When Adolescent Women Attack

Like so many--so many--other people, I was mortified by the news that a young girl, an overweight, emotionally troubled, 13 year old named Megan Meier, committed suicide after a hot "boy" (and a few others) talked smack about her on MySpace. The horrible thing was that her tormentor-in-chief was an adult woman, the mother of Ms Meier’s former friend, who posed as a cute 16 year old named “Josh Evans” on MySpace. “Josh” lead Ms Meier on, and then told her--abruptly--that she wasn't worth being friends with. She was a “slut,” she was not a good friend, and, allegedly, the world would be better off without her. A few hours later, the 13 year old was found in her closet with a belt around her neck. She died the next day, just short of her 14th birthday. There is much more to the story than my feeble synopsis, but I won’t go into further details here--Lord knows, the story’s been told and retold numerous times over the past week. If you want those details, you can read:

The story that broke the news. You'll note that the reporter’s paper decided not to publish the adult woman’s name. Others, however, didn’t mind doing so.

Bluemerle discovered the name of the woman who originated the MySpace page and promptly “outed” her--home and business address included. Since then, someone has decided to do the same to Bluemerle’s author (fair enough). Then there's Jezebel. And Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts. And the forum at HitsUSA.

"Josh Evans" herself, the other girl’s mother, filed a report about the Meier episode on 25 November, 2006. The report includes her admission of setting up the MySpace profile. You can read the police report on The Smoking Gun. Oddly, even when the conversation between Megan and “Josh” became sexual (as the report asserts), the adult woman chose to continue the communication.

There are a few thousand other sites that relate the story and readers’ outrage, but I’d like to draw your attention to Leonard Pitts’ poignant editorial titled “If You’re Looking for a Good Laugh, a Real Sidesplitter, Read On.”

Many folks have posted the other family's personal information online. I don’t agree with this tactic; I do think that the woman should be held accountable--an adult deliberately winding a child up and then devastating her to the point of suicide? It’s all so lamentable. And cruel.

Now that the public is vocalizing its response (an outrage that, at times, borders on hysteria), the other family's supporters have come out with their own ‘blogs to try and refocus the debate onto Ms Meier in an attmept to justify the mother's actions. I won’t publish links to those here. If you’re interested, you can Google “Megan had it coming” etc.

My thoughts are with Megan Meier’s family, and with Megan--a girl who didn’t have the opportunity to move beyond adolescent turbulance and discover, well, herself.

From Library to Adult "Bookstore"

I had a hard time holding down jobs as a teenager. I was a dedicated worker…I did whatever was asked, and I did it to the best of my ability. But I was a bit too “off” for my coworkers and, often, my employers. Loud and abrasive when I wasn’t being peculiar and stand-offish.

I had one temp job in high school that was arranged through the school district--one of those programs for low-income youth. I was placed in the local public library, which I absolutely loved. I worked for two women, both incredibly kind to me. One of them gave me a ticket to see Carmen at the local opera house (I love opera. My first experience of it was seeing Faust on a field trip with the “gifted” class). I only worked there three months (it was temp after all); they gave me a set of a necklace and stud earrings shaped like a unicorn when I left. I loved them, and I loved working at the library (I was left alone to get on with my work in a quiet place).

My second job was temp as well; I worked for a blustery insurance agent who terrified me. He didn’t do anything to scare me deliberately, he was just …blustery. I seldom saw him, though (I came in after school and he’d have cleared off for the day).

I was fired from my third and fourth jobs; once for continual lateness (although I’d told them right off the bat that my transport between school and work would cause me to be ten minutes late on weekdays). I was let go from the following job for stealing. I have no idea how that came about, but it had something to do with a missing role of dimes ($5.00). Someone decided it was me wot did it. So out I went. I’m not surprised, really. I wasn’t a companionable coworker, I was a tad strange with my introversion and extreme attention to details.

I was fairly depressed after this second firing, and a bit scared about trying to get another job. My resume wouldn't be too appealing to a potential employer. I was 18 at this point, and just beginning college. I didn't know what I wanted to do with my future.

One day I was reading the classifieds in the paper and saw an ad for dancers. So I went to the business that was hiring (on the slightly seedier side of town) and requested an application of a man who sat behind a massive, u-shaped desk (but with right angles).

I filled out the application, showed him my identification card, and he hired me (no interview; I actually expected one. Hah!)

The desk manager pointed me towards some lingerie the place sold and told me to choose something; he said I would pay for it out of my “tips.” I picked out a short, soft, magenta tunic/slip that wasn’t too revealing. I was unsure about what I was doing--that is, I didn't quite realize what I was embarking on. That didn't stop me.

The man at the desk told me to come back at 5:00 pm to begin my shift. That was that.

It’s so odd to think back; when I initially went in to apply, I didn’t think I had a “real” chance, I thought of myself as unattractive in face and figure. I thought the desk man would shoo me right back out the door. However, as I was to learn, no matter how unattractive you might think you are, you can get hired by a strip joint.

Sweet Sixteen and Never Been. . . .

This happened on my 16th birthday.

I went out with my friend Debbie. We headed for her boyfriend’s house in the northeastern side of town (about three miles away from my home). We drank a few beers, we listened to some Iron Maiden, but my heart wasn’t in it. I felt...bad. Anxious. I wanted to go home. Debbie didn’t want to go. John, Debbie’s boyfriend, had a car, but he didn’t want to drive me home, which was understandable (the beers). They didn’t want me to call for a ride--my mom was at work (the graveyard shift), and her live-in boyfriend might get pissed off at chauffeuring, and this would get me in trouble. That was their reasoning anyway.

I should have gone with my instincts and called Herb (mother’s boyfriend). Instead, I went along with Debbie and John’s urging--they would find me a ride home. This meant we walked down the main drag in that part of town--with Debbie sticking her thumb out while John and I walked behind. A truck pulled over. A big, blue, old school Chevy.

Debbie yelled, “You got a ride!”

I said no. No. no.

John said, “Don’t be scared, I know this guy. He’s the security guard at Zed Middle School. I know him. He’s the best guy to drive you home--he’s a security guard.

So I clambered in. I gave him directions to my street (not my house).

We started off pleasantly enough. He offered me a Camel straight (non-filtered for you non-smokers)

Then he turned off the main drag. And he drove down street that, at the time, was undeveloped. Lots of fields. Lots of fields. And he pulled into one.

It was February. Snow covered everything.

He drove pretty far in-maybe half a mile. I remember seeing the lights of a bowling alley and a set of McDonalds arches. So close.

I said “what are you doing?”

He said, “I’m going to fuck you.”

I pleaded--no. I was still a virgin (and I was). He said I wasn't--couldn't be.

He opened the truck door and pulled me down the seat so that my legs were hanging out.
He stuffed it into me. He shoved his fingers up with it--to put it in me--impotent.

I was screaming. He put his hands around my neck--“I will strangle you. I will kill you bitch.” I shut up. I kept looking at those Golden Arches. At Silver Lanes' flashy signs.

Then I left; I went into third-person and saw what was happening from the other side of the windshield. It all became a movie, and Valerie Bertinelli was playing my part.

At the same time, I was still there. I saw the stupid plastic dog hanging from the rear-view mirror. I noted the murky blue, broken, dashboard speakers.

And then. I don’t know how this came to me…I grabbed my little, skinny, black Cricket lighter from my vest pocket and put it up to his face. He had some growth there, and I torched it. I seriously did.

He yelled, and knocked the lighter out of my hands, into the snow outside. The he pulled me out into the snow. He went back to choking me and trying to shove himself into me.
He finally gave up. Standing up, he said “I’ll drive you home.”

I gave, again, directions to the street I lived on. I added “It’s my 16th birthday.” He said “I’d give you money if I had any.”

All I kept thinking was “sweet sixteen and never been kissed.”

A block before my house I said “This is it”
“Are you sure” he said.
“”Yes” I said.
We were in front of the house were I usually babysat for a neighbor woman.
So he dropped me off. When he drove away, and after he’d turned the corner, I ran home.

I don’t want to go into the drama that followed right now. I’ll just say:

I felt safe/justified when, after being inspected by doctors that night, the police drove me back to the scene of the crime, notes a sign of a scuffle, and found my little black Cricket lighter--evidence that I wasn't making it up.

Debbie and John denied I’d been raped. They said I was making it up for attention. And laughed about it; they denied they’d been with me when I got into that blue Chevy; they said I’d left John’s house to find a better party.

My mother cut out a blurb from the local paper that said “teen hitchhiker raped.”

I went to the house were I usually babysit the day after my rape just to let the woman know that I’d been dropped off nearby, in case she saw anything “funny.” she said, “you mean like him?”

And there he was. Walking up and down the street smoking a cigarette.

Did “they” catch” him? No. Not a surprise, either. This is a city where a then-recent police chief said, when asked what a woman should do if she were confronted with rape, that she should “lay back and enjoy it” (following a public outcry, he chose to wear the slogan on a t-shirt. Somehow, he thought he was being funny)

I’m sure I’ll elaborate on the police's woeful invesitgation at another time. But can I say this for now?

Fuck you, Detective Poindexter.