Though I am not the type to jump on just any bandwagon, this current ♯METOO movement has compelled me to add my voice to the ever louder chorus of women claiming sexual aggression and assault. What happened to me is clearly not unique, and my account will not bring down any powerful or famous politician, producer, actor or anchor – hell, many of the perpetrators were not even known to me – but perhaps it will contribute in a small way to a general reckoning of all the despicable abusers out there.
Reading and hearing the never-ending reports by fellow
victims has dredged up several very disturbing memories, the likes of which I
honestly would have preferred to have kept suppressed. I will not document the disgusting details
but let a list of general offenses suffice: the high school classmate who repeatedly
exposed himself; the neighborhood peeping tom; gratuitous groping at college
mixers; the guys on the bus in India who rubbed up against me; countless
instances of ogling, leering, catcalling, and lecherous comments; and what
would now be called date rape although back in the day was not identified as
such.
First traumatized as an innocent pre-teenager, I somehow
blamed my pubescent self for the incident without remotely understanding what the
creep was doing or why he had targeted me. I didn’t tell anybody because / although I was
mortified and sickened, scared and confused.
The society around me was giving completely confusing signals, with the
liberal mores of the 70s counteracted by the conservatism of the South where
everything that had remotely to do with sex was fraught with guilt and ignominy. The much sought-after Our Bodies, Ourselves was nowhere to be found in that small
Bible-Belt town. I had no chance in this environment with such shit happening to
become comfortable with or confident in my sexuality.
The worldwide tidal wave of confessions has washed in a
fundamental feeling of relief as the epiphany hit: I had subconsciously taken
responsibility for all the offenses against me throughout all those years. I had figured it was part of the price of being
female, our plight to endure, and in some way believed what was so often hissed
in my ear by contemptuous men as they forced themselves on me: You
asked for it!
But I’ve now realized that I WAS NOT TO BLAME. That
sleazy men have been harassing women forever.
That this abhorrent behavior is ubiquitous. That it is the product of a universal obscenity
on the part of arrogant men who feel entitled to grab pussy and worse. It is devastating to think of the incalculable
toll on the self-esteem of so many women.
Why did we stay silent for so
long?
All this has me wondering how many decisions, major and
minor, I have made in response to such demeaning male attitudes without
recognizing this as the motivating factor?
Attending an all-women’s college, dressing modestly, traveling (or not) to
certain destinations, choosing to live in a country where the rate of violent
crimes against women is relatively low. How
might my life have been different without the underlying blame and shame?
My next step in this catharsis is to have the convo with my
kids. I pray to god that my daughter
does not have any stories of her own to tell, and trust that my sons have always
treated women with respect. If they and
succeeding generations know that such vulgarity will not be tolerated, then there
is hope of a very necessary social and cultural enlightenment.
