Me Too
You're probably aware of the scores and scores of #MeToo posts all over social media at the moment. If you google a little of the backround information, you will find that it originated with the Harvey Weinstein scandal, and from there it has become a platform for women (and men) to speak up about the sexual abuse and harassment they have endured in their own lives.
It's funny this should come up now, at a time when I have been contemplating whether to share a little of my own personal story or not. Today I was walking home from work and suddenly felt inspired to go home and just do it. It's scary and will not be a pleasant thing to write about it. But if it can make just one person feel that they are less alone - that their experiences are less uncommon than they think - then it's worth feeling vulnerable for a little while.
Unfortunately, like most other women and many men, I experience on a regular basis the day-to-day 'mild' harassment that goes on all around us. This is the 'mild' sexual harassment often condoned and sometimes even celebrated in media. It's the cat-calling, the derogatory names ('nice a**', 'your t*ts look great in that dress', 'Hi Sexy', etc.) It's the guy who just won't leave you alone in the club, even though you've made it clear you're not interested. It's the words in some songs, when you truly stop to listen to the lyrics and realise that it's really not just Donald Trump who thinks he can grab women by their private parts.
It's how through the media women are often reduced to mere sexual objects for men to own and throw away at their pleasure. Subtle messages leave us feeling inadequate unless we measure up to unrealistic expectations of how we ought to look. We're caught in an endless cycle of feeling like we don't measure up, so trying even harder to rid ourselves of natural 'normality' (a.k.a curves or excess flab where 'beauty' dictates there should be none, blemishes, wrinkles, grey hairs... anything that falls outwith the Hollywood standard). Sometimes we resort to how men see us to try and restore our sense of self-worth. We think that if some random guy on the street actually notices us, then we can't be as ugly as all that. We're caught in the trap that makes us believe that our worth and value is solely found in our sexuality. I think this, too, is a kind of sexual harassment. The media is feeding the lies that keep women bound in insecurity and shame. Maybe if we realised the extent of this problem, and women (and men) were finally able to stand up against these cultural standards that seem to really be so macho in their origin (and here we were, thinking that we were actually about to achieve egality of the sexes!), then we'd find a lot more people speaking up about sexual harassment, assault and discrimination.
But I digress. Back to the matter at heart.
My first experience of real sexual assault happened when I was living in France, about six or seven years ago now. This is actually the most harrowing of all my stories.
I was only twenty years old, working as an au pair for a family who resided in the notorious town of Roubaix (not very far from Lille). I tended only to work during the days so had my evenings free to come and go as I pleased. I had already made many friends in Lille from having lived there the year before, so I would often take the metro or tramway line and go there after dinner. It was about 25 minutes on the tram from Roubaix to Lille, and the tram stop was at the end of the street where I was living.
I thought nothing of coming home around or even after midnight, as I have always been quite optimistic and somewhat naive, and liked to believe that there would always be someone around somewhere watching out for my wellbeing. As I side note - and this is not meant to minimise how much I love France and the French, and how much, despite this account and others, thoroughly enjoyed living there - I have always felt safer when walking alone in the UK. I feel that people really do tend to watch out for each other a bit more here.
One night I had gone in to Lille for some event at the church I had been attending, dressed suitably for a very warm summer in France (i.e skirt and vest-top), and had stayed out a little longer than usual. As a result I had taken the very last tram home. When I climbed out of the tramway station at whatever time it was - well after midnight - there had been a young boy hovering around the entrance. He had looked about seventeen to nineteen, and was clearly of North African descent (again, not meaning to sound racist). Much to my surprise, he had grabbed me and pulled me to the side, shoving me up against a building. The events which followed are a bit hazy after this (I think out minds are very clever in protecting us from bad memories). I do remember that six other men had come out from nowhere and had crowded around me, and one of them had grabbed my phone which in a moment of lucid thought I had taken out of my pocket. I remember screaming and kicking, a lot. One of them had taunted me and said that if I didn't kiss his friend, I wouldn't get my phone back. I remember surprising him by lunging for my phone and actually catching it.
With the seven men around me, they practically carried me to the entrance of a nearby building, and one of them started rubbing himself against me. I was still punching and kicking and screaming.
Normally when I'm in shock, I can't even cry. But this is the amazing (I think miraculous) part of the story. I started crying, properly. With a lot of tears. Suddenly one of them stopped what they were doing and actually asked if I was OK!!! Of course I said I wasn't. The boy suddenly turned on his heel and walked away. The others followed, one-by-one.
The emotional wounds I suffered from this are still healing. Perhaps the biggest trauma for me was the fact that when over the next few days I went to the police station, first with some close friends and then with the mother of my au pair family, they quietly dismissed me, saying that since there had been no penetration involved, no charges could be pressed. The policemen had made me feel like I had been a silly little girl, making mountains out of molehills.
Over the weeks and months which followed, I would analyse the event over and over in my mind. What had I done to cause it? I should have been wearing tights under my skirt (even though it had been over 30°C!). My skirt - even though it had been barely above my knees - must have been far too short. I should never have walked alone, or been out after 10pm, and I should have kept my head down and switched my bright-coloured clothes for dark ones, so as not too appear too much like a foreigner. And perhaps I had made a mountain out of a molehill after all. Maybe this is just what happens to girls living alone in foreign countries.
I distrusted men for a long time after that. I ran home, kept my head down, and didn't date for a couple of years. I think that event helped to cement a lie that had been formed in my pysche from a young age (especially since growing up in strict organised religion), that I was responsible for how men acted towards me. It was up to me to keep my clothes baggy-enough, long-enough, my make-up sparse or non-existent. Not up to the men to keep it in their underpants.
I wish I could go back to the scared little girl that I was that night and tell her what I know now. I wish I could have led her back to the police station after those two failed attempts and helped her to defend her case. What had happened to me should have been labelled as a crime, as with or without penetration it was gang-rape, and a violation of my rights as a woman and of my body.
I wish I could have told her that it wasn't her fault. That nothing she could ever wear would make sexual harassment or assault justified. That men are responsible for their own behaviour. That it's OK to be bold and beautiful and imperfect and that how people respond to her is up to them; nothing to do with her.
Two more 'events' happened when I was living in France. A drunk man grabbed my breast in a supermarket carpark. And once when I was out with my now partner, some guy grabbed my bum. Two more examples of sexual harassment which should never have taken place.
If you are someone who has suffered from sexual harassment or assault, you are not alone. You probably have some scars. Even if it's just the scars you get from watching TV or looking at magazines and realising that you'll never measure up. But it doesn't matter, because you can't measure up to photo-shopped models who make fad diets and extreme excercise their living.
You are lovable and valuable and perfect just as you are, and no amount of sexual harassment can make you tainted.
But it has got to stop.