming, visit clubcummingnyc.com or follow on Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram.

The post Club Cumming • MARCH 4 • Let Enclave Entertain You • No Cover Charge appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

How to Accept a Compliment with Grace

Getting a compliment is good for you. Science has proven that people perform tasks better, have improved memory, and feel happy after being complimented.

What many of us don’t know is how to accept a compliment gracefully.

If you’re getting such a nice boost, why is it so hard?

A couple of frustrating reasons have come to light in psychological circles.

1. Your view of yourself doesn’t line up with the compliment. Put another way, you could lack the confidence to accept the compliment comfortably.
2. You totally agree with the compliment, but don’t want put the other person off by seeming TOO confident.

Every human being on earth has likely felt both of these ways, depending on the subject matter of the compliment. At any given moment I feel good about some aspects of myself, and shaky about others. But either way, the compliment can cause me to feel uncomfortable!

I want that to end.

Compliments have too much going to for them to cause angst.

To help me formulate a plan for accepting compliments graciously, I reached out to a number of women I look up to, and asked for the word-for-word scripts they use to make compliment acceptance a breeze.

How to Accept a Compliment

Go Minimal

By Dr. Jessica Vogelsang, Founder of PawCurious

The more I try to respond or fill the space, the more I end up sticking my foot in my mouth.

The Script: I make a very conscientious effort to look the person in the eye, give them a heartfelt “Thank you. I really appreciate that!” and then stop talking.

Return the Favor

By: Lavanya Sunkara, Travel Writer

It’s all about reciprocity for me.

The Script: When others give me compliments, I usually say, “Thanks,” and if I have something to compliment them about, I will try to do so.

Enjoy the High

By Kaia Roman, author of The Joy Plan

I used to have a hard time receiving a compliment, always minimizing or deflecting because I felt self-conscious and undeserving. But then I learned about the physical mechanisms behind both giving and receiving compliments and I changed my ways. Compliments release dopamine in the brain, for both the giver and the receiver. And dopamine feels like a pleasure rush that is highly enjoyable!

If I didn’t let myself truly receive the compliment, I’d be missing out on this drug-free high.

Likewise, if I minimized the compliment from the giver, I’d be taking away their joy by turning an appreciative exchange into an awkward one. So now, when someone gives me a compliment, I think about the benefit they are receiving from that act of kindness and I do my best to amp up the effect so they’ll do it again for someone else. The world needs as many compliments as we can give!

The Script: “Thank you, that made my day.” or “Thank you, that was so nice of you to notice.”

I smile and let the dopamine soak in for both of us.

Go for Seconds

By Dorri Olds, Freelance Writer and Journalist

I was the youngest of three girls and was born a ham. I love attention—thrive on it really. So I’ve never been one to shy away from any limelight I can grab.

The Script: When somebody gives me a compliment I grin ear-to-ear and say, “Thank you!” I figure that’s like positive reinforcement. If their compliment is met with an enthusiastic response, then they will be more likely to compliment me again, right?

Take a Pause

By Jessica Remitz, Managing Editor, PawCulture.com

I am working on taking a beat to curb my knee-jerk “aw shucks” reaction. A friend of mine told me that she’d almost stopped complimenting other women because we’re so quick to brush them off, almost to the point of embarrassment. so I think it’s important to acknowledge to the other person on how nice a compliment is to hear—because it truly is.

The Script: I have begun looking directly at my complimenter (in a not creepy or adversarial way) and saying, “Thank you for noticing my [item of clothing/well-behaved dog/completed work project]. I appreciate you saying something, and worked hard to [find said item/raise a polite dog/go above and beyond].”

Split the Difference

By Talia Argondezzi, Director, Writing and Speaking Program at Ursinus College

In the case where accepting a compliment feels very unnatural, and almost impossible to do, it can be rude and awkward to just deny the praise you were given. Instead, take a baby step and challenge yourself by trying to split the difference. For instance, you might  accept what was said, but then make a funny remark, or even self-deprecating one, but only on something you DO feel confident about.

The Script:

“I like your glasses.”

“Thank you. Like Rick Perry, I’m trying to wear my glasses more so people will think I’m smart.”

Keep It Simple

By Victoria Schade, Dog Trainer and Author

Since directly turning down a compliment can be a way of telling a person, “Nope, you’re wrong about that,” I try to accept it gracefully and then move on.

The Script: “Thank you, it’s my favorite scarf/blouse/shoes/whatever!” is an easy way to acknowledge the person’s compliment, or “That’s so kind of you to say,” or if someone compliments my writing I might respond with, “Thank you, that means a lot!”

Look Forward

By Aly Semigran, Writer and Editor

I had a recent experience with this with someone saying, “You deserve a good guy.” It was a friend I hadn’t seen in awhile and I caught them up with my most recent terrible dating experience and they told me, sincerely, “You deserve a good guy.”

The Script: I responded with, “Thank you. It’s taken me a long time to realize that.”

I didn’t bitch and moan “Oh there’s no good guys out there,” rather I acknowledged they saw something in me that’s taken me 32 years to accept. I think it’s rare to tell someone you agree with them about a positive side of yourself, but I think in this case, especially because so much time had passed, it caught us up on where I am now.

BONUS SECTION!

On Giving Compliments

By Cheyenne Gil, Body Positive Boudoir Photographer

When it comes to GIVING compliments (which I also think is a great step in your self love journey), give a compliment that you truly mean, and give it without putting yourself down in the process.

The Script: For instance, say you love someone’s hair. All you have to say is, “Wow, I love your hair! It’s beautiful,” NOT, “Wow, I love your hair! It’s so beautiful! My hair is so blah. I need to change it. But your hair is just so nice!”

Now that you know exactly what to say, check out:
How to Get a Compliment Tomorrow, The Level-Up Method

The post How to Accept a Compliment with Grace | by Wendy Toth and Power Pantsuiting appeared first on Award-Winning Writer and Graphic Designer.

If I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the procedure.

Lloyd and I were in love the night his condom ripped. “Oh no!” he yelped, his eyes wide with panic.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I can’t get pregnant from one little tear.” At the time, I really believed it.

I was 14 and grateful to have a boyfriend. Lloyd was two years older and that made me feel so grown up. He seemed to have endless time to hang out. He’d dropped out of high school. Lloyd smoked lots of pot and showed me how to sink a basketball into a hoop. He sang love songs in falsetto and everything was better than the year before I met him.

At 13, I’d been gang-raped by classmates. Massive hands had covered my mouth, knees dug into my hip bones. I was pinned on the grass field of a local cemetery. The weight of the boys stilled me from thrashing. Finally, it was over. I pulled my jeans and panties up from my left ankle. After that I ran in a circle, around and around, picking up speed. I heard one of them say, “This chick is nuts. Let’s go.”

After that night, I didn’t stand still enough to feel anything. I kept secrets from my parents because I couldn’t bear the shame—they’d been right to say, “Stay away from those kids.” The humiliation of rape stayed inside. I bounced from one junior-high clique to another until I ran right into Lloyd’s arms.

The night our rubber ripped, we’d made love in the woods. Soon after that I began putting on weight. My breasts were filling out like my older sister’s and I thought, ‘I’m a woman now.’ One morning after a hot cup of cocoa, I felt queasy and ran to the bathroom. When I threw up, I figured it was the flu.

A week later, my mother and I went shopping for bathing suits. Each one I’d picked to try on was too tight. My mother was staring at me. “Are you pregnant?” she whispered.

I rolled my eyes at her and gave her a scowl. “Of course not!”

But it got me to thinking, so the next day at school, I told a girlfriend everything. She said, “It sounds like you are. There’s a clinic where you can get tested.”

When I told Lloyd, he teared up. “We’ll get married!” he said.

I began thinking about a cute baby girl. We’d dress her in pink dresses with lace, matching bonnets, and socks. I imagined her face — her father’s mix of Native American and Black, and my Russian Jewish heritage meant her skin would be the color of cocoa and her hair shiny black.

It only took a few days to realize we couldn’t afford the pretty outfits I imagined. I’d been babysitting for a year. Babies need cribs, toys, diapers, and food. My tiny income and meager allowance weren’t nearly enough. Lloyd lived with his aunt in the ghetto section of town. His mother was a chronic gambler and consistently absent from his life. He didn’t know his father.

That same week, my suspicious mother, tipped off by my expanding waistline, scheduled a doctor’s visit for me under the pretense of an annual physical. She had always made appointments for me, so I didn’t think twice when she said, “Tuesday is your checkup.” But unbeknownst to me, she’d requested a blood test to find out if I was pregnant.

The day before the abortion, I sat in math class so it appeared my hands were in my lap but really I held them to my belly. Through my fingers, I explained why I couldn’t have her. She’d wince with shame about her ninth-grade dropout mom. I couldn’t be sure she’d have a father. Would Lloyd stay when we fought over diapers? Would he stay through fights over money? Would he spend the little we had on beer and pot? Such serious thoughts for a 14-year-old but I’m glad I was smart enough to have them.

When I asked Lloyd to come with me to the clinic, he shook his head “no” and wept. He promised he would pay his half of the money. For my portion, I used what I had saved from my clothing allowance. I would have to forfeit the new shirt and pants I’d planned to buy from the boutique I always passed on my walk to junior high school.

After I found out where to go, I took a 30-minute taxi from my home in Port Washington, Long Island, to Hempstead, Long Island, to the Bill Baird Clinic. Everything there looked sterilized — white or metallic — even the receptionist’s coffee cup at the front desk looked shiny and new. Pleasant, smiling people led me around. I was given a thin, sleeveless, cloth robe, slippers, and a locker to put my stuff in. I took off my jeans, Keds sneakers, and orange T-shirt with an ironed-on Stevie Wonder. There were tiny cracks on Stevie Wonder’s dreadlocks from putting him in the dryer by accident.

The doctor said I was three months pregnant and if I’d waited one more week it would’ve been illegal to perform the abortion. Hearing that made me feel dizzy and sick. The nurse told me to lie down on the table and put my feet in the stirrups. She gave me a Valium. I felt numb but noticed goose bumps on my arms. I tried to block out the image of the baby’s face while I lay on a freezing cold table with my legs spread wide. The doctor said, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”

Won’t hurt?

It still hurts.

But even as the vacuum sucked out my insides and I imagined my baby screaming, I knew I was doing the right thing. My belly held only the fertilized egg; a fetus that might or might not become a little girl. If I’d let my pregnancy last full-term, I would never have been able to give her up. And even if she was pried from my arms and handed over for adoption, she would never know why her real mother hadn’t loved her enough to keep her. My life and her life would’ve been ruined. I would’ve had to drop out of school to care for her when I was only a child myself.

Our family physician called soon after with the results of the covert pregnancy test. I told her I’d already had the abortion and begged her not to tell my parents, but because I was only 14, she said she could lose her license if she didn’t. My mother was furious when she got off the phone and berated me for lying to her. My father yelled, “Which one of them was it?” My mother slapped him and defended me, “She only has one boyfriend!”

I had never even witnessed an argument between my parents and it felt like my world was exploding. Already so guilt-ridden, terrified, and depressed, I ran to my room. My relationship with my parents worsened after that, and wouldn’t begin to mend until more than a decade later. As the incident became a distant memory, we learned how to forgive each other.

As much as I hated having an abortion, I felt then — and still feel — it was the right choice for me. What if the law had said that wasn’t my decision to make? The terror of telling my parents, my desperation, and strong will, would have sent me fleeing to find another way to abort. A back alley? A wire hanger? I might’ve died. Thank goodness, I had a choice.

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The Women’s March in New York City • January 21, 2017 by Sally Wendkos Olds

A wire clothes hanger bearing the stark message “Never Again.” The woman marching next to me saw this sign and confided that her mother had nearly bled to death after the self-administered abortion of what would have been her fourth child, one she could not take care of.

“My Life Matters.” A heart-wrenching sign carried by a small African-American boy riding on his father’s shoulders. His message is more important than ever in the months and years ahead.

“Putin’s Poodle.” Donald Trump’s head on the body of a dog. What does the election of this man mean to the independence of our nation?

The signs held aloft during the marches in cities and towns across the United States and in nations around the globe were many and creative and inspiring — and emphasized why we — millions of us — were marching on the day after the inauguration of the least qualified person ever elected president of our country.

The Women’s Marches the day after the inauguration of Donald John Trump as President of the United States exceeded expectations in every way, in cities and towns across the United States and in nations whose citizens feared not only for our government but for theirs and for the world. Many more thousands of people took part than anyone had estimated (2.9 million in the U.S. alone), and more goodwill was shown, with one police officer in Manhattan saying on television there was not a single problem for all the hours that people were on the streets – other than handling traffic. Civility pervaded the streets throughout the day, even when the march was at a standstill because so many people joined from so many different directions.

The streets were filled for hours with citizens — and non-citizens — of every ethnicity, every color, every age from infants in arms to ancients in wheelchairs (and yes, many grandmothers and grandchildren). Many wore the ubiquitous “pussy hats” – hand-knitted pink hats with little ears — to hold up to ridicule President Donald Trump’s vulgar videotaped acknowledgment of his own sexual predations. A large contingent of men joined in the continual chanting with “Her body, her choice!”

My group, under the aegis of Eleanor’s Legacy (an organization inspired by Eleanor Roosevelt and dedicated to expanding the role of pro-choice women in government) met at 10 a.m. at Dag Hammarskjold Plaza at the United Nations. Although it was impossible to hear the speakers during the two and a half hours we stood there before we were able to begin marching, they must have said good things because there were periodic shouts and waves. Despite impatient chants of “Let Us March!” there was no pushing or elbowing, and people were unfailingly courteous in stepping aside to let small groups of friends and family stay together.

SEE ALSO: March on Washington Video

When I heard that women would be marching to protest the ascension to the presidency of the most unqualified person in our country’s history, I knew I wanted to be part of it. Why? When people asked me what good it would do, I could have quoted Mahatma Gandhi when he said “Whatever you do will be insignificant, but it’s very important that you do it.”

Or I could have quoted Harry Belafonte who called the street march “one of the great weapons of a democracy.” I wanted to be part of a global statement to let this administration know how many worldwide were shocked by what this singularly unqualified president has been saying, the people he has been appointing to his cabinet, and what this council of governing know-nothings plan to do.

I had not marched for a long time – since demonstrating for civil rights in Chicago, pro-choice in Washington, anti-war on Long Island, and probably others I can’t remember. Did these marches bring about the Voting Rights Law and the Fair Housing Law, the Roe v. Wade decision, and other changes in government? Yes, they moved public opinion and reached Congress and the Supreme Court and eventually led to changes in the laws of our land.

So what will be the real impact of this march? Nothing unless people involved take it further. And this we must do. We must build democratic structures at local levels in red, blue and purple states. We must engage our young people and inspire them to become leaders. We must educate ourselves and be alert to any encroachment of power upon the rights of the people. We must support the organizations carrying on this work – Planned Parenthood, The American Civil Liberties Union, the National Coalition against Censorship, others fighting for a better world – with our efforts and our pocketbooks.

We need imagination, effort, and knowledge to do this. Donald Trump talked about returning the government to the people. We the people must do this ourselves for ourselves and our fellow citizens, since his promises as put into practice so far will take it away from us. What can we do? We need to organize at local levels, we need to fight the gerrymandering that has paralyzed forces for progress, we need to urge reformers to run for school boards, for city councils, for judgeships, for elective offices at the most basic levels. Only then will our country be able to reap the democratic rewards for the many, not the few.

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My father, David Mark Olds (born David Moses Goldstein), was an Army Captain in WWII. He grew up in the Lower East Side of Manhattan with so much anti-Semitism in the world that he changed his name.

Dad’s barrel chest expanded when he told battle stories: “The smell of rotted flesh” and “seeing corpses stacked like cordwood,” at Dachau. He stood taller when he said, “It was a just war. I was proud to fight.”

I’d never seen my father cry until my older sister married a German. Like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, Dad tried to accept his daughter’s choice to marry a non-Jew in the country he loathed. It pained him every time we visited her in the country he bravely defended against. Germans had murdered everyone in his family except his Russian parents who’d been sent to America, both at age 16.

This year, pre-election stress made me flee Manhattan for a week to be with my sister and nieces in their tiny rural town near Frankfurt. We spoke of ways the world had changed—a female running for president, a Jew as her Democratic runner-up.

We also spoke of America’s version of Hitler: Trump, the man who memorized Hitler’s speeches. Adolf shouted to crowds, “Make Germany great again!,” while here in my homeland, Trump changed only one word.

My father was a registered Democrat. He said, “People fought for your right to vote.” He taught me never to discriminate against any religion or skin color: “Most people secretly hold prejudices but you must always act with fairness.” Honesty and honor were my father’s signature attributes and he put family first.

See Also: WWII Army Captain Describes Horrors at Dachau

It’s a dangerous time now for everyone. Right-wing politicians in Europe are all cheering. The polls said Hillary Clinton had an 85% chance of winning. If I cried to my father, “How could this be happening?,” Dad would’ve put his arms around me and said what he always did, “People lie in polls. They say what they think others want to hear. They tell the pollsters they read The New York Times, while they buy the New York Post.”

For years, he lamented what happened to the pure jazz radio station he was president of. There weren’t enough listeners to sell the advertising needed to keep it going. “People say they love pure jazz because they like to feel sophisticated. The truth is they only want commercial jazz.”

Perhaps that is a partial explanation for how off the media outlets were about this presidential race. Of course Trump is not Hitler and now that the world has seen the devastation such a demagogue can inflict, my Dad would tell me that I mustn’t fear the worst. “Worrying will wear you down to a frazzle,” he’d say.

“Always take the high road,” Dad said. He taught me to stand strong in the face of adversity. So now, if I appeal to my best self, I can summon optimism that our president-elect will grow into the office and be a more honorable president than he ever seemed as a candidate or reality TV star.

We must believe that Trump will not be able to undo all of the good that people like my father fought for.

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I spent years fantasy photoshopping myself. I wanted to be tall and slim like Giselle, but my ankles were too thick. I was knock-kneed and short. My hair was brunette and my skin olive. I tried to wish away the dark fuzz on my forearms. I feared my face was ugly, spending hours studying blond classmates with cute turned up noses and wondering why I was so cursed. My rounded belly was the worst flaw of all.

Mirrors were tricky since my stomach could look blubbery depending on the angle. It didn’t help when others said I was thin or cute. I felt like the Michelin Man.

When I landed at Bard College, I was far away from my parents and felt drunk with freedom. Yet, loneliness plagued me while I studied the confident girls who wore bare midriff tops and tossed their heads back in flirty laughs. When their ringlets of hair bounced, the boys drooled.

Confiding my insecurities to a dorm-mate, she said, “If you act self-assured, you’ll be treated like you are.” I had an impromptu chance one afternoon when my figure-drawing instructor said, “We have to cancel class. The model didn’t show.”

“I’ll do it!” I said spontaneously.

Heads swirled towards me, eyes popped and eyebrows arched, yet instead of losing my nerve, I abandoned my easel and headed to the podium at the room’s nucleus. There was an absence of fear. Instead I was now excited about the room of 20 artists who’d render my body. It seemed like I’d taken a dare to go on a brave adventure.

The teacher told the class to take a five-minute break. When the room cleared he said, “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” My heart quickened when I smelled his aftershave. I smiled and nodded and he said, “I’ll give you a minute to get comfortable.”

In the silence of the empty room, I pulled my black, crew-necked T-shirt over my head. Next I unhooked my bra. The pumping beat in my chest felt like conga drums until I unsnapped my pants. Suddenly I was overcome by an intrusive memory.

My mind drifted back to elementary school when I was nine and on a gymnastics team. “Everybody, line up,” Coach Tepper had said. “Today we’re going to add something new. It’s called a weekly weigh-in.” He held a clipboard as he explained a BMI index and the desired height and weight for a professional gymnast. Coach motioned to what looked like a nurse’s scale.

We all worshipped Coach and did what he said. When it was my turn to step on the scale, I had nothing on my mind but pleasing him. I climbed atop the wiggly scale platform. He checked my height, and wrote on his clipboard with a pencil while I studied his face. Next he moved the sliding metal piece and I awaited approval. Instead, Coach frowned. He muttered, “Hmmm,” like my dad did when displeased. “You’re too heavy, you have to lose five pounds,” Coach said.

I stood frozen, stunned, unable to move. “Step down,” Coach said as he scribbled on his chart. Then he called out, “Next.”

Now, in my college art class, I shook the shameful memory from my head and continued to pull off my jeans. A montage of near-naked, 5-feet-10-inch Victoria Secret models like Miranda Kerr haunted my brain. Thinking of their flat stomachs, I folded my pants and tossed my shorn undies to the pile of discarded clothes while I worried about my belly. It wasn’t flat like Keira Knightley’s or Gwen Stefani’s. Fighting to banish androgynous figures from my mind, I replaced those thoughts with images of voluptuous sirens like Meghan Trainor. My favorite meditation phrase came to mind: breathe in good, breathe out bad.

Read more…

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Facebook suggested I friend him. I guess our social networks overlapped. I guided the mouse toward his photo, and the little pointed hand hovered over his face. Fear and anger swelled up but curiosity won out and I clicked “Add Friend.” He accepted within minutes. Stunned, I wondered if he had forgotten raping me, or if he thought I had.

At 13, I was a lonely upper-middle-class Jewish nerd living on Long Island, in search of a tougher persona. He was part of an edgy crowd that hung out in a parking lot behind the school, sprawling over the cement steps like bored cats on a sofa. It was 1973, and the boys wore black leather jackets, smoked Marlboros and stashed pints of Tango and Thunderbird in their back pockets. One afternoon, making sure my long brown hair covered the blemish on my cheek, I went over and said, “Hi.”

That was really all it took. A few offered nods. One of the girls asked if I wanted to come out with them that night to the cemetery.

“Isn’t that spooky?” I whispered.

She laughed. Her voice had a ring of confidence mine never did, so I went, wearing — against Mom’s orders — a shimmery, low-cut shirt. As dusk fell we ambled past the wrought-iron gates, onto the lawn. The guys set down brown bags with bottles. I reached for the pint of Bacardi. Sweet rum burned my throat. With my eyes closed I was Keith Richards chugging onstage at Madison Square Garden.

“Wow, you can really drink,” he said.

I nodded with fake nonchalance, as if this were my forte instead of my first time. Two other girls wandered off with their boyfriends to make out, leaving me standing alone, feeling like a loser. I grinned in relief when one of the boys waved “c’mere,” as if to confide something. But then the boy grabbed me, clamped his hand over my mouth and threw me on the ground, shoving a knee into my hipbone. At first I thought it was a joke. Then four other guys surrounded me. I realized this had been planned.

With the other boys holding me down, he slammed on top of me.

“Is that how you like it?” he said. His breath stank of cigarettes and beer.

Another boy said, “She may have an ugly face, man, but she has a really nice body.”

I’m not sure which was sadder, that I believed my face was ugly or that I was flattered he liked my body. I tried to scream, but it came out muffled. They laughed. I gagged. They took turns. Then it was over. I pulled myself up, retrieved my pink Hanes and almost fell over getting my foot through the leg hole. I leaned against a tree for balance and tugged up my jeans, and then I started screaming.

One of them said: “Oh, man, this chick is nuts. Let’s go.” And they did.

With a child’s logic, I figured the boys thought I wasn’t a virgin because of my sexy shirt. Too ashamed to confide in my parents or older sisters, I tried to tell a teacher after class one day. I stood by her desk shifting my weight from one foot to the other. But I was afraid of being shunned at school if I reported it, so all I said was “See you tomorrow.”

From those early teen years until my mid-20s, I let boyfriends come and go like subway cars, certain that they would trick and humiliate me. If they liked me too much it scared me away. Loneliness plagued me. When I saw happy couples I wondered, How do they do that? I drank heavily, hoping to forget what had happened. But I couldn’t forget.

Thirty-eight years later, I browsed through the Facebook friends of the boy who was the first to rape me, noticing names I remembered from high school. In his recent photos were snapshots of a boy with his nose and a pretty teenage girl with long silky hair parted in the middle. He gripped a beer while his belly drooped over his jeans. I found some older photos of his wedding, him with a pretty young bride.

The first time I talked about the rape I was 26 and in a therapist’s office. “I can help you,” she said, but it wasn’t a quick fix. I was in my 40s when I met Steve. He had a troubled past too, so we fit. When I buried my face in his hair, the smell, the closeness, made me feel safe. It still does.

Now I clicked back to my rapist’s wall for a link to his wife’s profile and sent her a friend request. I decided that my revenge would be to blow up his marriage. I planned what I’d tell her if she confirmed my request. A montage of memories flooded my head until I felt so queasy I had to lie down.

But when I looked at my computer again, I saw she’d written on my wall. She posted a sideways smiley face and complimented the photos of my dog. How could I tell her? She’d done nothing to me. My rage belonged to her husband.

So I went back to his profile page and typed a private message: “I hope that night has haunted you. I was naïve and a virgin. I see you have a teenage daughter now. Better keep her safe from guys like you.”

I wanted to hate him and hurt him but realized that the only way to be free was to let it all go. When I defriended him I felt strong. The past was the past, and my mouth wasn’t covered anymore.

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