Two Movies, One Theme

I have a big crochet project on, which means I’m logging some serious streaming time right now. The other day I watched a limited series called UNBELIEVABLE. I’m not normally a true crime person but hey, it was one of the choices and it involved a foster kid.

The story was amazing: a girl who is raped in Washington State is not believable, and there is no pursuit of her assailant, but of HER for false reporting. Her tenuous life of security and safety come unraveled.

Meanwhile, in Colorado, the guy is still at large and it isn’t until he’s caught that the detectives – who are women and who have taken his growing list of victims seriously – realize he struck first in Washington. What the series doesn’t reckon with is how many women wouldn’t have been harmed if the first victim had been believed. It does a whole lot of reckoning with everything else, including how the police treat women if the police are men. The whole series never let up for a second, until the end–when it didn’t call into account just how much harm comes from disbelief.

Next, because I will watch almost anything about India, and I don’t know why, was a documentary called TO KILL A TIGER. I didn’t watch it because it had a similar theme – in fact I didn’t know the similar theme until I started watching it.

TO KILL A TIGER follows a family whose 13-year-old daughter is raped by three older teens. There is never a question that the events happened. The questions center around why the father wasn’t more protective (read: restrictive) of the daughter to keep her from being in harm’s way, why the girl thought she was safe to be at the wedding in the first place and how she encouraged the boys by dancing, which of the boys she should marry since no one else would marry her, and why the family were pursuing a criminal case instead of resolving it as a village matter.

The film even presents itself as a “you’re not gonna believe these backward villagers, and how they shame the victim and the family.” The 14 months of the proceedings are hard to watch. But the way the film more or less says “look at how awful this culture of rural life is,” yeah, no. The same stuff was in the film about Washington and Colorado cities. The foster kid “didn’t act like someone who was raped.” Victim shaming. She lived in a foster kid adult community, and was “upsetting the balance.” Same thing, different accents, different food.

It has taken me awhile to sit with this. Don’t for one minute tell me about the progress we have made as women. Tell me you can watch these two Netflix offerings and not see the same thing. Tell me the reason the case was cracked in Colorado wasn’t because two female detectives saw a different world than their male counterparts.

Go on, tell me.

The Ghost in the Hotel – –

Last week was busy – three states in three days for four different meetings. No sweat. I learned a long time ago to sleep in hotel rooms just fine.

But in the third hotel, in Atlanta, something a little disturbing happened. I am accustomed to traveling alone. When it’s night time, I set my door guard as usual, do the before-bed needfuls in the bathroom, and either read until the book hits my face, or watch TV until I realize I’ve missed the last ten minutes of the plot.

All these things were done and I awoke in the middle of the night needing to visit the wee room.

When I entered, the toilet seat was up.

I have no further information about how that might have happened. I certainly didn’t put it up. The door was locked and bolted. There were no adjoining door rooms into my room. And I was alone.

This is what’s known in the business travel industry as “freak out territory.”

In the cool light of day, I have examined the many alternatives–aided by crowdsourcing online.

The prevailing theory is ghosts. In second place is a rat coming up the pipes. In distant third is the fact that the toilet seat was loose, inclined to shifting. Perhaps it simply flew up and I didn’t notice.

Yeah, none of these theories work well. Personally I’m willing to believe it was a ghost and move on with my life. He wasn’t noisy, and although it would have been more polite to put the seat back down when he was finished, maybe that was his way of expressing his presence on a polite but distant way.

As a friend of mine said in a musical X-files sort of way: doo-doo doo-doo