I believe the woman without a #MeToo moment is the one that has lived cloistered away from society for her entire life. We have all had the cat-calls, whistles, gestures, come-ons and at times touching as we walk down the street, sit on public transport, read a book in a coffee shop, or just going about our daily lives. We have all heard, "I'd like a piece of that." or worse. We all feel fear walking alone in unfamiliar territory or at night--the sense of being vulnerable, of being prey is frustrating and inhibiting. These are the things that women take for granted, part and parcel of what being a woman means. It is so common place that I doubt that many women even consider them as #MeToo moments. But they are.
I'm at an age now where many of the above have abated but that does not mean that I am immune. Until we all speak out as one and act with empowerment, none of us will ever be completely safe because it is about having the power to demean and not about who the woman it is happening to is.
For the most part, I shrug off any unwelcome actions and go on about my day. I don't dwell on them--excepting now. But they are a symptom of a bigger problem, so perhaps we should dwell upon them more.
Me, probably like you, thought of the bigger, more life changing events. I have been fortunate, I have not been raped, physically abused or made to participate in anything that I was not comfortable with. Today I will recount my own personal events which have been fairly minor in comparison. Although I did not personally go through it, I was involved in something so horrifying that it deserves its own post. Be sure to check back tomorrow.
Here are #mystories. I was in college--working the drive-through at a fast food restaurant, when a white, male 20-something, heavy and with sandy brown hair driving a pickup truck ordered a cheese burger and a small Coke. He arrived, gave me a $20 bill and I gave him his food. I got his change out of the register and as I reached out to give it to him, I found his flaccid penis out of his pants, I was so stunned that I just gave him the change. I tried to tell myself I was just seeing things and that nothing happened. But something did happen and the memory of that something periodically pops up in vivid detail and I feel the revulsion anew. I wanted the story to be that I kept the $17.46 in change and told him I was calling the police but this is not the actual story no matter how many times I have told it that way. Telling it that way, provided me the illusion that I was taking back some of the power he robbed from me that evening. I'm strong enough 30 years down the road that I no longer need the illusion, I can face it as it was.
In the 1990's I lived in Japan for 7 years. For the most part, Japan is safe but there is this strange etchi/hentai (perverted) aspect of the culture that is unsettling to put it mildly and demeaning and at time dangerous to put it more specifically. For this reason, most foreign women teaching in Japan at the time were offered apartments on the second floor with the goal of limiting access to unwanted visitors.
I had lived without incident for 3 years but then one summer night during Obon (the week long festival of the dead), I was at home writing rather than listening to music as was my custom. I thought I heard my mail slot pop open, I checked, but nothing was there. A few minutes later, I heard it pop open again, I checked again with the same results, so I went back to work. A few minutes later, I heard a noise, looked into the kitchen and saw a man in my window trying to slide it open. I yelled--Dare desu ka? (Who is it?) and heard footsteps pounding down the stairs. I checked the window and found it was unlocked. That was when I got really scared. I called my employers, in a state. They came over and called the police who informed us that since it was Obon, crimes such as mine were more prevalent because people come back to their ancestral homes. During Obon, a place they know but will only be there briefly, they feel that have a certain degree of anonymity so they left their inhibitions at home. Because I was a foreigner, in their opinion, I was a walking target. He probably saw me in town or heard from someone where the American woman lived. I have always loved Obon, but since that time, my memories of Obon have had an unwelcome passenger.
In between living in Japan, I backpacked from Hong Kong, across China, and into Europe via the Trans Siberian railway. During my travels, I had a few female travel companions but I also traveled with several lovely men. These men traveled with me with no expectations other than if their sisters were backpacking alone, they would want an honorable man along with them to make sure that predators did not prey. I shared fairly intimate accommodations, closed rail carriages, and companionship with these men for months without incident. Then four months after landing in Hong Kong, I was in Warsaw, alone for the first time. I was a bit nervous, but I am made of fairly sturdy material so I knew I would get through the night. Then I got a phone call in my room. Strange to get a phone call, I knew no one and at that moment no one in the world knew exactly where I was. I answered and heard heavy breathing. Then in a deep Slavic accent--I want to suck your toes. I hung up immediately-- feeling shocked and somewhat dirty. I looked around the room trying to determine a course of action, a few minutes later I heard a knock on my door. I stepped as far back from the door as I could and considered what I could do if the person behind the door decided that it could be breached. Another knock came and I wondered if I should call the desk--would they understand? Time passed with no other knock. I was safe-scared--but safe. Usually when I tell this story, I try to inject humor into the bizarre--I want to suck your toes--but it wasn't funny and will never be funny. I have never felt so scared or so vulnerable in my life as I did at that moment.
A few years later, I was back in Japan, living in Hiroshima. My home was a raised first floor apartment. The balcony required a pretty good jump to get onto-- I felt fairly safe. I had a small dryer that took about 2 hours to dry a single pair of jeans, so like most people--except for extended cold or rainy days--I hung my laundry outside. I came home for lunch one day between classes, I went to the balcony to bring my laundry in and realized EVERY SINGLE PAIR OF UNDERWEAR WAS MISSING. At first I was shocked--never in a million years could I ever imagine that someone would take my underwear--and then I was miffed because what I bought for reasonable prices in the US would cost me a small fortune to replace in Japan. Still dazed when I returned to work to teach my house-wife class of 4 middle-aged women, I told them what had happened. They laughed and then said that probably someone was right then and there wearing my underwear on his head. I'm fairly naive and it wasn't until that moment that I understood that the underwear thief stole them for sexually perverted reasons. I suddenly felt ashamed, dirty and angry. When this pops up on my memory track, these feelings have not faded and at this point, never will.
About 6 months after that, around 11:00 PM, I was walking back to my suburban apartment after dinner in the city. The monorail station was about a 15 minute walk to my apartment. I had made this walk hundreds of times without incident. But this particular evening I was walking along when I noticed an American Camaro creeping along behind me. My employer had a Camaro but I looked back and verified that it wasn't him. Because American cars have left-hand steering and Japan drives on the right side, the driver's window was next to the sidewalk. Feeling nervous, I soldiered on down the street, the window came down and the male driver said Hello. I did not look, I was strategizing what to do. We were approaching an intersection where the driver had to stop, I continued on down the street toward the corner, the driver said Hello again. The walk signal was flashing indicating a change, I hurriedly crossed the street. The light changed and the driver had to go through the light. I started running, ducked down another street, doubled back and by the time I was ready to cross the street to get back to my apartment the Camaro was gone. Honestly, I cannot say that the driver had any intentions other than that he had an American car, and because I was a foreigner he wanted to strike up a conversation with me in the middle of the night in a fairly deserted neighborhood. I didn't want to find out if he had innocent intentions or not. I had just had my goddamn underwear stolen a few months earlier and I wasn't going to give him benefit of the doubt. And I felt he and any man should understand how vulnerable women feel walking alone at night and should have just left me the hell alone.
About a year later, I found myself in San Francisco working the late reception desk shift at a resident hotel. At about 5:30 AM, I needed a coffee refill and I headed to the kitchen. The sugar was out, so I went into the pantry to fill up the shaker. I had just finished when the alcoholic shift manager came into the pantry. His face was red and he reeked as he usually did. He came up to me and put his hands on my arms. He said something, I am not sure what, but I quickly maneuvered myself around toward the door and skedaddled, smiling, making That's nice, but I'm not sure what you mean sounds. I promised myself to never ever find myself alone with him again.
Next stop, December 30, 1999. I had been in Hawaii for two weeks and finally everything for my future was falling into place, the last stop was at the car dealership where I found my little red island car that would serve me well for the next 7 years. The salesman seemed to take a fancy to me and as we were wrapping things up, he asked if he could take my number off my paperwork. I knew I wasn't interested in him, but a combination of factors caused me to acquiesce to his request. He was in a position of power--I had just bought a car from him; the number was there and I thought he might take it with or without my permission--I might as well say yes; I was brought up with Southern girl sensibilities and I was fresh from years in Japan--in both cultures, hospitality dictates saying yes in ambiguous situations rather than no. So he had my number and he called, I demurred. He called a second time, I put him off again. He called a third time. Summing up my courage to wade past my cultural heritage, I thought I had made myself clear that I wasn't interested. He called a 4th time at which time I told him he had better stop or my (fictional) boyfriend was going to pay him a visit at the car dealership. He called me a bitch and tease. But the calls stopped. I willing bear some responsibility for this one-- lesson learned--never again have I given out or given permission to use my phone number unless I was interested. I also have a history of warning other women of the same thing.
These are my stories, none of them the horrific things that many many have endured, but each of them, one by one, layer by layer, add up to unwanted attention that leaves me feeling vulnerable, objectified and demeaned. I have to say that with only one notable exception, all the men I have actively engaged with have always took my lead on what was on or off the table. When it came to active engagement with men, I thought my accurate read on character and being upfront with them kept me safe. And perhaps it
played a role. But there was that one exception. He was a Navy dentist and it was our 5th date--the first where we were alone for a period of time. I was already getting Julia Roberts Sleeping with the Enemy vibes from him, and had pretty much determined before it started that this would be the last date. I cooked dinner and completely certain by the end, I just wanted to get through the evening so that I could break up? with him at a safer distance. I spent the rest of the evening fending off Octopus Man--well since he was Navy--I guess he could be more accurately called--Squid Man--until Carolyn, my roommate got home. This incident had the jarring effect of bursting my naivety. It was not my good judgement that kept me safe in all those previous situations but rather dumb blind luck. The new reality left me increasingly wary to the point of an actual fear. But I know that this is not my fear alone to bear, all women have it in varying degrees because we all have stories.