Me Too

These are the highlights, not every instance of sexual entitlement by others that I have ever experienced. I’m not going to talk about every one, or go into the most graphic details. I’m not going to take you through a psychoanalysis of myself or the perpetrators; of survivors or abusers/harassers. If you want to know more about why these things happen—why people (primarily men) sexually harass and abuse; why women react (or don’t) in certain ways—google is your friend. (I will insert briefly that women raised in very conservative/fundamentalist Christian environments are often exceptionally vulnerable to certain kinds of assault because they are often not taught about assertiveness, consent, and bodily autonomy, but they are taught about submission and the fault of women in men’s lusts and inappropriate behavior; this leaves one ill-equipped to deal with certain situations).

I’m not sharing this for attention or pity. Many more and much worse things have happened to so many other women; engaging in some kind of attention/pity campaign would be pointless (and shame on anyone who thinks that that is why any woman is participating in the “me too” wave). I am sharing because I keep reading that people are surprised that these things happen to women they know. Women they care about. I’m sharing because I’ve been reading some people saying that they don’t believe the high numbers of “me too” experiences. They can’t comprehend that these problems are so widespread. Well, believe it.

I’m sharing because shame keeps so many survivors quiet, when we have nothing to hide. But this culture that tolerates sexual harassment and sexual assault, that victim-blames and hesitates to believe the testimonies and experiences of women, that criticizes women who share their stories more than the men who made those stories truth—that culture tells us we should be ashamed and that we should hide, and that’s not ok. That culture tells us not to complain. To keep quiet; not to make accusations against these Nice Men. But the reality is, these problems are systemic. They are deeply rooted in how men and women are socialized. “Nice Guys” harass women; make them feel unsafe, dirty, used. “Nice Guys” assault women; often traumatizing them and changing their lives forever. “Nice People” blame survivors, or tell them that what they experienced wasn’t harassment or assault at all. This culture silences us. And that’s not ok. Our words (and our silence) should be our choice and ours alone.

I don’t share this without anxiety. Will people believe me? Will they blame me? Will they see me differently? Will they think I’m overreacting? Will they judge me for “airing dirty laundry”? Will they judge my wonderful husband for marrying a woman who wasn’t strong/smart/pure enough to prevent these things?

But I do share this with hope. That by adding my small voice to the many who have already spoken, I can help push forward the awareness of these issues and the impact they have on so, so many women/femmes and girls. And that maybe with enough voices, over time we can create a change.

*

I am seven years old, wearing my first two-piece swimsuit at the pool. A thin strip of my stomach is all the “extra” that is showing, but my parents had barely consented to letting me wear it because two-pieces were “immodest” (and even at seven, I knew that meant it tempted boys; made them behave badly). But it had sparkly ruffles, and I begged. After all, it was just Grandpa’s pool, with my cousins and some of their friends. When we arrived, a few boys my age chase me; yelling “get her! Strip her naked!” as I run from them I feel embarrassed and dirty; “immodest” and afraid.
“Kids, don’t run around the pool!” Is all an adult yells at us from the deck close by.
I don’t wear a two-piece again until I’m twenty-one years old.

*

I’m fourteen, on a trail ride alone with a boy I work at the stable with who is also fourteen.
“Have you had sex?” He asks me.
“No.” I blush.
“What if you had sex with me?” He leers.
“No thanks.” I nudge my horse further away from his.
“What if I held you down and made you do it?” He guides his horse toward mine.
“I’d punch you in the face!” I say, trying to act tough as I glance around the open country around us. We’re about a mile from our stable, and the only buildings in sight are a couple of dilapidated hay barns on other properties.
“Nah,” He says flippantly, kicking his horse into a trot and riding a circle around me. “I could beat you up.”
“Yeah right.” I say. My face burning, I turn my horse in the direction of the stable and long-trot briskly all the way back—not something one is really supposed to let a horse do—occasionally glancing behind at my coworker who is following at a more leisurely pace.
I never go trail riding with him again, but I don’t tell anyone. I feel dirty and embarrassed. Besides, it’s probably my fault anyway. Your two-piece makes the boys chase, threaten, and humiliate you. They’ll only be told not to run around the pool.

*

I’m sixteen, getting an x-ray of my hip. I’m draped in a thin hospital gown and lying mostly on my side, bottom leg straight, top leg bent, hips tilted toward the table.
“Ok, now hold still.” The tech—who looks to be in his early forties—says as he finishes positioning the equipment above me. Before he turns to head toward the control station in the corner, he drums my upturned butt cheek four times in quick succession with both hands. He does this so boldly, casually, flippantly—like he wasn’t even thinking about it—that as I drive home from the hospital I question my perception of the event.

*

I’m seventeen, and I have a long-distance boyfriend—my first boyfriend. I haven’t been taught much about healthy dating, about boundaries, about standing up for myself. I’ve been taught that women are nurturers; that women take care of their men, that tearing ribs from our bodies and giving them to men was what we were designed for by God.
So when he begs me for phone sex and I say no over and over, and he keeps begging until I hang up on him…I feel incredibly guilty. He’s lonely, there in the Marine barracks in California, no friends or family. I’m all he has. He needs me. He suffers from depression and struggles with self-harm; I can help him. He needs me.
He calls back an hour later and I answer; he describes to me in detail how he cut himself, how close he was to suicide after my rejection. I say I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m so sorry; I’m just not comfortable…he says ok and I think it is until we are talking a few nights later. I am describing my project for my art class and I pause; I hear his heavy breathing, muffled moans.
“Are you…?” I ask.
“Don’t stop; keep talking.” He pants.
Feeling sick, I hang up the phone. He calls back a couple of hours later; I answer. He describes to me in detail the blood, all the blood from his new cuts. How he barely resisted the veins in his wrists because he knew that if he died, he’d never hear my voice again. He’s sorry, he says. He’s just so lonely, and the Marines is hard, and he misses me so much and he loves me.
“Do you love me?” He asks.
“I…I don’t know.” I mumble.
“Please tell me you love me.” He begs in that voice he uses. “Please. I can’t keep going out here if you don’t love me.”
“I don’t know yet; maybe.” I say, torn, sick, guilty, angry.
“Ok.” He takes a deep breath. “Soon though.” Not a plea that time.
Not soon enough. More graphic descriptions, more almost-suicides, more muffled moaning over the phone. I don’t hang up anymore; I worry what will happen if I do. I pretend I don’t notice. I feel trapped. He knows where he can get pills, he says. Guns, of course; he’s a marine after all. Do I love him yet? I tell him I think so, and I hate myself for it. In two months he is coming home to visit.
I cut myself; tell no one. I struggle silently with intense anxiety.
One day I bring myself to say I think we should just be friends. I can’t do long-distance; it’s not you, it’s me. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.
Guilt and relief alternate in waves.

*

I’m seventeen. A boy—a young man—waits for me every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon outside of the women’s locker room at the gym at the community college. I never see him before my workout, but he is always there after my shower. He is tall and the hallway is long, with not many doors. He is the only one there every time, sitting right outside the locker room. He says hello to me, asks me how my workout was, my shower. He stands too close. One day I call a friend; she meets me in the locker room after my workout for the rest of the semester. The young man still waits for me, but with my friend there, he doesn’t stand so close.

*

I’m eighteen, visiting a friend at her college. As I walk to her dorm building, a male student—a senior, he tells me—asks me if I’m from around here. Each time I pivot away from him, he pivots toward me. I tell him I’m visiting a friend.
“Staying in her dorm?” he asks, stepping closer.
“Yeah, for a couple nights.” I reply. My back is up against a tree now.
“So do you two like, shower together?” He leans toward me with a grin. I brace my foot against a large tree root and push off to the side, then continue on briskly toward the dorms.

*

I’m twenty-one. We’ve been together for several months. He’s nice, sweet; everyone thinks so. I think so. We do things I’m uncomfortable with sometimes—I say I don’t want to; I say stop and I even resist at first but he moves our hands over and over and begs and I give in (I’ve learned the consequences of rejection), so of course I am responsible. Men will only go as far as you let them, I’ve been told. So I must have let him.
“Any time a boy touches you, it’s like a permanent red handprint on your body that never goes away.” I remember the youth pastor saying. “You’re soiling what should be pure for your future husband.” Still a virgin but already soiled; guess I don’t have any right to insist on the full extent of my purity now. There’s no going backward.
He’s so nice though, my boyfriend. He writes me little notes, he supports my interests, he’s understanding of my health problems. He has such a heart for God, the New Testament professor says. Such Christ-like love for people.
Besides, he’s had a hard past; he doesn’t know any better. He just needs help. He has potential. I need to do better. Men will only go as far as you let them.
On the sofa at my parents’ house where we are staying the night—in separate bedrooms—we decide to watch Scrubs reruns and cuddle until I get sleepy. I have insomnia and take an Ambien every night; I pop my pill and we start an episode. I wake blearily to his hand in my panties. I mumble and pull it out; it returns insistently.
The next morning I remember and I am confused, angry, hurt, guilty, ashamed. I tell him not to do it again. Not when I’m sleeping. He does. I don’t know what this means. Except that I don’t feel good about it. But men will only go as far as you let them. So I must be letting him.
He is so sweet and considerate about all other things that I question my perception of events. Events that continue.
Over a year later I break up with him. It’s not you, it’s me.

*

I’m twenty-six. A friend waits until my husband has gone upstairs to bed; we are alone in the living room finishing our conversation. The friend kisses me suddenly and I freeze. I fumble; I say it’s late. I reach for dishes to start cleaning up. They catch me on the turn and kiss me again. Not everything is clear; I have flashbacks to previous instances of unwanted touch. A wine glass breaks, the “friend” leaves; I go upstairs crying.
I have panic attacks for weeks after; my therapist says it’s a PTSD response.

*

I’m twenty-seven, picking up some wine at a liquor store one night with a friend. She’s at the front; I’m toward the back realizing that a man in the nearly-empty store has been in every aisle I’ve browsed so far, but he hasn’t picked anything out yet. I look at him pointedly, making sure he knows that I see what he looks like.
“How do you get your hair that color?” He asks, approaching me.
“Bleach.” I say, glancing around for an escape route; the man is standing between the exit (and my friend) and me. “Then dye.” I notice there is a dark hallway behind me with an “employees only” door, then the emergency exit. One I could get pulled into; the other I could potentially escape from.
“So pretty. Think you could do mine like that?” He leans in. I change my grip on the neck of the large bottle of Chardonnay I’m holding in case I need to take a swing.
Am I in danger, or does this man think he is just harmlessly flirting? I don’t know. There is no way for me to know until I leave safely, or something happens. I catch the eye of a man behind the counter; pretend I have a question. The other man disappears; I ask the employee to walk my friend and I to our car.
“Yeah, that guy does this sometimes.” The employee rolls his eyes. “Probably high again.”
I check the dark back seats before we drive away, double-checking that the doors are locked.
Hyper-awareness. Always on the defensive. Something that women have hammered into them from a young age. Our protection is on us. Boys will be boys. Men will only go as far as you let them. Men will go every bit as far as you technically, physically let them. Men will go as far as they can until you kick and scream. This is what the narratives teach us, this is what experiences teach us.

This culture needs to change. Its tolerance for harassment and assault needs to change. What we teach boys and girls, men and women needs to change.
Start with listening to women and femmes who tell their stories. Believe them. Believe the harm that is done. Then help change the narratives.