Dear Straight American White Men,
Welcome to
the women’s locker room:
I was 11
when a nun at my Catholic school demanded that all the boys in the room raise
their hands and promise they would never, ever, ever let any girl they knew get
an abortion. Every little boy in that room raised his hand while the girls
bowed their heads in shame that we did not understand and could not articulate.
This was math class.
I was 13
when a new girl arrived from California. I heard she did things with her mouth
to groups of my male classmates in the woods near the school. I thought badly
of her and steered clear. It did not occur to me to doubt the veracity of this
gossip, or wonder about the morality of my male classmates, who happily spread
these rumors.
I was 14
when the husband of my mother’s best friend insisted on driving me home after I
babysat his children. Once the car was in motion, he slid his hand up the
inside of my thigh to the cuff of my shorts. I pressed myself against the car
door and wondered if I should open it and jump out at 55 mph, into six lanes of
northbound traffic, before his hand went any higher.
I was 16
when a boy laughed in my face, “Oops, I guess I slipped” after penetrating me
without my consent. If you go by the biological definition, that was my first
time. I was also 16 when he body-slammed me against a second-floor bannister
and held me by my hips as I dangled headfirst over his stairs, taunting me that
he could let go, if he wanted to, and watch my skull smash. He thought this was
good fun.
I was 17
when a boy I did not know at a teen dance club pulled me down onto his lap and
shoved his hand up my skirt, jamming his fingers into my vagina as I struggled
to get away from him. We were surrounded by people, who watched the struggle
but did nothing. Later I bled.
I was 17
when a boy from a nice Catholic college prep school took my head in his hands,
held me down, and forced his penis into my mouth in a parked car. I was afraid
of what would happen if I fought back. I had never heard of a girl refusing to
do this. We girls—as far as I knew—had to do this, or there would be worse
repercussions.
I was 17
when a strange man cut through our yard and scaled the side of our house so he
could peer through my bedroom window and watch me getting changed for bed.
“Beautiful body,” he hissed through my screen, his mouth and voice and unseen
person two feet away from my naked body. I screamed and fell onto my bedroom
floor and crawled nude into the hallway, clutching a bed sheet. My father and
brother ran outside, where they found huge footprints in the mud. The police
estimated size 13, size 14 men’s. The cops said there was nothing they could
do, the man could have been watching me for a while, would probably still be
watching. To this day, doctors and lovers alike are surprised by my inability
to fall asleep at night without medication.
I was 18
when one of my college classmates shoved me against a wall outside and forced
his hand into my pants, telling me he “knew I wanted it.” I did not. When a
friend began dating him, I warned her. She stopped talking to me.
I was 19
when I told my first college boyfriend I had been date-raped multiple times. He
recoiled and told me, “I feel like I’m trying to love a used Jenn.” I wound up
comforting him as he cried and trying to assure him I was still good enough and
pure enough for him. I felt the same dirty shame I’d felt at 11, and hadn’t yet
understood.
I was 21
when a leering man crossed the street at midnight to approach me as I walked my
dogs. The dogs were my voice that night, and barked menacingly at him until he
crossed the street again and slid into the darkness. I could not speak; I had
lost my voice and was trembling violently.
I was 22 when
a college friend was kidnapped, raped, and brutally murdered—after her car
broke down on a Midwest interstate in broad daylight. She had been traveling
alone.
I was 39
when a good friend of the man I was dating told me (on a double date) that he
couldn't stop picturing me with a ball gag in my mouth and how nice I would
look bent over his kitchen table, or hog-tied. His wife and my date acted like
this was perfectly normal dinner conversation. I asked him to stop talking to
me. He continued an obscene litany of the things he wanted to do to me, even
after the waitress delivered a plate of sweet potato fries for the table to
share. I felt sick and left the table to go to the bathroom. The man followed
me, then seized me from behind in the middle of the crowded bar. He groped my
breasts and violently dry-humped me. When I fought him off—with no help from
the bar patrons all around me—I told my date I was leaving and explained why.
Despite having witnessed his friend’s revolting sexual threats all evening, my
date doubted what I was saying. As we left the bar, my date sighed with great
disappointment that I was going to make his friendship “awkward” if I persisted
in my claims.
I am 46. I
still cannot sleep on the first floor of a building. I cannot sleep next to a
window. I cannot shower without the door locked. I look over my shoulder
constantly wherever I go. I look under my car before I climb into it at night.
I lock my car doors immediately upon entering the vehicle. I am deathly afraid
of groups of teenage boys. I shudder when I have to walk through or by groups
of men. I hold my breath as I pass men on running or hiking trails, then sprint
for my life until they are far from sight, my heart pounding. I have recurring
dreams in which I am being chased and assaulted. When I ask for help in these
dreams, if I can find my voice in these dreams (sometimes I am mute there too
from fear), no help will come. All around me there are dead eyes, observing me
coolly, with no pity.
The dead eyes are set in white male faces.
I do not
know how to teach my daughters how to feel safe, because I do not know how to
feel safe. “Safe” is not a default mode for me. Ever since I have had breasts,
I have felt unsafe. That is 36 years of feeling unsafe on a daily basis, if you
like numbers.
The people
who have sexually assaulted me or threatened me have all been—with the one
unknown of the stalker in my bedroom window—straight white men. I have never
encountered “a Mexican rapist.” I have never been assaulted in the ladies’ room
at Target by a trans person. I have never been groped by a black man or a gay
man (or a gay woman, for that matter).
Do you hear
me? I am afraid of you. I am afraid of no one but you.
My story is remarkable for one reason alone: my story is unremarkable. My story is not unique, not in the slightest. Almost every woman I know has been sexually assaulted or raped or abused by a man in her lifetime. Please let that sink in, if you can. Almost every woman I know. How is this possible? This is possible because some men continue to 1) assault, rape and abuse women or 2) ignore the stories of women who have been assaulted, raped or abused or 3) refuse to speak out against men who assault, rape and abuse.
Share your Comments
Source:Planetdesk
No comments:
Post a Comment