Recently, I read another piece on womens' experiences of everyday sexism and the impact it has on their lives. Laura Bates, founder of the Everyday Sexism project cites findings from a recent study which suggest that "a sociocultural context that objectifies women and their bodies is related to their sense of safety and security in the world”.
Earlier in the month, it was Jessica Valenti, on how sexism is making women sick.
Bates' piece in the Guardian explored the impact that harassment and sexism have on women over time. It is not just the incident itself, but the effect on a woman's psychological bearing in the world. This piece made me reflect, again, on all the times that men had threatened me, flashed at me, and made unwanted physical and verbal advances at me throughout my growing up. Many grimy, offensive things have happened, including turning up for work experience to find that the experience involved the boss pushing his hard dick into my back.
I came late to feminism, but boy am I pissed about things now. There's a sense of outrage that comes with my recognitions of wrongs and systemic injustices. I am still learning the language with which to formulate my arguments, but hell, they are at least being given voice.
I got to thinking: why had I stayed silent so many times in the past? Is it that we 'normalise' these incidents at the time as a way of coping with our experiences?
When I was about 14, a boy broke into the family home, stole my clothes and 'wanked all over my pillow' (as I then described it), leaving a smiley face drawn in cum and a tell-tale red pube. This was not normal, and it did not make me feel liberated–it made me scared to walk my local streets. I couldn't sleep in my room for weeks. A leering smiley face grinned back at me from the fresh graffiti painted opposite my house the next day.
Is it normal that as a 15 year old, the taxi driver should turn off the cab meter and propose that I pay a reduced fare as he needed a young wife? Is it normal for my driving instructor to suggest that he should take nude photographs of me, while I was preparing for my licence test and was trapped alone in a car with him?
Why was it that although I felt uncomfortable about the bloke in the cinema a few seats from me fondling his exposed penis, I did not expose him!? Yell at him, 'Put your f---ing dick away!!!'
When a flasher showed us his penis and told us not to tell anyone, why did my teenage friend and I not alert the police? When my friend's boyfriend gave me drugs, then tried to forcibly seduce me when I was alone at his house, why did I not tell anyone about his botched attempt for 20 years? Was it his threatening spiel about what he would do to me if I told anyone–that he would say I had gone along with it? Whatever it was, it scared me enough to say nothing and to feel soiled and dirty for having been in that vulnerable a position–he then wanked in front of me while I sat frozen in horror.
When I travelled overseas, how many times did men push up against me in elevators, or let their legs rub harder and harder against mine on the train, as I sat or stood shocked and speechless? Why the silence?
Earlier in the month, it was Jessica Valenti, on how sexism is making women sick.
Bates' piece in the Guardian explored the impact that harassment and sexism have on women over time. It is not just the incident itself, but the effect on a woman's psychological bearing in the world. This piece made me reflect, again, on all the times that men had threatened me, flashed at me, and made unwanted physical and verbal advances at me throughout my growing up. Many grimy, offensive things have happened, including turning up for work experience to find that the experience involved the boss pushing his hard dick into my back.
I came late to feminism, but boy am I pissed about things now. There's a sense of outrage that comes with my recognitions of wrongs and systemic injustices. I am still learning the language with which to formulate my arguments, but hell, they are at least being given voice.
I got to thinking: why had I stayed silent so many times in the past? Is it that we 'normalise' these incidents at the time as a way of coping with our experiences?
When I was about 14, a boy broke into the family home, stole my clothes and 'wanked all over my pillow' (as I then described it), leaving a smiley face drawn in cum and a tell-tale red pube. This was not normal, and it did not make me feel liberated–it made me scared to walk my local streets. I couldn't sleep in my room for weeks. A leering smiley face grinned back at me from the fresh graffiti painted opposite my house the next day.
Is it normal that as a 15 year old, the taxi driver should turn off the cab meter and propose that I pay a reduced fare as he needed a young wife? Is it normal for my driving instructor to suggest that he should take nude photographs of me, while I was preparing for my licence test and was trapped alone in a car with him?
Why was it that although I felt uncomfortable about the bloke in the cinema a few seats from me fondling his exposed penis, I did not expose him!? Yell at him, 'Put your f---ing dick away!!!'
When a flasher showed us his penis and told us not to tell anyone, why did my teenage friend and I not alert the police? When my friend's boyfriend gave me drugs, then tried to forcibly seduce me when I was alone at his house, why did I not tell anyone about his botched attempt for 20 years? Was it his threatening spiel about what he would do to me if I told anyone–that he would say I had gone along with it? Whatever it was, it scared me enough to say nothing and to feel soiled and dirty for having been in that vulnerable a position–he then wanked in front of me while I sat frozen in horror.
When I travelled overseas, how many times did men push up against me in elevators, or let their legs rub harder and harder against mine on the train, as I sat or stood shocked and speechless? Why the silence?
One night on a train trip from Florence, I sat in a carriage
with a handsome soldier. He spoke little English, but we talked with my
halting Italian. He asked if I wanted to go 'camminare' (to
walk), and I agreed that I would take a stroll to stretch my legs. As we
passed an empty compartment he pushed me in and fell upon me. I was able
to extricate myself and rush back to my carriage–but now I
wonder 'why did I not tell someone–a conductor, another woman on board?'
Instead I sat upright, vigilant against attack all night as he sat
opposite, glaring at me. I watched the snows of the Swiss Alps lighten
with daybreak and wished and hoped for him to disembark before my
destination. He did, but I was left feeling as if I was somehow to blame for his seething anger.
When I worked at a local Hotel, the much older chef asked me out for a drink after work, then on the way, lured me to his home where I suddenly felt so threatened that I realised not to cross the threshold. I lost my new job that week, and was too scared to go up that High Street for 6 months. I did not report his behaviour to management, because, what did he really do, apart from make me feel unsafe and intimidated?
Then there was the harmless old boss from the government office where I worked. Sure, as a young graduate I had to feel it was OK for him to get a bit groiny with me on the dance floor, didn't I? Because he was a bloke the same age as my dad, with daughters just a bit younger than me, so there couldn't really be any harm in it, could there?
This stuff only takes me up to my early twenties. Beyond that there were the pushy advances, the unwanted conversations, the uninvited attention that we women sometimes tolerate so as not to seem 'rude'. There were the forced sexual interactions that left me feeling disrespected and yes, assaulted. On many occasions, I have been incredibly lucky to get home safely, and some of those times I had had far too much to drink.
Now we have David Morrison, Chief of Army saying "the standard you walk past is the standard you accept." We have awareness campaigns, and reclaim the night marches and slutwalks–staking a claim for womens' rights and challenging men to address their own and others' behaviour. We have Chief Commissioner of Police, Ken Lay, asking men to say no to family violence. Lay places family violence "in a wider culture where vulgar and violent attitudes to women are common...Our culture is filled with men who hold an indecent a sense of entitlement towards women." We are now being asked to give voice to womens' realities.
Maybe the stories that women now tell will give girls more courage to tell the sleazy creep, the attacker and the perve to leave them alone and respect their humanity and their space. If women didn't suffer so many unwanted, inappropriate approaches in silence, maybe we would be more emboldened to call the real danger when we see it. Instead of feeling that we might be 'overreacting', we might feel empowered to call it out.
It's time to yell when necessary: "Get your hands off me!" "Fuck off!" and even "Put your dick away!" In fact, sometimes it really is time to scream.
(c) Anna Sublet, 2015
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When I worked at a local Hotel, the much older chef asked me out for a drink after work, then on the way, lured me to his home where I suddenly felt so threatened that I realised not to cross the threshold. I lost my new job that week, and was too scared to go up that High Street for 6 months. I did not report his behaviour to management, because, what did he really do, apart from make me feel unsafe and intimidated?
Then there was the harmless old boss from the government office where I worked. Sure, as a young graduate I had to feel it was OK for him to get a bit groiny with me on the dance floor, didn't I? Because he was a bloke the same age as my dad, with daughters just a bit younger than me, so there couldn't really be any harm in it, could there?
This stuff only takes me up to my early twenties. Beyond that there were the pushy advances, the unwanted conversations, the uninvited attention that we women sometimes tolerate so as not to seem 'rude'. There were the forced sexual interactions that left me feeling disrespected and yes, assaulted. On many occasions, I have been incredibly lucky to get home safely, and some of those times I had had far too much to drink.
Now we have David Morrison, Chief of Army saying "the standard you walk past is the standard you accept." We have awareness campaigns, and reclaim the night marches and slutwalks–staking a claim for womens' rights and challenging men to address their own and others' behaviour. We have Chief Commissioner of Police, Ken Lay, asking men to say no to family violence. Lay places family violence "in a wider culture where vulgar and violent attitudes to women are common...Our culture is filled with men who hold an indecent a sense of entitlement towards women." We are now being asked to give voice to womens' realities.
Maybe the stories that women now tell will give girls more courage to tell the sleazy creep, the attacker and the perve to leave them alone and respect their humanity and their space. If women didn't suffer so many unwanted, inappropriate approaches in silence, maybe we would be more emboldened to call the real danger when we see it. Instead of feeling that we might be 'overreacting', we might feel empowered to call it out.
It's time to yell when necessary: "Get your hands off me!" "Fuck off!" and even "Put your dick away!" In fact, sometimes it really is time to scream.
(c) Anna Sublet, 2015
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