Just The Other Morning *trigger warning*

I caught the woman’s eye as the hand grazed under her breast. I turned away, feeling ashamed at not giving her modesty—but when I glanced back she was still looking at me. I felt indignant on her behalf and when it showed on my face her hard eyes flickered and her clenched jaw nodded ever so slightly. An acknowledgment of her internal fury. It was maybe two seconds, but that tiny connection has stayed with me ever since. I slid my boots on and when I turned around she was gone.

San Francisco International Airport has two full body scanners in the Terminal 1 security line I used. Scanners that they seem to delight in using.

I had heard the comments regarding the rock and hard place of American airport security. But it wasn’t until I was standing in line, removing my sweater on request, exposing parts of my body I would prefer not to, that I really understood it. Nonchalant Facebook updates of new TSA “boyfriends” had lulled me into complacency. But standing on the cold floor, half naked with the possibility of being groped by a woman that I did not know nor trust simply because she has similar genitals as mine, brought it all home with a bang.

It is too much. We are not safer. This is the Animal Farm. As I prepared to walk through the X-Ray my mind blurred much the same way it does when men on the street start following me. A sort of shocked panic that I can never expect nor anticipate. 

I breathed a sigh of relief as the guard waved me on. But as I was collecting my things I saw the woman behind me was not so lucky.

Every woman I know, every single one has lived through somebody touching her inappropriately, against her will, when she did not want them to. Whether it was in her dorm when she was too afraid to say no, by the overly-affectionate choir teacher, her uncle, her classmates or her boss. We all know that feeling. The one of intrusion and skin-crawling revulsion.

You can look at these pat-downs/nudie pics as one more heap on that pile. Won’t kill us, right? It will only stay with you for a while. That cupping of your crotch, that grazing of your nipple. It’s just another thing to smile through. Don’t you dare acknowledge that it is truly damaging, lest you look hysterical and weak. Don’t over react. After all, neverminding that plenty of us were abused sexually by women, it’s just a woman doing it. Surely a strangers hand prodding your mons pubis in a glass room in front of everybody shouldn’t leave any lasting emotional scars. 

This, mind you, is not even accounting for the amount of young men molested by other men who have found no other choice but to bury that shit so deep inside them, so much as a complaint at being fondled may feel like a confession of victimization. Just laugh it off, just swallow it. You’ll be fine. 

I cannot imagine flying in the US again, and for some time, I will have that privilege. But thanks to the countries inability to get their railway act together, for millions, there is no other choice. To get to meetings, to see their lovers, to go to school and to be with family. They must take that trip.

Ink has been spilled on this issue, and I do not have the answers to sate. I just have a feeling. One of deep injustice, of real sorrow and of genuine disgust. I have the remnants of a single moment shared, with a woman in great distress, who had to submit to a strangers wandering hands as the world, casually, strode on by.

Because a White Guy Said It

Listen,

It does not matter what you say. As a woman, as a woman of color, as a woman of size, as a woman with large breasts or no breasts and a lifetime of experience with bucket loads of passion. It does not fucking matter.*

Because unless there is a white guy backing you up, you are an angry bitch. Uppity, spirited, “that girl”, the femanazi, the super-libber, the PC chick, the conspiracy theorist…

A few months ago I posted something on a forum about how interesting it was that we only bomb brown countries. As Tom Wise suggested, perhaps it’s time we stop talking about how the war was for oil, and instead question why we feel we’d be entitled to that oil in the first fucking place.

Almost immediatly, but just as predictably, I was hit with good old Reverse Racism. The Double R that gets pulled out whenever the privileged hear something they’d rather not. It is the equivalent of putting your hands over your ears and screaming “la, la, la, fucking la” until the other person gives up and walks away.

Even the site administrator called me a racist.

Then, another well known poster there put on a clip of George Carlin ranting on how we only bomb brown countries. (www.youtube.com/watch?v=sDkhzHQO7jY“>skip to the 2 minute mark if you’re interested in hearing it)

And suddenly, as if God himself had shone through the clouds and crowned me righteous and worthy. The tides turned. All of a sudden everybody could “see the point” I was trying to make. All of a sudden I was no longer the nefarious reverse racist infiltrating white society only to destroy it. I was just sharing the same opinion as George Carlin. I was worth believing.

I decided that day not to post there anymore. At least not with them knowing my ethnicity and gender. But the problem hardly stays online. 

Last night I had dinner with my ex-husband and a mutual male friend who is visiting Paris. Discussing Prop 8 he asks me, “Well but you probably feel more comfortable around gays than straight men, don’t you?”

I say, “of course I do. A majority of my time in a straight club is spent getting away from men grinding up on me as though they own me.” 

Naturally he doubts my story. “It can’t be that bad, though?”. My ex husband, bless his bouncer past, promptly sets him straight. He tells him how I used to go to his club all the time and he had to assist me more than once when men became predatorial on the dance floor.

And as soon as my ex mentions this the man shuts up. It is not enough to take my word for it. Never mind that I’ve been hanging out in my post puberty body for a fair amount of time now. I must be exaggerating because that’s what women do. The worst part? This guy wasn’t even a douche. He is a genuinely nice guy with an amazing girlfriend. But his natural default state is to disbelieve my story.

I just wish my own experiences were enough. That the experiences of fellow women were enough. But we must always come with backers. We must always have a few men nodding along behind us in the crowd. And at the very least if we’re going to be so bold as to bring up racism or sexism in polite company then we better be willing to quote reputable studies that have been widely recognized by the psychological and sociological communities.

If we lack this armor we are just drama. Dramatic or…wait for it…psycho bitches who think everybody is out to rape them or thinks they must be “Like, soooo attractive to be hit on so much and totally, probably, like, thinks like a victim”.

This is so dangerous because I believe it teaches us not to trust our own judgements. Sadly, in this world that can be life or death. When that guy hits on you for the third time at the club we should just get over it. He wasn’t being that creepy. “Oh no, girl, don’t talk to the bouncer about him, that’s just drama. Just have a good time”. I complained anyway but nothing was done.

And hey, when he tries to attack you while leaving the club—which happened to a friend and I in June of this year—the police may ask you why you didn’t complain “more than once” to security. I shit you not. 

Because it is never good enough. It’s always a teachable moment from man to woman. So listen up, child, because that’s exactly what you are. At least until a white man comes to back up your claims. But I don’t have to tell you that. You already know. The trick is for this argument not to be dismissed outright by some dude in a Quicksilver t-shirt because the fact is, he has final say on the veracity of our claims.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=vfXQJ4BOl5c

It’s not fucking coincidence I can quote that man at length. It’s a motherfucking necessity. And people wonder why I can’t sleep at night…

*I wanted to note that I am fully aware that when men of color talk about racism they are not believed by white society either. This is not a woman’s problem in totality. Sadly, that hardly negates their default reaction of disbelief when, as women, we share our own stories with them.

Thinner Skin

Sometimes I feel like I have molten lava boiling right underneath the surface of my skin. It’s been building, and waiting, and accumulating all things toxic. It wants nothing more than to burst through the fortified layers of propriety that society has done its damnedest to levy it with.

You know, rather than finding some way to abate the pressure in the first place.

It is a rage that comes in an instant, but is taking longer and longer to leave me be. I will be walking; relaxed, so relaxed I am almost singing out loud the music piped into my ears alone and about to make a damn fool of myself…

And then I’ll see them. A group of 3 or 4 young men. Ages 20-30, standing in my path. My shoulders tighten, I can feel my face change, morphing into it’s trademark Bitch Face. My hand goes to my purse, my pace gets stronger and I brace. I literally brace for attack.
And then it comes.

“Hey sugar tits”
“Sexy bitch.”
“Come here, I gotta secret to tell you.”
“Can I take a picture of you?”

Fear literally seizes my brain. My thoughts start to swim and I swear for a moment my vision blurs. I keep my head rigidly forward, I do not flinch or move a muscle on my face. “Don’t show weakness!” my father would tell me. And so I do not. I become a seething pillar of strength and tightly wound and ready to spring loose years of accumulated fuckery.

Today I sat in the metro station and a man came up and sat next to me. He put his arm flush with mine, I moved my arm and turned my body ever so slightly away from him. He leaned forward and then looked back at me. A long stare after a long day of dealing with bullshit coworkers at a bullshit job. My eyes barely contained my petulance as I met his gaze and held it. Willing him. Asking him silently to give me a fucking excuse. Today. Today I am strong enough. Today I will be able to unleash the extent of this inequitable fury on the next motherfucker who bothers me so, come on kid, what do you got?
He stood up and walked away.

But I am still bristling. I can feel my skin literally getting thinner. As I age I am no longer able to just let shit go.
A man stared at me on the tram ride home. I took off my hoop earrings as I thought, ‘if I have to fight this asshole off, I don’t want him to cripple me with something so obvious’. I placed my earrings in my bag and watched him as he got off the tram behind me. I walked down the dark street made glistening by the evening rain. He followed behind. I stop. I stand. I don’t pretend I am busy or that I am reaching for something. I just stand, and wait.

He walks by. I let out my breath. I wait a moment, look behind me, and then continue my way home. I wonder about the girl, out there somewhere, who has the same habits as I. Taking her earrings off, not letting men follow closely behind. I know she must exist somewhere. Really I know she exists in all women but even alone in my head, admitting widespread fear as normalcy feels like a punch.

And so I grow. Exposure has not thickened me up. Rather, I can feel the cracks forming and I know where the lava will spill out first. My mouth, my fists, my eyes. It will attempt to destroy anything currently in it’s path. It will do everything it can to melt and make null what once stood proud.

A friend of mine had a man follow her and attempt to rape her on the beach a few months ago. He got so far as put her on her back and place his hand down her pants. That’s when she stuck her thumbs in his eyes. Once he gave up he actually tried to help her stand and even attempted to brush the sand off of her. As if she could just forgive and forget his childish imprudence. She told me, as she looked at him cowering, she knew she was capable of murder. Not in an abstract sense, but in a very real and concrete way. If given the tools and the space, she would have taken the life from him. Luckily for both, a couple happened upon the dune and aided her as he fled.

Still, I know of what she speaks. When I was younger an Army Ranger attempted to break my hand and place me on my knees while I was visiting an Army base. I fought back and was picked up and thrown to the ground. Another Ranger saw this and stepped in, throwing the man off me. I was relieved until I heard him say, “Don’t fuck your life up for some bitch.”
Blind rage.

I’ve been threatened. I’ve been hurt. My friends have been threatened and hurt. I regard any man invading my space and disrespecting me as a direct threat to my well being. Every single time I get verbally accosted, every single time a man sits too close on purpose. Every single time I catch a man, out of the corner of my eyes, sizing me up as bait. I feel that same rage. I am there again.

I am holding my friend’s hand as she tells me her boyfriend raped her while she was bent over the toilet and throwing up from the flu. He got one year in jail.
I am crying as she tells me how he pried her legs open, he goes to our high school.
I am shaking my head as she quietly whispers to me, “I don’t remember what happened, but I woke up with him on top of me.”
I am sobbing as they tell me, “She was bleeding really bad, apparently he was really rough. She’s in the ICU.”

And every cat call, every time a man follows me, or peacocks for affection he is tapping into this history. He may not know it, he may be just some clueless kid who can’t even begin to imagine the horror that is woven into the tapestry of so many women’s lives.

But it is there. And he is reaching for it. If he is not careful that history could come spewing out.
If I am not careful it will come out.

One more motherfucker slides into my booth uninvited, one more asshole corners me while I’m waiting for a friend on the street, one more douchebag doesn’t take, “I’m not interested” as the final word…
It will come out screaming.