Me Too, #metoo
I am thinking about all of the women in my life. The ones who have made me who I am. The ones who know who I am now and the ones who don’t. The women in my various social media feeds with the hashtag #metoo. Some sharing their stories, some just sharing the words me too. Some of their stories I know intimately and some I may not know the details, but I still know. And the ones who are saying that they don’t need to relive their experience to make you see their humanity. Here is a post from Ijeoma Oluo’s facebook page that says it well.
I just shared the hashtag, didn’t go into the sexual assault committed against me. I have shared it before in various ways and places, but I shouldn’t have to relive my pain over and over again to hopefully make a point to those who can’t seem to see me, or hear me, or believe me due to my gender.
And that is just the most awful of my experiences. About a year after the assault I was at a male friend’s house for board game night. There was a group of 6 of us, mixed company and mostly friends of my friend whom I didn’t know particularly well. At this point in time, I don’t even remember the game we were playing, something competitive where we were all against each other. This friend of his, in his early 20’s kept yelling, “I’m going to rape you!” This was to everyone, not directed at me specifically, and meant, I am sure to be accepted as game banter. He was sitting right next to me and the third time he said it I looked to my friend, who, when he met my eyes looked at me uncomfortably and shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do. When he said it again, I said as loudly as I could, “Dude, there has to be another phrase that you can choose to express what you mean, other than I’m going to rape you. I don’t think you understand how this comes across and how it makes you sound. Or how it makes me and possibly others in this room feel.” He tried to make an excuse that of course he didn’t really mean it like that, but trailed off as he looked around the room. The other woman among us later thanked me for saying something. Because it is the silence that perpetuates all of this. My friend who is “one of the good guys” remained silent. Everyone else in the room remained silent, letting these words go on unchallenged. Well, it is not okay. And so this time I spoke up.
Or the time when I was out with a friend of mine to a local bar for karaoke night. She was wearing boots, tights, and shorts with a cute t-shirt, a combo she rocked often. A guy approached the small, round, high-top table we were sitting at, pulled up a stool and was obviously there to talk to her. We all continued talking until, as he was mid-sentence, he reached over and put his hand on my friend’s thigh. She was uncomfortable, but frozen and quiet. He started to talk about her tights as he grazed her leg. I grabbed his wrist and physically removed his hand. He looked at me, surprised that I was even there it seemed. I looked him directly in the eye and said more firmly than I knew I could, “You do not touch someone without their permission” and I dropped his hand back toward him. He looked at my friend again, she was still uncomfortably frozen. He got up, grabbed his drink, and left as he muttered “whatever bitch.” This is why we go out in groups, why we meet first dates in public places, why we tell others where we will be, and why we text when we are home safe.
Or the time when I was out with another friend dancing. One of the few times I was in high heels and colorful dress I love that stops just above the knee. I was dancing with a guy who when he was behind me took it upon himself to lift my dress up. I grabbed it down, told him no and he said okay. I put a little more distance between he and I, but then he grabbed me and pulled me into him. I tried to pull away and he held me as he reached up my dress for my underwear. I yelled stop, elbowed him and got free from his grasp and walked off the dance floor to find my friend. We left. We know these stories. We have lived these stories. What will it take for you to believe us, just at our word? To believe that we are not exaggerating. To believe this is the truth.
Or the time when…
Or the time when…
Or the time when…
Or the time when…
Or the time when…
There are too many to tell. And I know every woman has stories like these. Things that we keep to ourselves because we are taught that there is safety in silence. That we cannot be disbelieved, shamed, ridiculed, questioned, told it was our fault if we do not tell it at all. But it is the silence that helps perpetuate this rape culture. It is the silence that aids not seeing each other’s humanity.
How can we forget each other’s humanity so quickly? I am guilty. Guilty for judging another woman for her choices or actions. Guilty of judging myself from an outside gaze that has been imposed on me since birth. Guilty for believing I need to smile to appease another. That I am either nice or a bitch, a virgin or a whore, that women only fit into dichotomies of control. Guilty for being conditioned into these systems, but taking responsibility to unlearn them.
I share this because it has been brewing and in the hope that this movement continues to bring people into the conversation; then goes beyond conversation into action and change.
Tarana Burke started the Me Too movement nearly 10 years ago. She said in an interview on Democracy Now, “ “Me Too” is about using the power of empathy to stomp out shame. And so, we need to keep talking about it, right? It doesn’t need to be — I mean, I appreciate the hashtag, and I appreciate the hashtag elevating the conversation, but it’s not a hashtag, right? It’s not a moment. This is a movement.”
It’s not a hashtag. It’s not a moment. It’s a movement.
Please visit metoo.support to learn more and to support this movement.
For all of you MeToo’s out there, I see you. I believe you.
Me too.
