I don’t really write here any more, and I don’t really expect anyone to find or read this post. But because this blog has served more than anything as my personal journal, I wanted to get some stuff off my mind in light of the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements.
When I was somewhere around 12 years old (1978 or thereabouts), a neighborhood friend and I went to the nearby convenience store for candy. Because the street that the store was on was a busy one, we took a shortcut through a vacant lot around the corner from it. On the way back, and old man came up to us. His back yard was adjacent to the vacant lot. He came up behind me, and held my back against him with one arm around my neck/shoulders. His hand reached inside my shirt and began to fondle my newly forming breasts. I was paralyzed with fear, and so was my friend. He finally let us go and we went home.
I told my parents what had happened. I had no memory of any repercussions other than being firmly told to only walk on the sidewalk. Decades later, I asked if they ever confronted the man who did that to me or filed a police report. They did not. This was my first instance of sexual assault.
Fast forward to high school. It’s 1984 and I am on a trans-Atlantic flight with the French Club going to Paris! I’m 17 years old. My seat is one in the middle section – one of maybe five or six seats. A man (or perhaps it was a male student; I don’t recall) seated next to me takes it upon himself to start grabbing my crotch while I am asleep. I wake up, realize what’s happening, and turn in my seat so that my back is facing him and he cannot reach me. I told no one. This was my second instance of sexual assault.
On that same trip, I was seated with my friends on a Paris subway when a man came in, stood in front of me, exposed himself, and then got off the train before the doors closed. It happened so fast it almost didn’t register. I wouldn’t call it an assault, except upon my eyes and my still-virginal psyche, but it happened.
In college (1986), I went to a party at another university with some friends. I personally did not know anyone there but my friend did, and assured me that we could crash at so-and-so’s house for the night. Sometime in the wee hours of the morning, I awoke to realize that one of the guys in the house had his hand inside my pants, fingering me. Using the same technique I had on the plane, I pretended that I was still asleep but tossed and turned until his hands were off me and he could not continue what he was doing. This was my third instance of sexual assault.
As a 23-year-old career woman in the DC area circa 1989, I went out one night with my friends. As I moved through the club, someone grabbed my ass. Maybe it was because I’d had a few drinks, but this time I didn’t just pretend like it didn’t happen. I swung around and immediately slapped him. He was shocked (frankly, so was I). I told him that he had no right to put his hands on me. This was my fourth instance of sexual assault.
I do not wish to minimize any of the above. While they happened long enough ago that I do not think of them often, I do wonder.
I wonder if my lifelong feelings of worthlessness have anything to do with the fact that my parents never defended me against the pedophile who fondled me all those years ago.
I wonder if I didn’t stand up to offenders #2 and #3 because #1 was allowed to do what he did without repercussions.
I know with absolute certainty that I cannot sleep in any environment that does not have a locking door. No camping, no staying at a friend’s house. I need a lock to feel secure when I am sleeping.
There are countless other examples of inappropriate things men have said and done to me over the course of my life. One night in college I was out with friends, drinking and dancing. A guy I was dancing with suddenly leaned in and said to me, “So, are we going to have sex or what?” This was rude and crude, but not an assault. I looked at him with one you-must-be-joking eyebrow raised and said, “No. Not tonight, not ever.” He quickly lost interest after that. Again, this was rude and crude, but not an assault.
(Why is it I couldn’t seem to stand up for myself unless I was under the influence?!?)
In my first post-college job, a male co-worker started calling me “Holly” for no apparent reason. When I asked why, he said that I reminded him of the title character in a pornographic film, Holly Does Hollywood. While this was highly inappropriate, it was not an actual assault. I didn’t ask him to stop, nor report him for it. I should have, though. But at 22 years old and in my first “real” job, who was I to rock the boat?
Incidents like this can have a profound impact on us, physically and psychologically. How we respond to them can have just as profound an impact.
So take a moment to talk to your kids about these issues if they are still minors (and maybe even if they aren’t). Tell the boys how to sexually respect girls and women. Tell the girls how to defend themselves when they are assaulted. Believe your girls if they tell you they were assaulted and follow up with local authorities.
However, do not lessen the seriousness of true sexual assault by using that as a term to define crude behavior such as catcalls and suggestive comments. Denounce both types of behavior, but know the difference.
Gloriana 