*posted with great hesitation and anxiety*
I am 9. My multi-age group private school class is at a park. They are
both 12. They tell me the big dumpster is full of nothing but books,
so I go over there with them. When we are there, both boys start
laughing and grabbing at me and tell me they are going to pull my shorts
down. They hold me back when I try to run away. They pull my shorts
down and leave big scratches down my hips and thighs. When they are
done looking and grabbing at me, they run away still laughing. I curl
on the ground, crying, and pull my pants back up. The teacher wants to
know why I'm crying. She tells me I'm just trying to get attention. I
show her the scratches. Both she and my parents demand to know why I
thought it was a good idea to go somewhere that the adults couldn't
see. The boys say it was a game. They go unpunished. I am teased by
adults and children because I cry. I learn that I should not have been
upset, and that the mistakes were mine, and that I am responsible for
getting myself hurt.
I am 10. I hate wearing pants. The boys in my 5th grade class like to flip up skirts to see panties. They chase us on the playground and the monitors think we are laughing when really, we are afraid. They tell us "Oh, he likes you!" and that when boys like you, they do things to hurt or scare you because that's the only way they know how to tell you that you're pretty. When we complain to the teacher, the teacher and principal...both women...tell us that if we wore shorts under our skirts and dresses then the boys wouldn't do this to us. They are wrong. I learn that boys have a right to my body, and that I am responsible for what boys do to me.
I am 13. I am walking home from school. I think the man waving from a passing truck is someone I know, so I wave back. I realize he's a stranger, so I stop waving and keep walking. Several minutes later, after I have turned the corner down my street, his truck pulls up next to me. He tries to talk to me and I ignore him. He gets louder and wants to know my name. He tells me to get in the truck and he will drive me home. I turn away and walk into the house in front of me, a neighbor's house. She calls my parents and the police. Everyone is angry that I didn't memorize the business name and phone number painted on his truck door. They tell me this is what happens when pretty girls wave at men they do not know. I learn that I brought this on myself and that I'm responsible for what grown men choose to do.
I am 14. My breasts have grown overnight. They are the fathers of my friends, and they cannot look anywhere else. In a moment of boldness, I take one by the chin one day and tell him, "My face is up here." I get in trouble for being disrespectful and inappropriate. I am told to wear baggier shirts. I learn that my body is something to hide, and that men are allowed to look at whatever they want if they can see it. I am responsible for how men treat me.
I am 14. He is 16. We are doing a group meditation in the dark at a summer camp. When the lights go off, he kisses my neck, even when I try to move away. He takes my hand and rubs it over the erection in his pants. I keep trying to pull away, but he is stronger than I am. He bruises my wrist. The other girls call him my boyfriend. The camp leaders tell my parents that I am forward with the boys. I am told that if I don't like him, I shouldn't participate in these things with him. I learn that it's okay for boys to be sexual, but not for girls. I learn that my no isn't enough.
I am 16. He is 16. He is a classmate. Every time he sees me alone in the hallways he grabs my breasts, pushes me against the lockers, and sticks his tongue down my throat. He never says anything, he just does it. I close my eyes, clench my fists, and wait until he pauses long enough for me to push him away. I don't tell anyone, because this is what boys do when they like you: They hurt you and they scare you. I know that his actions are my responsibility, but I don't understand why or how and so I don't tell anyone. I try to never be alone in the halls.
I am 17. He is 22. He rapes me on his living room floor while my friend and her boyfriend are in the next room. It is our first and only date. When I go home, I get into the shower fully dressed and sit on the tub floor until there is no more hot water. I scrub at my skin until it is raw and bleeding. I don't know what to tell or how to tell because I wore a skirt and willingly kissed him, so that gave him permission to do everything else even though I fought back when he pushed me down and used his knee to force my legs apart and held his forearm across my throat so that I couldn't breathe enough to yell. I'm not even sure that it qualifies as rape because of these things. My no is not enough. I am responsible for what men do. My mother has often said that it is only rape if he uses a gun or a knife, because otherwise you can stop it by fighting back. I should not have gone to his house. I wanted him to think I was pretty, so the fault is mine. It will be more than a year before I tell anyone. When I do, I am horrified and comforted at how many young women I know who have experienced the same. Not everyone I confide in takes it well. Some ask questions like, "Are you sure you said no?" "Did he tie you up or something? How can it be rape if he didn't?" "Why did you go to his house?" "What was he supposed to think?" and "Why would you even tell me this?" I learn that rape is not so clear cut for most people and that whether or not something IS rape can be very controversial. I learn that I need to be careful who I share my secret with. I still don't understand why it was my fault, but I understand that on some level it must be. I learn that if I don't want this to happen again, it is my responsibility to not be alone, not wear the wrong things, not say the wrong things, not be in the wrong places, not say yes to anything sexual ever. Guys are guys. They can't help themselves. Girls have to do better. I will never tell my parents.
I am 18. He is a 19 year old football player at my college. When he comes to pick me up for our date, he shoves me on my bed and tries to have sex with me. I tell him no. He says "Everyone will think we are, anyways." He is angry, why would I say he could come pick me up in the dorm if I did not intend to have sex with him? I do not remember anything after that until I am standing in the hall of my dorm, crying, with my pants unbuttoned and unzipped. He leaves, still angry. My RA says I shouldn't ever let guys into my dorm room with the door closed if I don't want to have sex with them because inviting them in sends the wrong message. How can I argue against that? I fail the class he and I have together because I am too ashamed and too scared to go back. Girls are supposed to have sex with boys so we aren't teases, but we aren't supposed to because that makes us sluts. I don't know which one I am. I don't want to be either. To say yes or to say no, both can be terrifying.
I am 20. He is in his 50s. He is the national president for an organization I belong to. At a party, in a room full of people, he says "I just have to kiss that mouth!" He grabs me by the face and kisses me while people cheer. I feel dirty and afraid, and sad for his wife. People talk about how awesome that was for me, to be kissed by HIM. I pretend to agree, because it is awkward and uncomfortable and shameful otherwise. For years, people talk about it as if it is a badge of honor. I play along, but the badge I really wear is one of humiliation.
I am 21. He is 20. We are in the same university student organization. It is St. Patrick's Day. He says to me, "Erin go Bragh! What color is YOUR bra?" and rips my shirt down to see. Everyone laughs. When I shout at him, I am told that I'm too sensitive and that I need to lighten up. It was just a joke. I'm not allowed to get upset about "a joke."
I am 20, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 32...pick an age. I am out dancing at the bars with friends. Men come up to us to dance while rubbing their bodies on ours. I do not know them, but I know I am supposed to be flattered. Sometimes they grab my breasts, my ass, my pussy. I get mocked by them and called rude names every time I express disgust or move away, so most of the time I grit my teeth and wait for them to go away. If I wear baggy shirts to hide my body, sometimes guys come up behind me to dance and shove their hands right up inside my shirt to pull at my bra and breasts. I know I'm responsible for what they do, but I cannot figure out how to stop it. I learn from my peers that this is something to laugh and joke about, that I'm not supposed to feel shame or taken advantage of. It's just what guys do. I learn to mask how I feel with jokes and false bravada.
I am 39, he is in his 40s. I am at a fundraiser. My purse is behind him, and he holds it hostage until I hug him. For the rest of the night, he finds excuses to press against me. He is married, and I'm not interested. I can't avoid him because we are both there with mutual friends. He tells me I have food on my shirt and grabs my breasts. On the dance floor, he keeps coming up to me to grind on me and whisper in my ear, "FELLATIO." When I don't respond other than to try to move away, he licks my ear and says "I bet you could make me cum in 17 seconds." When I shove him away, he is deeply offended and says I've assaulted him. He was just being friendly, can't I take a joke?
I am 43. A man running for president talks about how he doesn't ask women if he can kiss them...he just does it and he can get away with it because he's a celebrity. He says he can just grab women by the pussy. It is "just locker room talk" though. Some people say that because a recent erotica novel was a best seller that we cannot complain about the things this man brags of doing...because really, what's the difference between real life non-consent and a fictional story about a consensual relationship. I haven't read the book, but I'm angry. I'm angry that the underlying message is "Well, if some women enjoy being aroused by erotic fiction, then they can't complain when a man brags about doing whatever he wants to other women." I'm angry that anyone, anywhere, defends it. I'm angry that when people in his party condemn his words, people from the opposing side are critical of that condemnation.
And mostly, I'm angry when I see other women using social media to share their stories of sexual assault. I'm angry that it happened to them. I'm angry that it keeps happening. I'm ashamed that I am not brave enough to share my story publicly. I'm ashamed that I am neither brave nor strong enough to deal with the fallout that I know will happen...that what I expect is people to question why I let any of these situations happen, to wonder why I didn't tell, to think that these assaults are proof that there is something wrong with ME, to accuse me of trying to cause trouble in my family or worse, to accuse me of lying.
And I'm ashamed that when they ask those things, for just a moment I will wonder the same things even though I know NOW that these things were not my fault or wrongdoing. I know that I didn't ask for these things to happen, that I did not deserve them, and that I am NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CHOICES OTHERS MAKE. I know that I ought to be able to wear what I want, how I want, where I want, when I want and still have the right to give or withdraw consent as I please without being shamed or insulted or humiliated for it. This should not even be a topic for debate, and yet, it still is. This is not a concept that people should still struggle to grasp, and yet, some still do.
These stories are mine, but any or all of them could belong to you, to a woman you love, to anyone. My experiences are common, mundane, the standard experiences of American women. These aren't even all of my stories, just the highlights.
This is rape culture. And it needs to end.
I am 10. I hate wearing pants. The boys in my 5th grade class like to flip up skirts to see panties. They chase us on the playground and the monitors think we are laughing when really, we are afraid. They tell us "Oh, he likes you!" and that when boys like you, they do things to hurt or scare you because that's the only way they know how to tell you that you're pretty. When we complain to the teacher, the teacher and principal...both women...tell us that if we wore shorts under our skirts and dresses then the boys wouldn't do this to us. They are wrong. I learn that boys have a right to my body, and that I am responsible for what boys do to me.
I am 13. I am walking home from school. I think the man waving from a passing truck is someone I know, so I wave back. I realize he's a stranger, so I stop waving and keep walking. Several minutes later, after I have turned the corner down my street, his truck pulls up next to me. He tries to talk to me and I ignore him. He gets louder and wants to know my name. He tells me to get in the truck and he will drive me home. I turn away and walk into the house in front of me, a neighbor's house. She calls my parents and the police. Everyone is angry that I didn't memorize the business name and phone number painted on his truck door. They tell me this is what happens when pretty girls wave at men they do not know. I learn that I brought this on myself and that I'm responsible for what grown men choose to do.
I am 14. My breasts have grown overnight. They are the fathers of my friends, and they cannot look anywhere else. In a moment of boldness, I take one by the chin one day and tell him, "My face is up here." I get in trouble for being disrespectful and inappropriate. I am told to wear baggier shirts. I learn that my body is something to hide, and that men are allowed to look at whatever they want if they can see it. I am responsible for how men treat me.
I am 14. He is 16. We are doing a group meditation in the dark at a summer camp. When the lights go off, he kisses my neck, even when I try to move away. He takes my hand and rubs it over the erection in his pants. I keep trying to pull away, but he is stronger than I am. He bruises my wrist. The other girls call him my boyfriend. The camp leaders tell my parents that I am forward with the boys. I am told that if I don't like him, I shouldn't participate in these things with him. I learn that it's okay for boys to be sexual, but not for girls. I learn that my no isn't enough.
I am 16. He is 16. He is a classmate. Every time he sees me alone in the hallways he grabs my breasts, pushes me against the lockers, and sticks his tongue down my throat. He never says anything, he just does it. I close my eyes, clench my fists, and wait until he pauses long enough for me to push him away. I don't tell anyone, because this is what boys do when they like you: They hurt you and they scare you. I know that his actions are my responsibility, but I don't understand why or how and so I don't tell anyone. I try to never be alone in the halls.
I am 17. He is 22. He rapes me on his living room floor while my friend and her boyfriend are in the next room. It is our first and only date. When I go home, I get into the shower fully dressed and sit on the tub floor until there is no more hot water. I scrub at my skin until it is raw and bleeding. I don't know what to tell or how to tell because I wore a skirt and willingly kissed him, so that gave him permission to do everything else even though I fought back when he pushed me down and used his knee to force my legs apart and held his forearm across my throat so that I couldn't breathe enough to yell. I'm not even sure that it qualifies as rape because of these things. My no is not enough. I am responsible for what men do. My mother has often said that it is only rape if he uses a gun or a knife, because otherwise you can stop it by fighting back. I should not have gone to his house. I wanted him to think I was pretty, so the fault is mine. It will be more than a year before I tell anyone. When I do, I am horrified and comforted at how many young women I know who have experienced the same. Not everyone I confide in takes it well. Some ask questions like, "Are you sure you said no?" "Did he tie you up or something? How can it be rape if he didn't?" "Why did you go to his house?" "What was he supposed to think?" and "Why would you even tell me this?" I learn that rape is not so clear cut for most people and that whether or not something IS rape can be very controversial. I learn that I need to be careful who I share my secret with. I still don't understand why it was my fault, but I understand that on some level it must be. I learn that if I don't want this to happen again, it is my responsibility to not be alone, not wear the wrong things, not say the wrong things, not be in the wrong places, not say yes to anything sexual ever. Guys are guys. They can't help themselves. Girls have to do better. I will never tell my parents.
I am 18. He is a 19 year old football player at my college. When he comes to pick me up for our date, he shoves me on my bed and tries to have sex with me. I tell him no. He says "Everyone will think we are, anyways." He is angry, why would I say he could come pick me up in the dorm if I did not intend to have sex with him? I do not remember anything after that until I am standing in the hall of my dorm, crying, with my pants unbuttoned and unzipped. He leaves, still angry. My RA says I shouldn't ever let guys into my dorm room with the door closed if I don't want to have sex with them because inviting them in sends the wrong message. How can I argue against that? I fail the class he and I have together because I am too ashamed and too scared to go back. Girls are supposed to have sex with boys so we aren't teases, but we aren't supposed to because that makes us sluts. I don't know which one I am. I don't want to be either. To say yes or to say no, both can be terrifying.
I am 20. He is in his 50s. He is the national president for an organization I belong to. At a party, in a room full of people, he says "I just have to kiss that mouth!" He grabs me by the face and kisses me while people cheer. I feel dirty and afraid, and sad for his wife. People talk about how awesome that was for me, to be kissed by HIM. I pretend to agree, because it is awkward and uncomfortable and shameful otherwise. For years, people talk about it as if it is a badge of honor. I play along, but the badge I really wear is one of humiliation.
I am 21. He is 20. We are in the same university student organization. It is St. Patrick's Day. He says to me, "Erin go Bragh! What color is YOUR bra?" and rips my shirt down to see. Everyone laughs. When I shout at him, I am told that I'm too sensitive and that I need to lighten up. It was just a joke. I'm not allowed to get upset about "a joke."
I am 20, 22, 24, 25, 26, 27, 32...pick an age. I am out dancing at the bars with friends. Men come up to us to dance while rubbing their bodies on ours. I do not know them, but I know I am supposed to be flattered. Sometimes they grab my breasts, my ass, my pussy. I get mocked by them and called rude names every time I express disgust or move away, so most of the time I grit my teeth and wait for them to go away. If I wear baggy shirts to hide my body, sometimes guys come up behind me to dance and shove their hands right up inside my shirt to pull at my bra and breasts. I know I'm responsible for what they do, but I cannot figure out how to stop it. I learn from my peers that this is something to laugh and joke about, that I'm not supposed to feel shame or taken advantage of. It's just what guys do. I learn to mask how I feel with jokes and false bravada.
I am 39, he is in his 40s. I am at a fundraiser. My purse is behind him, and he holds it hostage until I hug him. For the rest of the night, he finds excuses to press against me. He is married, and I'm not interested. I can't avoid him because we are both there with mutual friends. He tells me I have food on my shirt and grabs my breasts. On the dance floor, he keeps coming up to me to grind on me and whisper in my ear, "FELLATIO." When I don't respond other than to try to move away, he licks my ear and says "I bet you could make me cum in 17 seconds." When I shove him away, he is deeply offended and says I've assaulted him. He was just being friendly, can't I take a joke?
I am 43. A man running for president talks about how he doesn't ask women if he can kiss them...he just does it and he can get away with it because he's a celebrity. He says he can just grab women by the pussy. It is "just locker room talk" though. Some people say that because a recent erotica novel was a best seller that we cannot complain about the things this man brags of doing...because really, what's the difference between real life non-consent and a fictional story about a consensual relationship. I haven't read the book, but I'm angry. I'm angry that the underlying message is "Well, if some women enjoy being aroused by erotic fiction, then they can't complain when a man brags about doing whatever he wants to other women." I'm angry that anyone, anywhere, defends it. I'm angry that when people in his party condemn his words, people from the opposing side are critical of that condemnation.
And mostly, I'm angry when I see other women using social media to share their stories of sexual assault. I'm angry that it happened to them. I'm angry that it keeps happening. I'm ashamed that I am not brave enough to share my story publicly. I'm ashamed that I am neither brave nor strong enough to deal with the fallout that I know will happen...that what I expect is people to question why I let any of these situations happen, to wonder why I didn't tell, to think that these assaults are proof that there is something wrong with ME, to accuse me of trying to cause trouble in my family or worse, to accuse me of lying.
And I'm ashamed that when they ask those things, for just a moment I will wonder the same things even though I know NOW that these things were not my fault or wrongdoing. I know that I didn't ask for these things to happen, that I did not deserve them, and that I am NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE CHOICES OTHERS MAKE. I know that I ought to be able to wear what I want, how I want, where I want, when I want and still have the right to give or withdraw consent as I please without being shamed or insulted or humiliated for it. This should not even be a topic for debate, and yet, it still is. This is not a concept that people should still struggle to grasp, and yet, some still do.
These stories are mine, but any or all of them could belong to you, to a woman you love, to anyone. My experiences are common, mundane, the standard experiences of American women. These aren't even all of my stories, just the highlights.
This is rape culture. And it needs to end.
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