Enough is Enough
It’s pumpkin season, so I was going to write about pumpkin bread…but, you know what, screw it. I’ll write about pumpkins later because there’s something else going on right now that’s a little more important.
What’s going on has a lot of feelings clamoring inside me, it’s brought up a lot of things that I don’t look at very often, things I don’t take out and examine. But it’s all here right in front of us now and the fear, anger, worry and long-festering rage can’t be ignored – so, I’m writing about this instead.
Hundreds of women replied within hours, thousands in a few days.
It’s in the news, it’s all over social media, but I didn’t tweet my experience even though it’s a conversation we all need to have. And then my 12-year-old came home from school and asked me about it. We talked about what sexual assault means, how consent works, and why girls should never feel embarrassed for speaking out and telling anyone to keep their hands to themselves. It was good.
At dinner that night she asked a follow-up question, “Mom, what they’re talking about on that hashtag, the not-okay one, has that ever happened to you?”
Yes, yes it has.
“When?”
When I was around six, the same age as my youngest, a man in his thirties, a friend of my step father, came to a party. He hugged me when he arrived and before he left. Smiling and rubbing my back while grinding his penis against my stomach, rubbing back and forth.
And then he did it every time he came by our house.
I had no idea what it meant or what he was doing – I just knew it was icky and embarrassing and I didn’t want to hug creepy ‘uncle’ Glen. But I was a polite little girl who was supposed to hug adults if they wanted a hug, because that’s what polite girls did.
“So that’s why you don’t make us hug anyone if we don’t want to?” my 10-year-old asked.
“Yeah, that’s why.”
My oldest leaned over and hugged me, “I’m sorry, Mama.” My 12-year-old, compassionate girl, comforting me, and the child I was, for something that happened more than 30 years ago.
And then she asked, “Were there any others?”
I don’t think about it, I don’t take it out and examine it, but I have a history of sexual assault, like most women I know.
Before reaching high school I was disturbingly familiar with the concept of sexual assault and what rape culture looks like, sounds like and feels like – and by then I understood what creepy ‘uncle’ Glen had been doing too.
After weeks of trying to ignore him, hoping he would stop, I told the teacher. He looked me up and down, dressed in my comfortable flannel pants and baggy t-shirt, with an expression that clearly said, “You? Why would he harass you?” In a patronizing tone he assured, “Well, if I ever see him do that, I’ll say something.”
Minutes later, the kid walked in, dropped his bag, grabbed me by the back of the neck and tried to kiss me. The teacher sent my harasser to the office. He was back before class was over, sitting behind me.
Isn’t it great when people defend harassment and assault with objectification and misogyny?
What I look like doesn’t have a whole lot to do with why I was groped. For some of these gropers, anything breathing and female was a target. Some did think I was pretty and didn’t think they needed permission because they’re entitled asshats. Some targeted me because they thought I was weak or vulnerable, an easy target to prey on and make themselves feel strong. Some thought I was too strong and wanted to knock me down a peg by letting me know I was just a thing they could use or abuse.
There’s a lot of reasons, cultural, personal and psychological, behind harassment, assault and rape. But you know what, when you’re the target none of that matters.
Then there was the date who drove me home and, before I could say goodnight, tackled me, shoved his tongue into my mouth and tore my shirt trying to grab my breasts. (20)
Then there was the extended family member I was meeting for the first time who hugged me, squeezed both of my ass cheeks and ground his penis against me. (22)
Then there was the manager who repeatedly propositioned me, though both he and I were married, rated the bodies of every woman on our team, called our assistant manager frigid because she told him to stop harassing us, and muted conference lines to call female VPs cunts and whores. He said things to us that were so disgusting I won’t repeat them. When we went to HR, they gave him six weeks to make it better. He called each of us into his office and demanded to know which bitch complained. (26)
I don’t hate men, and I don’t blame all men for the things a few, horrible men say or do. There are good men all around, I dated some of them in high school and college – men who were respectful and caring, men who saw and treated me as an equal, as a partner, as a person instead of an object.
I married one of those men. He is loving, and funny, and we’re a great team. Together we have three little girls. The first time we had to deal with one of our girls being harassed she was six and in the first grade.
Third-grade boys, nine to her six, were chasing her on the playground, knocking her down, laying on top of her and tickling her while she yelled for help, begged them to stop and screamed, “NO!” The campus supervisors didn’t stop it. After several incidents, my older girl did something to stop it. She grabbed the kid who was on top of her little sister and tossed him.
Then she was reprimanded and told she had to write a letter apologizing to the boys for touching them.
After I finished losing my mind, I went to the school office to explain why my oldest daughter would NOT be writing an apology letter, and demanded to know what they were going to do about the boys harassing my six-year-old. The woman in the office shrugged and said, “boys will be boys.”
I sucked in a breath and in a loud, clear voice responded, “So, what you’re telling me is that this school is where we train the little rapists? Boys who learn it’s okay to ignore a girl screaming, ‘no, stop’? Boys who learn they can do whatever they want regardless if the girl thinks it’s okay? A place where a girl has to apologize for stopping boys who are assaulting another girl while she screams for help? That’s the kind of school you have here?”
The mother standing next to me gasped, and then she nodded, “you know, she’s right.”
WE ARE STILL DEALING WITH THIS SHIT.
This is the world in which I’m raising my little girls – my beautiful girls who will have to deal with this awful, terrible, soul-destroying crap. A world where a candidate for President of the United States thinks it’s okay to brag about sexual assault, and other people defend him.
We learn over a lifetime of this shit that this is what it means to be a girl: protecting ourselves, defending ourselves, hiding ourselves and always being blamed for the sickening, twisted, abusive behavior of sexually entitled men. Because when we do speak up, we are judged for what we were wearing, or else doubted because we weren’t attractive enough to justify why some guy would want to grope us.
None of the things that happened to me seemed like a big, traumatic moment. None by themselves life changing or especially tragic – after all, I got away from my potential rapists. Instead, it’s like death from a thousand cuts – each one only leaves a small mark, but they accumulate over time into a gaping wound.
Michelle Obama’s speech* resonates with so many of us because any woman who has experienced these things, feels like she described. When we hear those crude, boasting words, it hurts, deep inside where that wound still festers.
After a lifetime of dealing with this it's hard to not be angry. Thinking back on all of it, it's impossible to not be enraged. When I think about my girls accumulating a history like mine, the anger and rage are visceral, fierce and jagged, and it hurts.
It’s 2016, and I am over it – I’m not too embarrassed, or ashamed or afraid to speak up any more.
We’re not done fighting for our selves or our girls, and we all need to stand up and say enough is enough.
*We watched Michelle Obama's amazing speech together, my girls, my husband and I, after having this difficult dinner conversation. It's worth 20 minutes to watch.
What’s going on has a lot of feelings clamoring inside me, it’s brought up a lot of things that I don’t look at very often, things I don’t take out and examine. But it’s all here right in front of us now and the fear, anger, worry and long-festering rage can’t be ignored – so, I’m writing about this instead.
Not Okay
In response to a now infamous tape of two men casually discussing, and one boasting about, sexual assault, author Kelly Oxford started a conversation on Twitter under #notokay. She tweeted about her first sexual assault at age 12 and invited other women to share their experiences. She said she intended to erase the tweet if no one responded.Hundreds of women replied within hours, thousands in a few days.
It’s in the news, it’s all over social media, but I didn’t tweet my experience even though it’s a conversation we all need to have. And then my 12-year-old came home from school and asked me about it. We talked about what sexual assault means, how consent works, and why girls should never feel embarrassed for speaking out and telling anyone to keep their hands to themselves. It was good.
At dinner that night she asked a follow-up question, “Mom, what they’re talking about on that hashtag, the not-okay one, has that ever happened to you?”
Yes, yes it has.
“When?”
When I was around six, the same age as my youngest, a man in his thirties, a friend of my step father, came to a party. He hugged me when he arrived and before he left. Smiling and rubbing my back while grinding his penis against my stomach, rubbing back and forth.
And then he did it every time he came by our house.
I had no idea what it meant or what he was doing – I just knew it was icky and embarrassing and I didn’t want to hug creepy ‘uncle’ Glen. But I was a polite little girl who was supposed to hug adults if they wanted a hug, because that’s what polite girls did.
“So that’s why you don’t make us hug anyone if we don’t want to?” my 10-year-old asked.
“Yeah, that’s why.”
My oldest leaned over and hugged me, “I’m sorry, Mama.” My 12-year-old, compassionate girl, comforting me, and the child I was, for something that happened more than 30 years ago.
And then she asked, “Were there any others?”
The Others
Thinking back and cataloging all of the others is depressing and enraging because there were others – such a flood of others over a span of 30 years that remembering it is a bit sickening.
I don’t think about it, I don’t take it out and examine it, but I have a history of sexual assault, like most women I know.- The boys in grade school who flipped up girls’ skirts and tried to pull down underwear.
- The boys who snapped girls’ bra straps – sometimes so hard we had welts.
- The boys who grabbed the girls’ boobs to “check if they’re real” and then jeer at girls for “stuffing your bra.”
- And then, there was the one narrow hall in the junior high called The Gauntlet because boys lined both sides during the passing period, and there was no way for a girl to walk through without being repeatedly groped, grabbed and violated. And there was the teacher who stood in his doorway and watched.
Before reaching high school I was disturbingly familiar with the concept of sexual assault and what rape culture looks like, sounds like and feels like – and by then I understood what creepy ‘uncle’ Glen had been doing too.
High School
Freshman year, there was the boy who harassed me every day before history class. Saying, “You’re a whore. I watch you get undressed at night and fuck guys. You’re an ugly bitch and guys only fuck you because you’re a dirty whore who sucks dick.” We were 14.After weeks of trying to ignore him, hoping he would stop, I told the teacher. He looked me up and down, dressed in my comfortable flannel pants and baggy t-shirt, with an expression that clearly said, “You? Why would he harass you?” In a patronizing tone he assured, “Well, if I ever see him do that, I’ll say something.”
Minutes later, the kid walked in, dropped his bag, grabbed me by the back of the neck and tried to kiss me. The teacher sent my harasser to the office. He was back before class was over, sitting behind me.
- There were the guys who stroked my long hair to my waist and finished by grabbing my ass.
- The guys who yelled things at me on the street, some following me while I walked home shouting about what they wanted to do to me.
- The boys who thought it was fun to pinch girls’ arms and breasts in the school halls, give them bruises and yell, “Who owns you now?”
- The boy my senior year, who I had known since grade school, who took me for dinner and a walk on the beach, where he knocked me down, humped me like a dog, bruised my breasts and tried to rip my pants off. The following day he approached me at school with a pack of buddies, pointing at me and jeering that I was a frigid bitch and a tease – you know, because I objected to his rape attempt.
What the Actual Hell?
No, I don’t think I’m all that and a bag of chips. I don’t think I’m so beautiful or irresistible that every guy wants me. In fact, I’m sure they don’t –but I’ve heard it before, and so has every woman who’s spoken up about being harassed or assaulted. “What’s so special about you? You’re so beautiful guys can’t resist? Yeah right, why would anyone want to touch you?”Isn’t it great when people defend harassment and assault with objectification and misogyny?
What I look like doesn’t have a whole lot to do with why I was groped. For some of these gropers, anything breathing and female was a target. Some did think I was pretty and didn’t think they needed permission because they’re entitled asshats. Some targeted me because they thought I was weak or vulnerable, an easy target to prey on and make themselves feel strong. Some thought I was too strong and wanted to knock me down a peg by letting me know I was just a thing they could use or abuse.
There’s a lot of reasons, cultural, personal and psychological, behind harassment, assault and rape. But you know what, when you’re the target none of that matters.
Going, Going…
Then there was the male customer who harassed and stalked me at the book store where I worked – following me around, repeatedly propositioning me, waiting for me after work, yelling sexual things at me – and the manager who wouldn’t do anything about it. (19)Then there was the date who drove me home and, before I could say goodnight, tackled me, shoved his tongue into my mouth and tore my shirt trying to grab my breasts. (20)
Then there was the extended family member I was meeting for the first time who hugged me, squeezed both of my ass cheeks and ground his penis against me. (22)
Then there was the manager who repeatedly propositioned me, though both he and I were married, rated the bodies of every woman on our team, called our assistant manager frigid because she told him to stop harassing us, and muted conference lines to call female VPs cunts and whores. He said things to us that were so disgusting I won’t repeat them. When we went to HR, they gave him six weeks to make it better. He called each of us into his office and demanded to know which bitch complained. (26)
The More Things Change
I don’t hate men, and I don’t blame all men for the things a few, horrible men say or do. There are good men all around, I dated some of them in high school and college – men who were respectful and caring, men who saw and treated me as an equal, as a partner, as a person instead of an object.I married one of those men. He is loving, and funny, and we’re a great team. Together we have three little girls. The first time we had to deal with one of our girls being harassed she was six and in the first grade.
Third-grade boys, nine to her six, were chasing her on the playground, knocking her down, laying on top of her and tickling her while she yelled for help, begged them to stop and screamed, “NO!” The campus supervisors didn’t stop it. After several incidents, my older girl did something to stop it. She grabbed the kid who was on top of her little sister and tossed him.
Then she was reprimanded and told she had to write a letter apologizing to the boys for touching them.
After I finished losing my mind, I went to the school office to explain why my oldest daughter would NOT be writing an apology letter, and demanded to know what they were going to do about the boys harassing my six-year-old. The woman in the office shrugged and said, “boys will be boys.”
I sucked in a breath and in a loud, clear voice responded, “So, what you’re telling me is that this school is where we train the little rapists? Boys who learn it’s okay to ignore a girl screaming, ‘no, stop’? Boys who learn they can do whatever they want regardless if the girl thinks it’s okay? A place where a girl has to apologize for stopping boys who are assaulting another girl while she screams for help? That’s the kind of school you have here?”
The mother standing next to me gasped, and then she nodded, “you know, she’s right.”
A Thousand Cuts
It’s 2016 and we’re still dealing with this shit.WE ARE STILL DEALING WITH THIS SHIT.
This is the world in which I’m raising my little girls – my beautiful girls who will have to deal with this awful, terrible, soul-destroying crap. A world where a candidate for President of the United States thinks it’s okay to brag about sexual assault, and other people defend him.
We learn over a lifetime of this shit that this is what it means to be a girl: protecting ourselves, defending ourselves, hiding ourselves and always being blamed for the sickening, twisted, abusive behavior of sexually entitled men. Because when we do speak up, we are judged for what we were wearing, or else doubted because we weren’t attractive enough to justify why some guy would want to grope us.
None of the things that happened to me seemed like a big, traumatic moment. None by themselves life changing or especially tragic – after all, I got away from my potential rapists. Instead, it’s like death from a thousand cuts – each one only leaves a small mark, but they accumulate over time into a gaping wound.
Michelle Obama’s speech* resonates with so many of us because any woman who has experienced these things, feels like she described. When we hear those crude, boasting words, it hurts, deep inside where that wound still festers.
After a lifetime of dealing with this it's hard to not be angry. Thinking back on all of it, it's impossible to not be enraged. When I think about my girls accumulating a history like mine, the anger and rage are visceral, fierce and jagged, and it hurts.
It’s 2016, and I am over it – I’m not too embarrassed, or ashamed or afraid to speak up any more.
It is NOT just “locker-room talk.”
NO, boys will NOT be boys.
No means NO.
Only yes means yes.
If she’s goddamned unconscious, she can’t consent.
Children, anyone perceived as weaker whether they are men or women, are NOT fair game.
No, it’s not every man’s right to determine the worth of a woman based on how she looks.
Keep your fucking hands to yourself unless you’re invited to touch.
We’re not done fighting for our selves or our girls, and we all need to stand up and say enough is enough.
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| Fighting for them |
*We watched Michelle Obama's amazing speech together, my girls, my husband and I, after having this difficult dinner conversation. It's worth 20 minutes to watch.
