Page 25 of Falling for Mindy

“You’re concerned for her safety, but you have to tread lightly here. You’re not a psychiatrist or a law enforcement officer. You’re a student completing an internship. Not only are you not trained and qualified to deal with something like this, you’d likely make it worse by getting involved. Alicia has told you a lot of details about her marriage and her ex. That’s not information he would want shared, and you have no influence over him. You can’t take risks and put yourself in harm’s way. We’ll report this concern through the proper channels at the facility and let them give her safety recommendations for things like this.”

“I know I have to do it that way, but I just wish I could help her. Like if I could have her move in with me temporarily or something. I know I can’t. I do know that, so quit looking panicked!” she said, almost teasing me a little. “You know how it is. I see that you get it, but I can’t believe there’s no way I can help her.”

“You’re going to help by filling out a notice of concern and filing the report with the director of the job center and shelter. I’m going to call there now and have them email you a link to the form. I’ll help you fill it out.” I picked up my phone and dialed.

While I was on hold to speak with the director, I wondered why I was getting so involved. I was making a call, staying late to help a student fill out a form that she was capable of handling on her own. I felt fiercely protective of her. I also thought that perhaps if I gave in to her sense of urgency, that I could keep her from doing anything impulsive that might put her in danger.

Usually, I’d never try to predict or control a woman’s actions—it was the opposite of what I stood for as a professor of my subject—but somehow my desperate need for her safety scalded my blood and bone and made me ignore my ordinary principles.

CHAPTER 13

MINDY

Professor Quinn took me seriously. After his initial outburst that I should stay out of it completely, he actually talked to me like an equal, a colleague, and gave me advice based on his experience. It was kind of intoxicating, being treated that way, having him listen to my opinions and concerns instead of interrupting me the way he had started out. It was like he had started to respect me, the same way that I had started to trust him.

Something had shifted between us in this mentorship from the minute I rushed in late and upset. I felt it like the tremor leading up to an earthquake—a sensation I knew well. The unexpected shiver, the way you adjust your balance to stay on your feet, the anticipation as you hold your breath waiting for another, greater shift. But instead of being fearsome, this was exhilarating.

“When I started out in social work, I was determined that I was going to get the fathers involved. I was setting up appointments and arranging transport for fathers to prove paternity and get rights to their children. I was convinced that the support of a father would help the single mothers both mentally and financially and it would keep a lot of families intact. Well, I think you can see where this is going. I was green—I had no idea the kind of lives these boys, and most of them were boys younger than me when I was only twenty-four, had led. The background of trauma and abuse and run-ins with the police and drug use—I knew about it on paper, but seeing the way people lived, it wasn’t a simple matter of convincing them to take responsibility. Some of them denied ever knowing the mother or said she was probably sleeping around and didn’t know whose the baby was. It was just a swamp of these toxic attitudes toward women and a stubborn immaturity on the part of the men and boys. Because it was optional for them. They didn’t have to carry a child and give birth to it,” he shook his head.

“I bet it blew your mind,” I said. “The first time I went out in the field, I was just going along on a supervised visitation, and I guess I expected it to be like freakin’ Sesame Street, like this cheerful, energetic mom would bring fun learning activities and engage with the child. She sat there and cried and took pictures of the toddler with Snapchat filters and the whole time she was saying none of this was her fault. I was really shocked. I can see now why it would feel safer to think you were the victim, and that something bad happened to you but you didn’t cause it. It’s how we protect ourselves sometimes. But it took me a long time to get the idea that I had anything in common with an adult who would act like that. Like it was totally about her and her feelings and not the confused two-year-old crying on the floor.”

“Those are the bad ones. There are worse ones, too, but for the most part, I found that people try their best with what they’re capable of and with the resources they have. That sounds really elitist, like I’m the biggest snob in the world, but it’s just admitting that most of the people I worked with in the foster system didn’t have the same opportunities and advantages I did.”

“Speaking of opportunities, I’ve been dying to ask you a personal question if that’s okay,” I said a little mischievously.

“I’m almost afraid to let you, but go ahead,” he said wryly.

“What made you go into women’s studies? It doesn’t seem like a natural fit for a man, unless you were starting college and thought, hey wait, what these chicks need is a white guy to mansplain everything to them about what it’s like to be a girl,” I laughed. “And I know that’s not it, so don’t get defensive.”

“You’re right, it doesn’t seem like something a white man would be eager to study and learn about all the disservices we’ve done to women. But you’d have to know how I grew up to understand it.”

“Were you raised by wolves or something?” I teased.

“Practically. I was raised by a ferociously independent single mom, and I have older sisters who are completely badass.”

“Did you just say badass?” I said in disbelief.

“I did, in fact, say badass,” he said with a half smile that rocketed some fiery sensations down between my legs in an inconvenient way.

“Tell me more,” I said.

“My mom was pregnant with me when she left my dad. He was cheating and ran up a bunch of credit card debt, just a total deadbeat. Mom took the girls and moved to Berkeley. She had gone to school here before she dropped out to get married. So she managed a thrift store and took classes right up till I was born. Then after I was big enough for daycare, she started her coursework again and finished her degree in business. She was a pregnant single mom with two little kids, and just—nothing could stop her. That was the example I grew up with. Her doing whatever it took to make sure we were taken care of and learned right from wrong.”

“You grew up in a female dominated environment,” I said. “She sounds incredible. Like a total Amazon.”

“She is. She retired a couple of years ago and sold the consulting firm she had started, made a big payout. She and her boyfriend—she swears she’ll never get married again—moved to Carmel. She loves it there. They ride horses all the time and go on picnics and just the stuff she never got to do when she was younger because of the kids.” His smile made it obvious how proud he was of his mom. It was really touching and so down to earth compared to the formal way he usually spoke in class. “So I grew up wanting to tear down the rules and traditions that keep so many women from being able to do what my mom did, make a good life for herself and her kids. I mean, she was white and had some college education and had enough savings to put a security deposit on an apartment, and she knew there was funding for daycare if you were low income, knew how to get food assistance as a stop gap. She could navigate the system and get help because she was educated and a native English speaker in a way that a lot of the population around here can’t. She’ll be the first to tell you that if she hadn’t been well-dressed and well-spoken and had white skin, she wouldn’t have gotten half as far. She was teaching us about intersectionality and privilege before I was even in kindergarten.”

“Your mom is basically my hero,” I said, very impressed.

“Mine, too. One of my sisters is on a Formula One racing pit crew. She’s loved cars and worked on them as long as I can remember. But when she went to buy a used car with money she’d saved when she was eighteen, she took me along to show me how to check a car over and get a good deal—and this sales manager kept trying to talk to me. Because I was a man, or close enough in his estimation. He had more respect for me and was more willing to make me a good deal because I was male. That was one of the first times I really remember being aware of that bias. Because here was Tasha, who was an expert, and he treated her like she was an idiot and talked to me like we were old buddies who knew everything there was to know about cars and doing business. I didn’t even have a learner’s permit yet. But because of my gender, I was given credit I didn’t deserve. It made me even madder than it made Tasha.”

“I can imagine,” I said. “I never had a brother, but I know that there’s always been this understanding in my family that if you needed a repairman or a plumber or anything like that, just let your dad handle it. Not because my father knows anything about repairs or appliances or cars, but because he’s a man and they’ll treat him better. It was never questioned. It was just how things were.”

“That’s one way we feed into the stereotypes without meaning to. It’s just easier to go along with the system that’s in place, get around it if you can but don’t confront it or try to overturn it. People, all of us really, find ourselves being complicit,” he said. I nodded my head.

“I’m always surprised when I find some misogynistic attitude or belief I’ve had all my life, and then I have to examine it and figure out how to get past it,” I said, “Like a big one for me was Hooters, that restaurant that has girls in tight tops…”

“I know what it is,” he said, “and the objectification always seemed so tacky and obvious to me.”

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