I thought about deleting last night’s post, but the comments are already too valuable. I wanted to do away with the post not because I regret the message, but because I could have and should have done better. I was tired, and I was sad, and I was angry.

I’m no night owl — I do all of my writing during the day, when the coffee’s hottest and the light is least depressing. It’s interesting the way a post comes out differently when you write it long past bedtime, half dressed and freezing on a living room sofa, cloaked in the heaviest of darkness, the screen barely visible through the tears. I’m going to try to do better right now.

On last night’s post, Elizabeth commented, “How many people are aware that October is Domestic Violence Awareness month? Most people associate this time of year with pink ribbons and fundraising initiatives to support breast cancer research. ” She had no way of knowing that simple sentiment is what started this all for me a year ago.

I’ve bragged endlessly about meeting Gloria Steinem last year. The reason I met her was because she came to town for the 30th anniversary of Domestic Abuse Intervention Services in Madison. Our city magazine scored an exclusive interview, and they gave it to me. I spent 30 minutes on the phone with her, and then she invited me to be her guest at the banquet, and that’s where we snapped that picture. From her, I learned how incredibly pervasive domestic violence is, and how even though we’ve come a long way, an honest community conversation is still very much lacking. I’d also interviewed a close friend who is a TV news anchor for the same article, and she told me how frustrating it was to sit there in the newsroom and listen to the scanners trumpeting all of these arrests and know, because of safety and privacy concerns, that she couldn’t say a word on-air. I learned that in our own highly-educated, affluent, white-collar county in Wisconsin, between one third and one half of all arrests are domestic violence related. But these stories most certainly did not make up one half or one third of the news. They were only reported when someone died. Murder-suicide.

The article with my Gloria Steinem interview ran in the October issue last year, right alongside a stunning portfolio profiling breast cancer survivors (written by someone else.) I thought to myself, why can’t we do an article just like this for domestic violence victims? But I knew why. It wasn’t safe. Where would I find women who were safe enough? Brave enough? Whose situations were uncomplicated enough? It would never work.

I decided to try anyway.

Thanks to the help of a prominent local advocate, seven women — seven women — agreed to be photographed, agreed to use their full names, and agreed to let me tell their personal stories. The article will be on newsstands before the month is out, in time for Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

This is the cruel, hard fact: One in four women will be a victim of domestic violence in her lifetime, according to a 2000 report by the National Institute of Justice. Tell me, do you know four women? Believe me, the men and women who are victims of abuse are all around you. They look exactly like you. They are sitting next to you at the PTO meeting and they are pumping gas in the next stall and they are your sons and daughters’ friends and they are your sons and daughters. And it’s not always easy to tell. And it doesn’t start out violent. Men don’t walk up to women and punch them in the face, to have women say, “Gosh, you’re romantic, let’s get married!” It is slow, creeping, insidious, until you wake up one day and find you are not the person you once were, and you have no idea how you got here. It has happened to me, and since starting this article I have learned that it happened to many, many people I thought I knew. Listen to me: Every nine seconds in this country, a woman is beaten. How many seconds did it take you to read this post? If you read fast, maybe you can do it in a two minutes. 120 seconds. That’s 13 women while you read these words.

The several months spent living inside the words of these wounded women have not been easy. I’ve mentioned before the unfortunate tendency I have to sponge up the emotions of the people around me, and the interview and writing process for this piece affected me deeply. It cut, and it itched, and it burned. But it also healed, and it evolved, and it surprised. These women were such a gift to me. Their stories are now forever entwined with mine, deep inside.

That’s what brought me to my knees about Viviana. I did not know her. She was not one of the women profiled in my article — but she was exactly like them. She lived in the same town as my seven women. She volunteered with other victims, just like my seven women. She had managed to leave her abuser, just like my seven women. She knew several of my women, and they knew her. To me, reading that article, it was like I’d lost one of mine. And in addition to the mourning, part of me felt a sick lump of fear forming in my stomach for my new friends, and what the exposure from this upcoming article could mean for them. Bravery is not a strong enough word. It just isn’t. So, please: we owe it to them to listen.

In my article, I speak these women’s names, because the fact that they are using them is the most powerful thing of all. That’s why Viviana’s name squeaked painfully out of me last night, why I whispered it over and over again. Why I’ll continue to whisper it in my heart, along with the seven others I’ve come to know as well as my own. Why I’ll continue to listen for their stories.

May they all be heard.

Domestic Abuse Intervention Services of Dane County (DAIS) celebrated its 30th anniversary yesterday, with Gloria Steinem as its keynote speaker. I wrote about it (as I’ve told you a hundred times and will tell you a hundred more) for the October issue of Madison Magazine, and an article in today’s local paper gives a nice summary of what went down at the jam-packed luncheon. (Try not to read the community comments after the article, they were clearly written by people with whom I would never be friends. Unlike you, Dear Reader.)

Ms. Steinem actually said quite a few things that I had already quoted her as saying, but that took nothing away for me, because there was nothing like hearing her speak the words in person. Like I said yesterday, I’m having a hard time recalling exactly what she said, but I do remember this: She spoke with her hands, as many of us do, but when she did it, she uncurled one long, slender finger at a time, then curled each in turn back into her palm, and the fluidity of the movement precisely matched the cadence of her words. And she wore a silver ring. That’s pretty much what I remember. For what it’s worth.

Additional thoughts on the event itself:

1.) There must’ve been a thousand people there, no kidding.

2.) My name was in the program (wha?? Can you say SCRAPBOOK???)

3.) The seats directly surrounding Gloria (including mine) probably could have held worthier butts. It’s kind of a shame that big donors and starstruck reporters got that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, rather than the countless DAIS volunteers, battered women, and remarkable young men of the DELTA Project who were sitting about a hundred yards away from Herself. Just sayin’.

4.) Each seat had a copy of the Madison Magazine issue that held my Gloria article. This issue also held a feature on UW Football coach Bret Bielema by my buddy Frank Bures. During dinner, when Sheriff Mahoney found out which article I’d written, he asked, eyes twinkling, if I was disappointed that I didn’t get the Bret interview (*snort*). This was another reason I took to him instantly. As I’ve told many of you many a times, Funny before Form, people! Funny before Form. (I also asked him, while trying to get up the nerve to go up to Glo and take a picture, if I had his department’s backing – he said absolutely. So there.)

5.) There’s something else I should’ve mentioned yesterday, a key component of the gala: the DELTA project. I swear to God, all over Dane County, local high school boys are getting together and talking about their feelings. They call it “man’s group” amongst themselves. Can you believe this? We watched video of these kids speaking to the camera about what it is, what it means to them, and what it means to the world. I am here to tell you, if this program was embraced in every American middle and high school, not only would there be no more domestic violence, there would be no more war. I honestly believe this. Of course, federal funding for the project runs out in 2008.Whuddya know.

OKAY.

I think I’m finally done talking about this. Moving on. No more blog posts this long. You’re welcome. No wait – Thank you.

TO: Dave
FROM: Maggie
RE: Final summary/report by the Executive Committee (Me.)

I. CONVERSATIONS YOU MISSED:

Gretta, holding up her Halloween costume: “Moaaaam, you bought me a LARGE!”

Me: “Well…. You picked it out.”

Gretta: “Well you approved it.”

***

Grandma Peggy: “What would you like for lunch today, Emma?”

Emma: “Gwowia Timen.”

***

II. OFFICIAL LIST OF THINGS BROKEN WHILE YOU WERE GONE:

1. Your Grandma’s hip
2. The TV
3. The icemaker on the refrigerator
4. The roof (leak)
5. The cupboard door in the bathroom
6. My will

***

III. EXECUTIVE SUMMARY:

Well, Dave…. We made it. You’re on your way home right now – you should be rolling in around 10:30pm. It’s been ten full days. In all, it really wasn’t that bad. Our kids are actually kind of cool, and it’s been nice getting to know them. I may even miss them when I run away from home tonight around, say, 10:31pm. I’m grateful I had this blog. I’m even more grateful that my kids have such an amazing father, and I have such an incredible partner, that every day without you SUCKS FISH. See you soon.

It is once upon a time, 34 Septembers ago, and a woman with apple cheeks and Pantene-commercial hair goes into labor. Her husband puts down the beer, sells a shotgun, and uses the $40 to drive 50 miles to the nearest hospital. They bring their baby Girl home to a cabin built by their unpracticed hands on a deep, black lake choked with lily pads, place her gently in a cardboard box crib and go on about the business of living on love, if nothing else.

422 miles away a six-year-old boy palms treasures of frogs and fish, proudly presents them to his mother between distracted back-of-the-wrist swipes to his runny nose, already looking so much like the daughters he is yet to have.

*

The Girl grows. She endures many little things and a couple of bigger, unwritten things. Her parents keep the love but opt for money, and the family, now three-children large, moves to Wisconsin. The Girl gets glasses. She earns the best friends she still banks to this day. She dances in Russia, she travels to Europe, she learns to ski, to get good grades, to get along. She plays basketball because all of her friends do, where she covets the hair of a stranger. She yearns for the breezy charm of other girls. Her self-esteem is a fresh-born fawn on shaky, slimy legs. She gives her heart (among other things) for the first time to a boy not equipped to hold it, a boy who crushes it inside his fist with a series of surprisingly gentle squeezes. The next time she gives her heart it is to a Boy who works with the Girl’s aunt, a Boy whose hands once held frogs and fish. He cups her face with the same gentle wonder. Five years later, they marry.

*

Life swirls in magnetic, unpredictable eddies. The Boy sells auto parts, builds roofs, manages tenants, walks tall. The Girl goes to college, sells advertising, makes babies, makes a home. There is love, there is loss, there is growth, there are births. When the Girl learns she can make a living writing, she does–article after article, some fascinating, some droll, all necessary. It is the right-est thing she has ever known and she’s not sure how she ever lived before, if she ever lived before. She starts blogging–at first hesitantly (okay, fine, dammit), then fervently. She finds her tribe, builds a community, watches strangers shape-shift into friends, feels her voice rising louder, braver. At her day job she works hard, builds loyalty and trust, earns the gift of an exclusive interview with an icon, learns. The icon is coming to town to celebrate the 30th anniversary of Domestic Abuse Intervention Services, a place the Girl has only heard of in passing. She is inspired. She is made different. She fights for a story, a story giving domestic violence survivors a voice, a fight that takes a year, an article that forever changes her map. She follows the new purple line.

Nothing can go back to the way it was before. It’s not enough. With the help of her blogging community she then creates a site. Survivors speak out and are changed, affect change. The executive director of DAIS–the same woman who helped the Girl find survivors for her magazine article–embraces the new venture, sings its praises, links it up, bestows a community award at a big, terrifying banquet. It is all thrilling and celebratory except when it isn’t, except when there are defeats, losses that defy comprehension, like the day the stranger girl with the pretty hair from 8th grade basketball and her tiny daughter are brutally murdered by their abuser. Turns out she wasn’t a stranger after all, because her cousin dated the Girl’s Boy back in the day and the Boy has known their family for 20-some years. At the funeral, mother and daughter are buried together. The Boy says to the Girl, “That was hands-down the hardest thing I have ever seen in my life.”

The Girl stops for a beat, sits, tries to remember her purpose, searches for her strength. Her community bolsters. The family of the slain girl discovers Violence UnSilenced, writes the Girl kind emails even in their pain, posts comments in support of survivors. Lisa posts on VU a letter to her slain sister that cracks the Girl’s soul wide open.

The Girl’s heart is swollen, bruised. Sometimes she feels too small. Sometimes she wants to pull the plug, to hide, to duck on out. Then she spends a magical weekend with 25 women eating cupcakes and shifting paradigms. She is rejuvenated, filled to brimming with a love for this art, for these people, for this purpose. They feast, and she is full.

*

It is last night and the Boy and Girl drop the kids off at grandma’s and go to a party. Except it’s not a party, it’s a fundraiser for DAIS, the place that has been so kind to the Girl, the place that the family of the slain girl and her daughter are now working with in their memory. The event is held on what should have been the girl with the pretty hair’s 34th birthday. There are hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds of people there.

The Girl finally holds in her arms Lisa, the sister of the slain woman, the one who posted the letter. They cry. This sister holds the Boy, too, because they are classmates, they graduated from the same small high school together. The Boy and Girl see and hug the cousin of the victim, the Boy’s ex-girlfriend. They see and hug the executive director of DAIS, the woman who works so hard to save lives, the woman who works so hard to help VU. They watch that executive director hug that sister.

They see and hug the Girl’s former coworker from her advertising career, because she is the lifelong friend of the mother of the slain woman. Another woman approaches tentatively and introduces herself to the Girl–they are Twitter and Facebook friends, knitting comrades, and they hug though they have never met in person before, because that’s what bloggers do. The Girl is astonished the woman found her in this sea of faces. Her worlds smash and collide like meteors.

The Girl looks around the room, draws line after line after line but soon grows dizzy with it all. She has never in her life felt so solidly in the right place at the right time, though exactly when and where that is feels slightly fuzzy right now, cosmically smudged. It is hard to swallow the lump in her throat back down where it belongs. She stares instead into her drink, pinches the slim straw and stirs the ice around and around and around, infinite motion.

There are $20,000 worth of donated raffle items. When the numbers are called the Girl who never wins anything like this blinks stupidly at her ticket. She has won the cupcake package.

*

The Boy carries one sleepy potato-sack child over each shoulder, just as the Girl has seen him do on so many nights before. They move past each other in the dark with an easy precision. Dogs go in and out, beds are turned down, fires are stoked, face cream is applied in short, certain swipes. They lay their heads on pillows of down beneath a window framing crisp stars. They rest.

Seventeen years now and the Boy’s and Girl’s connections are a constellation; vast, exquisite, inextricably tethered, impossible to fully know, too many hot prick-points of light to count.

I woke up at 6:30am in a cold sweat, desperate to paint my nails. (If was going to meet Gloria Effing Steinem, I was going to paint my nails, right?) I slipped stealthily out of bed (which I now share with Gretta, you’ll recall), crept into the bathroom, and dug around in the closet til I found that old bag of polish, the one that only makes an appearance on Halloween. Perched on the toilet, I gave my best attempt at a French manicure. It looked hideous. I removed it.

Then I got the kids up, got them dressed, fed, (mostly) groomed, got Gretta on the bus, showered, fed the pets, drove Emma to school, came back home, put on an outfit that made me resemble Elvira, changed into something more business-like, painted my nails an easier shade, got nail polish on my new business-like outfit, changed back into Elvira, removed the flubbed polish and repainted my nails for the third time, decided my hair had dried all wrong, stuck my head under the faucet and tried again, put on the appropriate amount of make-up to enhance what badly needed enhancing but not appear Anti-Feminist, packed my camera (the huge Nikon, not the discrete pocket-sized kodak, thanks to Dave and his Canada trip), packed my big red purse (not the cute little one, thanks to my big huge camera), checked my email, felt my heart drop three levels because of some controversy surrounding the event that directly relates to my family and I promise to address it in a later blog entry but pleasejustletmehavethismoment, checked the rest of my email, felt suddenly faint, stuffed a slice of last night’s pizza in my mouth, thought about how I would surely get it on my person, thought about the fact that I’d be eating pasta shortly and wondered why the hell I was eating pizza right now, grabbed a can of seltzer, got in the car an hour early because I know myself, spent a thirsty twenty minutes trying to figure out how to open the can of seltzer without chipping my nail polish, finally figured out The Spare Car Key As a Can-Opening Tool like my prettily painted foremothers did years ago, immediately got the hiccups upon my first sip and cursed my bad judgment, stopped for gas and thought about telling the guy at the next pump that I was on my way to meet Gloria Steinem but decided against it since I looked So Hot and I didn’t want him to get the wrong idea, got back on the road, pulled into the parking ramp at the Monona Convention Center and parked in what was quite possibly the furthest spot from the entrance, engaged in some vigorous lint-rolling, made sure I had everything in my big red purse, walked the 136 miles into the banquet hall, got all the way in and down one escalator before realizing I’d forgotten my camera, walked all the way back to the car, secured the camera, walked all the way back to the Convention Center, muttered some uninspired things to the greeters giving me funny looks, prayed my sweaty flushed face would be misinterpreted for a confident, collected glow, and sat down at Table Number Six, immediately in front of the podium. IMMEDIATELY IN FRONT OF THE PODIUM. Got back up to take a picture proving I was sitting immediately in front of the podium. Sat back down.

My table was full of important people I didn’t know, including Sheriff Dave Mahoney to my immediate left. I of course told him about the Dave Mahoney in our family (no, I’m not joking Jenn) and we had a long discussion about all the different Dave Mahoney’s he knows, and how they’re always getting his mail or asking him for more yard signs. I liked Dave Mahoney.

And then HERSELF was there, at the table next to mine, the table with my editor, the editor who calls Gloria Steinem “Herself”. Not seven feet away. She slipped in just as the event was beginning, to no fanfare whatsoever. The violins were only in my head, but they were deafening. I stared at Herself throughout the introductory remarks and, halfway into the salad, I made my move.

Let me stop here and tell you, this was no small thing. I debated internally for quite some time, Jan Brady-style. Do I go over there and make a complete fool out of myself in front of all these important people? Do I quit acting like I belong among these people I’ll never see again (except maybe Dave Mahoney, I’m thinking I might invite him to our next family picnic) and just go over there and meet her? Do I at least wait until after the salad? Gawd, Jan, why are you always such a nerd??

I went over there. She was actually taking a bite of her salad when I touched her back and likely scared the bejeezus out of her. But she was gracious anyway. As for the specifics of the conversation, I have no recollection whatsoever. I just know she was really nice to me. And then I handed someone the camera and she took the money shot. And then I went back to my table of Important People, whose silence I chose to take for jealousy and not condescension because I am a Positive Thinker.

Her speech was amazing. She was beyond eloquent. She spoke profound things with a soothing murmur. She made complicated issues seem doable. She made every normal thing sound better. She made words like “the” and “know” and “kitchen” sound like birds chirping, like gold coins clinking, like Emma laughing….. OK, normally I would just delete that last sentence but I don’t know how to tell you that she just sounded SO GREAT. So whatever.

And then — this is my favorite part — when she finished speaking and sat back down at her table, after the MC gave closing remarks and the event was officially over, about thirteen seconds after, in fact, everybody mobbed her. They mobbed her! It was a literal mob! Flashbulbs popping, people crowding, even Sheriff Dave, even my blessed editor, and I just sat there grinning down into my lap, heaving prayers upward to a gentle God, one who gives me the strength to make a fool of myself when the situation calls. I bet those guys wished they’d gulped down their pride instead of their salads too, then maybe they’d have a picture of themselves with Gloria (holyshit) Steinem.

(And no, I haven’t stopped grinning like that.)

By the way, ladies and gentleman, the groovy chick in this second photo is none other than Brennan Nardi, editor extraordinaire, visionary genius, gentle boss, and generous soul who gave me this assignment in the first place, no small thing as she’s a woman’s studies major and MFG (Massive Gloria Fan) herself. She had every right to keep this interview, but she gave it to me. Feast your eyes on greatness. Send good juju her way.

Ohmygod, you should all call me right now so I can tell you how much I love you. Every single one of you, wherever you are, whomever you are. Let me tell you how in love with you I am. I LOVE YOU ALL.

Good night.

P.S. I will write more on this, like on what the event was, and what was talked about, and why it’s important, and what the controversy was, LATER. Tonight, I’m basking.