Stop Calling her a Prostitute: the Truth About Tamar

She can’t stand it anymore. The silence. The waiting. She has to go see for herself. It’s far away, but she knows her father-in-law will be there for the annual conference. And she knows his route. Her late husband took the same one.

Or so he said. Over time she learned to believe only half of what he said was true.

She trades her yoga pants and the well worn dent in her parents sofa for a little black dress, a wide brimmed hat and sunglasses. Her stomach flutters as she pulls the sheath over her head. Her hands press the fabric over her belly and sides hoping to smooth the bulges and soothe her churning stomach.

She sighs, lowers her eyes and turns away from her glass twin. She doesn’t have time to find a new dress. This one will have to do.

She’s not going there to meet anyone anyway. She just wants to sink into the rhythm of the street and steal a glimpse of what he’s been doing all these years.

“Is this the place?”

The driver slows down as she turtles her head through the rear passenger window.

Her gaze scales up the face of the towering old building.

This is the one her husband told her about. He and her father-in-law would pass by every year during the conference. He mentioned it to her because he knew how much she loved old buildings.

Although not an artist herself, she’s always been drawn to antique architecture. It makes her feel romantic and beautiful inside despite any chaos swarming her life.

The details of the building are mesmerizing. Angry gargoyles guard the ledges of the storm-cloud-grey building. Filigree swathes each window frame. Intricate swirls of etched stone climb up each corner of the building. It reaches from the sidewalk and into the wind providing wave-like pedestals for each mounted gargoyle.

The eerie artwork and immense towering building feel scary and alluring all at the same time.

She steps out of the car and onto the uneven sidewalk polka dotted with old gum circles and cigarette butts. Only now can she see the water-warped plywood covering the basement windows of the gargoyle building. It must be unoccupied.

As the cool of the air conditioned Prius wears off, an invisible sheen of heavy moist air drapes her like a robe. The damp clinging cloak infuses the subtle scent of rotting city garbage into her hair and clothes. The humidity and putrid aromas squeeze around her throat making her concentrate a little more on her breathing.

Feeling nothing like the glamorous Audrey Hepburn window shopping in Breakfast at Tiffany’s, she needs to blend in to maintain her cover. She needs to find the conference building so she can set up her stakeout nearby.

But the street isn’t buzzing with tourists and conference goers as she expected. A few abandoned cars litter the street along the sidewalk. A man with greasy grey locks and a well worn parka ambles down the sidewalk. As he passes, he mumbles something inaudible to no one in particular. He doesn’t seem to notice or care that she clutches her purse a little closer as he passes by.

She looks beyond the man expecting to see the glossy facades of hotels stacked next to each other, glimmering in the noon sun like gold water rising up over the street. She anticipates their revolving doors spilling conference goers onto the street for the lunch break.

But reality interrupts her daydream. On one side of the street brown brick apartment buildings stretch for blocks. On the other side, a dusty abandoned lot with a droopy chain link fence edges the sidewalk. A liquor store with a blinking “Open” sign in the window rises at the end of the lot like a sad muddy oasis.

Losing hope, she looks in the other direction. Suddenly two men in crisp grey suits turn the corner advancing in her direction.

Oh they must be attending the conference. Maybe she is close by afterall.

She steps toward them intending to ask directions. Suddenly her heart catches in her throat. It’s rapid beats gag her and she struggles to take a deep breath.

Oh my God it’s them. Ok, just look straight ahead. Relax your shoulders. Look at your watch. Slowly look toward the opposite corner. Pretend like you’re waiting for someone. And stay calm.

The familiar sway of his gait reminds her of her late husband. Her mind flashes back to the affection they had in the early days.

Why do we always remember the good old days when pain filled up most of the days?

Her skin tingles with fear as they get closer. She can’t breathe any deeper than a short gasp.

When he is in front of her he slows, turning slightly toward her, looking past her to the ground behind her feet.

“How much?” he says in a low whisper.

She freezes. Her eyes fix on the bottom front step of a brown apartment building. She can’t look at him. It feels like her high heels weld into the sidewalk pavement.

Wait, what did he say?!

“How much?” He repeats a little louder.

Oh my God he doesn’t know its me. Think fast. Think fast.

“Well, how much am I worth to you?”

“I don’t have any cash on me now, but I’ll be in town overnight. I’ll come back tomorrow afternoon and pay you.”

Anger seethes within her. He seems weak now begging for sex. Her back stiffens and she stands a little taller.

“What will you give me to guarantee you will come back?”

“What kind of guarantee do you want?” His eyes look quickly over his shoulder and back to the ground behind her. He begins strumming his fingers on his left thigh in a quick anxious rhythm.

This is better than I thought. Ill totally set him up.

“Leave me your wedding band.”

She knew his late wife’s name and the wedding date were engraved on the inside. She could use this somehow, she just didnt know how yet.

He agreed and took her to the apartments across the street.

His youngest son waited outside. What a horrible example for your son, you idiot.

Then she realized, her father-in-law probably did the same thing at conferences with her husband years ago. So this is how he knew about the gargoyles. I wonder if he ever….

Do you blame her?
She should’ve never put herself out there like that. Right?

Do you judge her?
Why didn’t she just tell him off right there? It seems so obvious.

Do you relate to her?
I enjoy the feeling of power I have over men, but I would never do it like she did.

The Backstory Changes Everything

What if you knew her late husband was abusive? Then after he died, her brother-in-law seduced her and used her for sex while she was grieving. He manipulated her by promising to take care of her, convincing her they would start a family together.
What if you knew her father-in-law promised her partnership in the family business, but instead embezzled her money?
All these years she waited, yet not one of the men fulfilled his promise to her. Each took her for granted and then disposed of her. Again and again.

Now she has a chance to exert power and control over the patriarch who stole her life from her. Do you blame her for the position she is in now?

Reenactments

This story is based on a true story. Read Genesis 38 for ancient details of a current phenomenon still occurring in our culture today.

As a result of unhealed past trauma, many of us recreate and relive similar trauma in our present lives. Reenactments are unconscious and unrehearsed.

The phenomenon of reenactment presents in several different ways. Simply stated reenactments recreate the actions of the trauma, or relive the emotions of the trauma as if it were happening to that person in the present.

For example, one type of reenactment is demonstrated by a woman whose father was alcoholic. Even though she swore she would never end up like her mom, as an adult, she chronically dates men with substance abuse problems.

Likewise, and without placing blame on the victim of sexual abuse, women with a history of sexual abuse may recreate or relive past sexual trauma in the present.

It’s not a conscious choice.

But it is something we can overcome.

For Further reading click on this link, What Happened to you Happened to You #metoo

Changing Perspective

Today let’s pause and think about a woman we know who’s made questionable choices with her sexuality. Maybe she’s friend of yours. Or maybe the woman is you.

Think about her story. Her history. Her future.
What happened to her? What cracked the tender foundation of her sexual wholeness?

Now that we connected her story with her choices, how can we show kindness to her today instead of judgement and blame?

Stay tuned as we unpack stories of other women from the bible who have been sexually abused. Where was God, and what does He have to say about all this?

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Hopefully, together we can begin to understand and heal from these tragedies in our lives and in our nation.