The Great Toilet Debate of 2016: A Solution in Search of a Problem
“Bathroom Bills”
Are A “Solution in Search Of A Problem”
– Chris Wallace, Fox News Host
__________________
Well,
let’s get this truth out of the way right now:
Male or female, you, like it or not, have most likely shared
a public restroom with a transgender person and didn’t even know it.
As
the law stands now, a muscled, tattooed guy is not likely to hang out in the
ladies’ room, and a lithe, frilly gal is not going to stand next to you at the
urinal.
But
mull on these unintended consequences of Gender Laws for Public Restrooms:
1. If
laws specifying that if people must use the rest room that matches their
birth certificate, then you will encounter
manly men using the women’s room and girly girls using the men’s room. Transgender men and women.
2. Also,
you will not be able to bring your opposite-sex child with you into your
mandated restroom, and that is genuine
bad news for parents whose small children who should never be alone in any public restroom.
Here
is another truth: transgender people just want to do their business and split, ASAP,
not molest your child.
Just
a few months ago, we were all using public restrooms, more or less in relative
peace, if not with total ease. I have always found public restrooms a bit
creepy and have never understood the need of some females to use them as social
gathering places. Mostly, these spaces are smelly and dirty, to be avoided
whenever possible or used quickly and without fanfare.
Also,
too many of my fellow females are total pigs, choosing to pee on the seat and
not cleaning up after themselves (I have learned my lesson). And then there is
the obnoxious loudmouth in the next stall who yaks on her phone while tinkling.
So,
no, I don’t like public restrooms.
I
also have another reason – something that happened to me in childhood – why public restrooms give me the shivers:
I
was six when it happened to me, in the mid 1950’s – a different world and time.
At the time, I lived in L.A. with my mother and stepfather.
As was our custom, my stepfather dropped me off at the local movie
theater – back then, going to the Saturday morning movies was a cool thing for
kids to do; it was a great bargain and de facto babysitter for parents. Also, before
the movie rolled, the theater management raffled off small prizes, mostly
trinkets depicting celebrities and fictional characters of the day, so it was great fun.
I sat in my favorite front-row seat.
A teenage girl with a perky brown ponytail, white frilly blouse, gray poodle skirt, and saddle
shoes sat next to me and struck up a conversation. She seemed pleasant enough,
and it was nice to have someone to talk to, even if she was almost an adult.
She asked me where my parents were, and I told her that my stepfather
had dropped me off and would be picking me up after the movie was over.
When the lights went down, we watched the cartoons – then the main
feature started rolling.
As the movie progressed, she became increasingly proprietary, shushing
me if I talked – which being six, I did a lot – and restraining me if I wiggled
around too much.
She was making me uneasy, but she was older, and, in those days, one
did not question elders, even teenagers. No one talked about stranger-danger.
I told her I had to go to the bathroom – I thought that if I could get
away from her, I could move somewhere else or attach myself to a theater
employee until my stepfather arrived to pick me up.
No dice.
“I’ll go with you,” she said, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the
ladies’ room, where we were alone.
I remember shivering and trying to poke around in the bathroom stall,
hoping she would give up and leave me alone.
“Hurry up!” she said, snarling. “And flush!”
After washing my hands, I grabbed a paper towel and then, my hands
still wet, another towel.
She grabbed the second towel from me and slapped me hard in the face. “YOU
ONLY GET ONE TOWEL!!!”
I started crying.
“SHUT UP!!!” She slapped me again, yanked me out of the bathroom, and
led me back to our seats.
My fear stuck in my throat, my cries muted and choked.
This time, she pulled me into her lap and hung tight onto me; if I
moved or whimpered just a smidge, she squeezed hard, nearly knocking the breath
out of me.
In this fashion, we sat throughout the rest of the movie. I remember little
about it – a black and white slapstick comedy with winter scenes and funky fur
coats – I just remember it was too long and wishing it would end soon and
hoping she would let me go when it was over.
I thought it was possible she might keep me forever.
Maybe kill me.
Finally, the credits started rolling, and the lights came up.
She let me go.
I jumped up and dashed up the aisle, weaving in and out among other
patrons.
My stepfather met me in the lobby, and I ran into his arms.
I never told him or anyone else about my captor. My shame was so
complete; I had been totally intimidated and humiliated. I thought if I told,
she might find me, capture me again, and, perhaps, even kill me.
Looking
back, I doubt very much if she would have been brought up on charges (if authorities
could even find her); it would have been my word against hers, and children in
those days weren’t taken seriously, often accused of magical thinking.
Tonight
was the first time I told anyone, including my husband, about this incident.
Somehow,
all this bathroom talk jarred loose this deeply-recessed memory.
I
hadn’t been sexually molested – at least as I understood it back then (in her
mind, there may have been a sexual component, but, technically speaking, no) – though
I had been thoroughly violated and, in essence, held against my will for a few terrifying
hours.
I'll never know why this girl wanted to control a small child that day – perhaps it
had been a power trip or something more sinister roiling in her sick mind. I
sincerely hope this was a one-off for her, but I suspect not. Even at six, I
could feel her visceral and utter need for complete control.
This
girl was not a transgender person.
She
wasn’t a boy.
I
doubt if she was even gay.
But
she was a seriously disturbed young woman who
had every right to be in that ladies’ room. She could have done anything to
me there, even kill me. No law could have kept her from doing just about
anything to me.
My
point?
I
believe the national conversation should shift away from enacting laws designed
specifically to discriminate against transgender people – who are no more
likely to molest children than anyone else – and encouraging parents to use
common sense with their children.
This
is an instance when helicoptering is a good
thing.
Small
children should not be dropped off in public places without adult supervision;
I’m not sure what my stepfather was thinking.
While
it was a different time, and parents
overall were more hands off, I was much too young to be left in a movie theater
by myself. I simply didn’t have the maturity or the physical strength to fend
off my captor.
To
be on the safe side, small children should always
be accompanied by an adult in public places and public restrooms.
However,
totally unenforceable public restroom law, current and proposed, is just a
smokescreen designed by the far right to discriminate against the transgender
community and has nothing to do with protecting children.
Nothing.
Only
parents and caretakers can protect their small children from predators.
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