Me Too
Content Warning: coercive sexual assault and sexual harassment
"Truth is like a rotten tooth, you gotta spit it out"
- M.I.A.
Preface: This is long and kind of a lot. Partly it feels like trauma vomit (probably because I have so much I haven’t spoken on and it all feels intertwined), but I’ve also tried to be very intentional about what I share and what I leave out. I can’t control who reads this, but I will say it is written for those who have been in similar situations and can relate and feel validated to know they’re not the only one. Or to feel that their experience is worth recognizing in whatever way feels right to them. It’s also written for anyone who has carried out or downplayed or ignored these very common assaults and harassments, whether intentionally or not. I want you to know that it is a big deal, and it’s not okay, and this is one example of how it impacts people every day.
I also want to note that this is my experience, and it is not more important or more real than anyone else’s- especially since many people experience intersections of various kinds of harassment and abuse in ways that I do not: ie sexual violence combined with racism, transphobia or ableism, for example, in their experiences, in the way people respond to their experiences, and/or in their ability to access support after the fact. And that is deeply essential to remember in this conversation.
It’s easier to feel the rage when it happens to someone I love.
And these experiences are so ubiquitous and permeated into everyday life that it almost doesn’t seem noteworthy. But its ubiquity doesn’t make it any more acceptable.
I don’t know where to begin. A part of me wants to write nothing at all because there are so many stories that are much worse than mine. But it doesn’t have to be “that bad” to still be bad. And I still just want to stow it away in the corner of my being and try to pretend it’s not there. But it is. And it’s gnawing away at my insides- slowly, subtly, and significantly.
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My baby sister and I were going for a run in our neighborhood when a car full of guys drove by and yelled at us through the window, “What up bitches!!” and sped off. Even writing that I feel like I have no sense of degree. Was that relatively benign? Comparatively, yes. Objectively, no. What I do know is the white hot rage I felt. Rage at their cowardice and their ability to make us feel startled. Used. For their fun or power trip or whatever the fuck makes people do that. My little sister was 13. I was livid.
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I also felt the rage- and fear- when driving back from a late night movie with both sisters. A man drove up alongside us, blatantly leering at us through the windows. I altered my speed dramatically to try to get him either behind or ahead of us. But he kept adjusting and keeping his car exactly alongside us. It was scary. Eventually I was able to make a last minute turn and lose him. But again, I was livid. That he had been able to make us afraid.
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I have countless examples.
From randos on the street:
“Hey baby, shake it shake it!”
“Beautiful.”
The man who followed me into a store to say: “Hey, I like that skirt, what’s your name?”
*Car horn honks*
From working as a server.
From customers:
“You’re sexy. What’s your name?”
“So, what’s good here? Talk to me baby.”
“This is such great service. Can I take you home with me?”
“Why do they have the cutest person putting glasses away under the bar? That’s okay with me because then I can watch.”
Co-workers:
“Hey baby”
“I love you”
“Do you have a boyfriend?”
“Can I have your number?”
“I like that dress**wink*wink**”
“How about you and me make a baby?”
Straight male managers, coworkers (and customers) putting their hands on my lower back or waist when they’re passing me or talking to me. [Do you do that to coworkers who are men? Yeah, didn’t think so.]
For any of you who haven’t experienced anything like these things, or who don’t think it’s a big deal, you should know that that shit wears on you. It puts you on edge. Because you never know where it’s going to come from next or how extreme it will be. And it’s relentless. It never stops.
And the rage that’s boiling inside. Burning me because it doesn’t come out. After yet another, “Hey, baby,” from a coworker I responded with yet another, “No ‘baby.’” He was the only one there who regularly harassed me, but everyone else laughed with him at my response, like it was funny to get me upset. So I finally said “I don’t like it.” “Why not?” he asked. I said again: “I don’t like it.” But I don’t think he cared if I liked it or not. That was never the point. The point was to get off on making me feel small and uncomfortable and powerless and him the opposite.
And it took me a long time to work up the discomfort, anger and courage to explicitly tell him I didn’t like it. I mean, it was pretty obvious that I didn’t like it. Every time he tried to ask me out or ask me for my number I would tell him no. I stopped looking at him or smiling at him. I avoided him whenever possible. I would avoid standing in certain places at work or he would come and stare at me. I never told anyone at work that it was going on and bothered me, but I’m sure they knew to some extent that things like that went on. It seemed like they would think it wasn’t a big deal or like I would be made to feel fragile or naïve or weak that it bothered me. That’s just how this industry is. You have to have thick skin. If you were tough you’d be able to handle it. He’s just joking around! And a big reason I tried to say something to him was because I felt like their first question would have been: “Well, did you tell him to stop?” Now I could answer, “Yes. And he laughed at me.” And, sure enough, when one of my managers did eventually witness it happening he said, “It’s kind of funny actually.” I told him it really wasn’t.
In therapy a bit ago my therapist asked me, “Has anyone ever crossed your sexual boundaries?” And tears started coming. “Yes,” I said. “But it feels confusing.”
I’m glad she asked that question because it felt easy to answer, as opposed to: “Have you ever been sexually assaulted?” I would’ve said no and believed it. Because I would obviously know if I’d been sexually assaulted. Right? ...right?
I’d never been threatened or physically/violently forced in any way, so I couldn’t have been assaulted, right?
Instead, it was the first time a guy I was dating started fingering me without asking, and I froze. I was stunned and couldn’t get out any words or movements to tell him to stop.
Later, it was another guy I was seeing who again started fingering me without asking, and this time I was ready to respond-- “Not yet,” I said. But he responded with, “It’s just my finger!” Implication: That’s nothing! What are you even worried about? He kept asking to do other things and I said no the first few times. But he kept asking and almost taunting me, with this tone of patronizing amusement about my discomfort. He downplayed my hesitation and refusal with “C’mon, it’s not a big deal! Are you scared? It’s just a dick! See? Just trust me!” Implication: What are you so uptight about? Aw, honey, you afraid of the big scary dick? Implication: You’re childish. Naive. Uptight. Scared little girl. You just need to be comfortable in your sexuality!
He kept asking again and again, and eventually I said, “Okay” or “Fine” or something along those lines (talk about enthusiastic consent...). And I remember feeling very overwhelmed. A little emotionally numb. A little dissociated. I focused on that feeling of overwhelm-- is this purity culture? Man, it really messed me up. I can’t have a sexual experience without things feeling shitty.
And I didn’t recognize what he had done as wrong. Something about it felt weird and bad, but then I was like, well maybe this is residual purity culture just trying to make me feel bad about anything sex-related? Maybe I just need to push through and get over it.
My therapist phrased it as: he asked for permission but he didn’t care to hear the answer. And I was like, THAT’S EXACTLY IT. He technically asked for permission but it felt like he didn’t care to hear the answer. Because I did say no- multiple times- and he essentially disregarded it. It was like any response other than the one he was looking for wasn’t really acceptable. He wasn’t listening for and didn’t actually care what I wanted. He was just going to keep pushing me until he got the barest pass of permission to do what he wanted so he could say that he had consent.
One of the hardest things about acknowledging this as sexual coercion and sexual assault was the shattering of my self-perception- what you think you’re going to do in a situation like that and when you don’t do that you feel like you can’t trust yourself or know yourself in the same way. I would’ve thought or wanted to tell him that him pressuring me wasn’t okay and/or gotten up and left. That would have been the “right” thing to do. But I didn’t. And it looks so obviously coercive written down like that, and I feel embarrassed like I “fell for it” or “gave in.” But I didn’t recognize it as coercive in the moment. Or maybe some part of me did, but that truth would have been too horrible so I had to push it away and believe that wasn’t the case. If I could somehow convince myself that I had wanted it or been okay with it then maybe I could feel like I had had some kind of control in the situation. I could believe that I hadn’t been violated. But I felt violated. And then I felt like I didn’t have a right to feel violated because I had technically assented.
Was I afraid he would become violent if I didn’t say okay? I don’t know. We were alone at his house, and he was definitely bigger and stronger than me and there’s no way I could’ve won in a fight. He was more experienced (and he was aware of that) so maybe he did know more than me? Maybe I was overreacting?
And again, the question that brings the shame: Did you tell him to stop? Why didn’t you leave immediately when he wasn’t respecting you? Why did you give in and say ‘okay’? Why didn’t you cease all contact with him afterwards? Why didn’t you even realize what he had done? Why didn’t you stand up for yourself?
In all those various situations sometimes I did, sometimes I didn’t. But was it enough? Was it in the right way? Was it strong and decisive? Was it absolutely clear?
How many times and in how many ways do I have to say “no” before it counts?
And why didn’t I always tell them to stop? Why did the sentiment, and even more so the words, get stuck in my chest, trying to choke me rather than come out? I mean, in part I think it’s because I somehow knew it might not do any good. In the few instances I did work up the courage to say stop, I was met with ridicule and gaslighting--- hahaha, look at the reaction we’ve gotten out of her! Ooh she’s mad now! and Why are you making such a big deal out of nothing? C’mon, just trust me, it’ll be fine!
When someone I love was violently assaulted recently I cried for a week. I was suffering with her and my heart was raging and in anguish for what was done to her. And I think I was also crying for myself. And it was easier to feel my pain in her story because there was no shame blocking my right to it. I was righteously angry and suffering on her behalf. I felt like I didn’t have the right to that in my own stories. Because I eventually assented. Because maybe I could’ve stopped it if I’d tried harder. Because I was silent and didn’t say anything.
Am I a coward? Weak? No self-respect or sense of self-worth? Poor boundaries? Poor communicator? A doormat? A pushover?
I don’t believe these things about myself. But I fear that’s what other people will say to me or, more likely, whisper among themselves when I’m not around or believe in their deepest hearts. That if I had been braver or stronger or had better boundaries or self-respect it wouldn’t’ve happened. Or at least I could have been an exemplary victim with my dignity intact.
And there’s also a fear deep down that there’s a piece of all that that’s true.
And I've gotten the message from people in other areas of life over the years that I need to be more “assertive” or “decisive” or “confident.” So the shame I’ve taken in from those messages compounds- I’m not good enough at speaking up. I’m not good enough. If I was good enough I could have stopped it. If I tell people they’ll blame me for not “being more assertive” or believe that that’s why it happened.
And the shame weighs. It doesn’t feel like it’s my fault, but it feels like I should have been able to respond differently than I did. And to admit that something was done to me that I didn’t want, that I didn’t or couldn’t stop, feels like I’m not who I thought I was. I thought I was strong and self-sufficient and empowered. I know I often come across as soft-spoken and “nice” and “calm,” but I can bring the fire when I want and need to. But I did need to, and all I brought was shrinking and acquiescence. So not only was my body violated, but in some ways I also lost my sense of self. Or unearthed beliefs and biases I had about getting assaulted. Like if I was careful enough I could prevent it from happening to me. Or like I would be appropriately outraged and communicative if it ever did. But that’s not how it was.
Many people don’t consider sexual coercion to be sexual assault. I didn’t at first, and I still constantly question myself on it. Like is it bad enough to count? Is it disrespectful to put it in the same category as people who have been assaulted violently? But in all my reading and looking for answers, I realized my emotions and processing and holding of the experience are pretty much textbook responses to sexual assault and rape: shock, confusion, minimizing, denial, shame, guilt, embarrassment, anger. I’m not asking if it meets the legal definition of sexual assault. I wanted to know if I had a right to all those things I was feeling. If I was justified by some objective category in having them. Like my reaction was reasonable. Like something wrong had been done to me and I wasn’t just overly sensitive.
Maybe it feels like by ignoring these experiences I take away some of their power over me. See? You can’t affect me. You have no power or influence over me. You’re so inconsequential to me and my life that I don’t even have to give you a second thought.
But they do- they do affect me.
And it makes me feel powerless and trapped, and I hate that so so much. It makes me feel violated and victimized, whereas when I downplayed it and dismissed it it felt like I could say it didn’t have any impact on me. But even while I tried to ignore it and not think about it, it was still there hidden in the farthest back corner of my heart, quietly gnawing away at my insides like some big, grotesque, mythical rodent.
I want you to know. Maybe I want to feel less alone or to share the burden of these things happening with communities and society as a whole (where it needs to be) and not just holding it by myself and with those close to me who I talk about these things with. And I want to wrap up all these experiences in some nice little ending, but I don’t have one. Just that it has been weirdly therapeutic and cathartic to write this. And the words have been churning around in me. So maybe for all the times I didn’t say anything, here are all those words now, set free.
In talking about it maybe I’ll shine a glaring light on that rodent. And maybe it will scurry away forever or poof into oblivion and the wound left in its wake will be able to begin to heal.
The complicated, inadequate language of sexual violence - Vox