Yesterday never seemed so far away . . .
I had been planning on writing about the first 24 hours following Monday morning's excitement, as well as 'lessons learned', which I will get to in a minute, but I want to get this down in writing before I forget it all.
I saw him! Yes, Asshole. I had spent most of today thinking about what I would do if I saw him again, and in a strange way hoped that I would see him on my commute in this morning. I didn't, but as I got off at CourtHouse station this afternoon and walked out of the gates, I noticed a familiar fellow standing across from the ticket machines (perhaps looking for new victims?). I walked past him, wanting to be sure I was recognising the right person. And fuck was I ever. I took my headphones off and walked right up to his ugly little mug. (No, really, I was maybe 10 inches away from his face.)
'You're the asshole who fondled me yesterday!'
'Huh?--' I think it took him a second to recognise me.
'You're the guy who fondled me yesterday morning!'
He looked at me, clearly recognising my face. Or perhaps my hips.
'Ma'am, I--'
'No.' I continued, speaking as loudly as I reasonably could without making a show of myself. Want to make sure if there's any potential for embarrassment, he gets it. 'That was not okay. Don't you ever do that to anyone again.'
'I'm sorry, I--' He said, putting his hand on his heart. (WTF? Like that makes him a sincere groper?)
'No! There are no apologies! Don't you ever fucking do that to me or anyone else ever again. It's completely unacceptable. It's just not okay. You do not get to do that to anyone else. It's fucked up. Okay?'
'Yes.' He said, surprisingly meekly. Actually I was surprised he was not only basically admitting to it, but was sitting there, taking my bullshit. Still, I continued on.
'Don't ever think that you can ever do that to anyone. It's not okay. Don't think you can get away with that.'
'Yes.' He said, nodding.
'It's not okay. You don't get to to do that people. It's fucked up.' (Yes, I was repeating myself. It's not like this was a rehearsed speech. So what? Worst case scenario, I waste his time and bore him, which he fucking well deserves.)
He looked at me, saying nothing.
'Asshole.' I said finally and firmly, looking him straight in the eye before I turned around, put my headphones back on, and walked away, trying not to do little skips of joy to the escalators.
This was obviously not comparable at all to actually being raped or violently assaulted, but I can't help thinking that one of the biggest frustrations, at least for me, would be never having closure to the story. Knowing that you were never able to face the assailant, never able to give him a piece of your mind, just nothing. A story with no resolution. I think I'd feel forever unsettled. But in my little story, however mundane and non-violent (because lets be honest, I got off easy compared to some women), I got a fucking ending. I WROTE my goddamn ending. I'm fairly sure he didn't technically break any laws, at least nothing the police would go after, so all that was left was me and my silly little voice.
What I hear about in a lot of these sexual harassment/assault cases is the constant retort of 'don't blame the victim'. I've always been a bit weary of this viewpoint, and this incident was helpful, in a sense, in getting me to refine that belief. It's also made me realise that we bring public awareness to sexual harassment and rape in completely the wrong way. The cases you always hear about, or least that I've always heard about, are really horrible pathetic ones, where some girl gets beyond toasted, goes home with some guy, sleeps with him, and then regrets it in the morning. Or gets drunk and walks home down unlit side streets before some guy rapes her. No, I'm not saying it's okay to take advantage of an intoxicated person. But if you're trying to bring awareness, examples where there was idiocy on the part of the victim is unlikely to elicit sympathy. Some men can be predatory, and that's completely not okay, but that doesn't absolve us of the responsibility to look after ourselves.
More importantly, I suspect that most cases of sexual harassment/assault are not overt and unambiguous. Does being almost-fondled even count as sexual harassment? I wasn't sure until I researched it yesterday afternoon. What about being almost-raped? We hardly ever hear those stories, and it does us no good. Yes, they're not as fantastic, and the media won't cover them because they don't make the heart bleed like a rape case will, but that doesn't make them any less damaging to the victim. Just because you got away this time doesn't mean you're in the clear.
As my Orange Line train pulled into Rosslyn this morning, I was amazed at how quick the trip between CourtHouse and Rosslyn was. Yesterday, it seemed like four or five minutes. In actuality, it might be a minute. Maybe. I was so lost in that thought this morning that I didn't realise that guy sitting next to me was trying to get off. I almost made him miss his stop. I tend to be a fairly observant person, and it struck me that I still wasn't fully recovered from yesterday's incident. It's scary, because it almost felt like Asshole still had control over me. 24 hours later, and I still hadn't escaped him. Horrible.
Another reason why I'm so wary of the 'don't blame the victim!' mentality is that it can prevent people from taking control. I thought this today, I thought so yesterday, I thought so last week, and I thought so last year. And I'll probably still feel this way in a year from now. No, it's never your fault, but one of the most damaging consequences, or so I think, is the feeling of not having control over your own self and your own body. Someone else decided to have their way with you, and what you said or how you felt didn't matter. Someone else had more control over you than you did. In looking at what you did 'wrong', and what you could do differently next time, you can grasp back a little bit of that control of your life.
So what could I have done differently?
1. Be more confident. When that first red flag popped up, pay some bloody attention to it. It was there for a reason. Putting my elbow into him was definitely a great response, but perhaps asking him to give me a bit more space might have been better. I'm not sure about this one, and in any case, I think my response up until I noticed where his slimy little hand was was adequate.
2. Not stop at 'Dude, get your hand off me!' I was far too shocked to have gathered the ability to say more, but should there be a next time, if the first comment doesn't get a reaction from the passengers, continue on. I'm wondering if the muted response from others was because it couldn't have been clear to them what was going on. Maybe they thought he was just leaning his hand on me, and it was annoying me. Other passengers had no way of knowing. Following it up with something like 'Don't you dare try to touch me there, you creep!' might have been better. Or just giving him a piece of my mind right there and then: 'who the fuck do you think you are? Don't touch my hip or my groin or my hand, or any other part of my body!' I stopped too early and let him off.
3. The Metro is, really, about the best place to be groped. No, I'm serious. As long as there are plenty of people around, you're probably safe. Until we reached the next station and the doors opened, Asshole was stuck in that train. I could've yelled at him for a good 20 seconds and he would've had to sit there and take it. I could've told other passengers 'this man tried to molest me!', and Asshole wouldn't have been able to run anywhere. Metro trains are well-lit, and at a minimum, there's an indifferent station attendant at each stop. Better than a lonely unlit back alley.
4. Take a picture. A continuation of my 'If you're going to be groped, hope it's on a Metro train!', as long as you're between station, you can take a picture of the assailant with a mobile phone camera, and he's not going to be able to hide. This is also another reason why I should never have gone so long without an adequate battery in my phone. New battery should be here shortly.
5. Stare. This isn't so much a lesson learned as much as something to do again, should this ever happen again. It made me feel better to stare him in the face, not letting go until he looked back at me. I am not afraid. But not only that, I wanted to remember his face. I wanted to know the shape of his eyes, the roundness of his face, and the wideness of his nose, so that if I ever saw him again, I would have his face printed indelibly on my brain.
6. If the situation allows, don't let him get away. I should have followed him at Rosslyn. Him trying to leave the station would've given me a golden opportunity to alert the station attendant that this man just tried to molest me. It's not a 'failure' that I didn't do this, because I can only ever do what I'm able to do at the time (and I was, again, just a bit too shocked to think clearly), but next time, should it ever re-occur, I will not let him go. The best action can -- and should -- be taken immediately following. Filing a police report, or even simply reporting the incident to a Metro official hours after the incident can't do much. Having the offender right there makes follow-up action a lot easier.
The following 24 hours after the incident weren't unbearable, but I have to admit it plagued me constantly. As what had happened started to fully sink in, probably about 2 or 3 pm that afternoon, I was having to hold back the tears. I hated feeling so violated, so crappy, so useless, so unworthy of my own personage. And fuck, so unable to control anything. I couldn't control my own emotions, and I certainly couldn't control him. He was long-gone, and I would probably never be able to see him again. I wanted to do something about WMATA's indifference to sexual harassment, but couldn't see how I could do anything to change that. I was powerless. I hate being powerless.
Baking that evening cheered me up. Finally, something I could exert complete control over, something that was mine, something that I enjoyed, and something I could feel good about. I'm pretty pleased with how my cheesecakes turned out. And the white chocolate ganache to die for. I bought a food scale a few weeks ago, and I'm realising just how much more power and control this will give me over creating and replicating my own recipes. Yay!
I also went to Pilates last night. One of the things that struck me immediately following the incident was that I felt confident in being able to hit him if I wanted. No question this comes from the past year of regular yoga practice. I love feeling and seeing the muscles in my arms, knowing that I can actually hold Chaturanga Dandasana. Feeling strong is good. Am I in a position to win a fight? No way. Fuck no. But I am in a position to defend myself, definitely so with adrenaline. More exercise can only been a good thing, so Pilates it was.
The Metro commute this morning was super uncrowded, but that was likely due to me going in at 9.40 this morning, instead of my usual 8am. This wasn't accidental. I guess I wasn't completely confident that I was ready to bear crowds again, and I didn't want to put myself in a position of having to make that decision.
The ride home was a different story. It was crowded as fuck. But I didn't feel scared. I was unquestionably more mindful of where everyone else was, but there was no fear. It was a good feeling.
Actually, most of today was pretty good. The outpouring of support from people was . . . amazing. Everyone who sent me messages, or spoke to me in person: thank you. Not feeling alone gave me confidence, and allowed me to get up this morning and not feel 'in the wrong'. I am forever indebted to you. You are truly good people, people who I should hold and keep close to me. Really: thank you.
While the nagging thought of what had happened wasn't as bad today as it was yesterday, it was still there. Walking home from Whole Foods, Asshole popped into my mind. Deciding what to wear this morning, Asshole was there, pointing to which clothes would not be comfortable. He was everywhere, lurking in the shadows. Sneaky bastard.
You know, it's funny how I tried to process this whole thing. It's strangely impersonal and yet so very personal. Asshole has probably done this before, and will do it again. I am not a special case. I'm just another girl he tried to help himself to. And yet, I wasn't the only female on the train that day. Why me? What was different about me? A coworker pointed out that it was probably the off-the-shoulders sweater-thing I was wearing (it's white and sort-of see through but not really. I was wearing it over a purple strappy tank-top thingy). And that was undoubtedly part of it. It won't change what I wear (at least not permanently), but I think it makes sense to be mindful that when I'm wearing something that doesn't make me look fat or a bit butch, it is possible that I might be slightly more likely to encounter creeps like Asshole.
I don't think I come across as the bitch that I really am. It's hard to see myself as others see me, but I suspect I look a bit sweet and maybe even borderline innocent. Definitely not the type to speak up if some idiot was to try to touch me. And let's be honest here, these molesting types are assessing who provides the best chance for a bit of a fondle without consequence. They're not going to go after the 200-pound body building chick, and also probably not the chick with the 'I support the 2nd Amendment!' shirt. They're self-serving, and are going to look for the girl who provides the best opportunity for their own selfish, fucked-up little desires.
Not that it really matters, because all of these reason are immaterial: I'm unwilling to change how I dress, and I can't change how I look (nor care to), but self-awareness is always a good thing. Understanding how you come across to others helps you to better interact and react to others.
Though bitch-face or not, I am not scared of anyone who to tries to hurt me, and all y'all fuckers better be careful when you go about trying to molest chicks, especially if that person is me. Don't judge a book by its cover, fuckheads.
During the 24 hours following the incident, and most distinctly over the 12 hours immediately following, I grew up a whole lot. It's almost like the first time you get high, and you're amazed at the doors you've opened and the world of understanding you've seen. I get it. When women talk of the horror of being sexually harassed and assaulted by men, I get it. I really do get it now. I am not a naturally sympathetic person: it's a feature of being a Republican. 'Personal responsibility', and everything is under your control. How you react and how you feel is always under your control. And while that's certainly more true than most of the bleeding-heart left let on, it's not the complete story. None of us are super-Zen Buddhists, and we're always influenced by those around us. Don't think so? Tell me where you got your accent from. That's not that only way, but it's the most telling (and, conveniently for me, most easily illustrated!) way of showing that none of us live in a bubble. We are, by design, meant to react to the actions of those around us. I still have no sympathy for career-rape-victims, as I rather unkindly call them, but I sure as fuck have sympathy now -- empathy, even -- for every single person who has felt violated by some creepy man. I understand the reasons behind women-only trains, public campaigns to spread awareness of sexual assault, reminders to women that this sort of thing is not okay. And, most importantly, I understand why a woman might be so traumatised after an attack that she's unable to function in everyday society. I've often wondered what I'd do if I was raped, and while I still don't know, I don't think I'd deal with it as well as I'd like to think I would. It's not just the bare fact that you've possibly been subjected to STIs or pregnancy. It's the anger and fear and anxiety and disgust and rage and remorse and lack of trust and disappointment and contempt for yourself and your assailant and everyone who didn't do something when they should've, all rolled up into one. And it's losing the right to yourself, the right to have control over your own body, and the expectation that the world around you understands and respects this right.
I wouldn't go as far as to say what happened on Monday was a 'good' thing. Well, not like chocolate is a good thing and I want more of it. I don't want it to happen again. But it has happened, and I can't change it. All I can do is take from it and learn from it. 'Succeed in spite of them' my Dad has always said when I've complained that a situation seems designed to prevent me from gaining anything. He most often used it in reference to the school system. 'Learn in spite of it', he'd say. I paid that no mind, and barely graduated high school. But he's right that sometimes, when it seems like the world's set up against you to stop you from succeeding, take advantage of the opportunity to prove them wrong. Learn everything you can from a situation, no matter the actual outcome.
Even if I hadn't seen him today, I would be okay. I've come out of this silly minor little incident a better and stronger person. Seeing him this afternoon was an absolute stroke of luck, like the icing on the groping cake. It seems almost unbelievable. A story with a beginning, middle, and end. And while Asshole may have written the beginning and mapped out a draft of the middle and the end, I was the one who finished it. I scribbled out his silly little middle and ending and wrote in my own. I much prefer my version.
I saw him! Yes, Asshole. I had spent most of today thinking about what I would do if I saw him again, and in a strange way hoped that I would see him on my commute in this morning. I didn't, but as I got off at CourtHouse station this afternoon and walked out of the gates, I noticed a familiar fellow standing across from the ticket machines (perhaps looking for new victims?). I walked past him, wanting to be sure I was recognising the right person. And fuck was I ever. I took my headphones off and walked right up to his ugly little mug. (No, really, I was maybe 10 inches away from his face.)
'You're the asshole who fondled me yesterday!'
'Huh?--' I think it took him a second to recognise me.
'You're the guy who fondled me yesterday morning!'
He looked at me, clearly recognising my face. Or perhaps my hips.
'Ma'am, I--'
'No.' I continued, speaking as loudly as I reasonably could without making a show of myself. Want to make sure if there's any potential for embarrassment, he gets it. 'That was not okay. Don't you ever do that to anyone again.'
'I'm sorry, I--' He said, putting his hand on his heart. (WTF? Like that makes him a sincere groper?)
'No! There are no apologies! Don't you ever fucking do that to me or anyone else ever again. It's completely unacceptable. It's just not okay. You do not get to do that to anyone else. It's fucked up. Okay?'
'Yes.' He said, surprisingly meekly. Actually I was surprised he was not only basically admitting to it, but was sitting there, taking my bullshit. Still, I continued on.
'Don't ever think that you can ever do that to anyone. It's not okay. Don't think you can get away with that.'
'Yes.' He said, nodding.
'It's not okay. You don't get to to do that people. It's fucked up.' (Yes, I was repeating myself. It's not like this was a rehearsed speech. So what? Worst case scenario, I waste his time and bore him, which he fucking well deserves.)
He looked at me, saying nothing.
'Asshole.' I said finally and firmly, looking him straight in the eye before I turned around, put my headphones back on, and walked away, trying not to do little skips of joy to the escalators.
This was obviously not comparable at all to actually being raped or violently assaulted, but I can't help thinking that one of the biggest frustrations, at least for me, would be never having closure to the story. Knowing that you were never able to face the assailant, never able to give him a piece of your mind, just nothing. A story with no resolution. I think I'd feel forever unsettled. But in my little story, however mundane and non-violent (because lets be honest, I got off easy compared to some women), I got a fucking ending. I WROTE my goddamn ending. I'm fairly sure he didn't technically break any laws, at least nothing the police would go after, so all that was left was me and my silly little voice.
What I hear about in a lot of these sexual harassment/assault cases is the constant retort of 'don't blame the victim'. I've always been a bit weary of this viewpoint, and this incident was helpful, in a sense, in getting me to refine that belief. It's also made me realise that we bring public awareness to sexual harassment and rape in completely the wrong way. The cases you always hear about, or least that I've always heard about, are really horrible pathetic ones, where some girl gets beyond toasted, goes home with some guy, sleeps with him, and then regrets it in the morning. Or gets drunk and walks home down unlit side streets before some guy rapes her. No, I'm not saying it's okay to take advantage of an intoxicated person. But if you're trying to bring awareness, examples where there was idiocy on the part of the victim is unlikely to elicit sympathy. Some men can be predatory, and that's completely not okay, but that doesn't absolve us of the responsibility to look after ourselves.
More importantly, I suspect that most cases of sexual harassment/assault are not overt and unambiguous. Does being almost-fondled even count as sexual harassment? I wasn't sure until I researched it yesterday afternoon. What about being almost-raped? We hardly ever hear those stories, and it does us no good. Yes, they're not as fantastic, and the media won't cover them because they don't make the heart bleed like a rape case will, but that doesn't make them any less damaging to the victim. Just because you got away this time doesn't mean you're in the clear.
As my Orange Line train pulled into Rosslyn this morning, I was amazed at how quick the trip between CourtHouse and Rosslyn was. Yesterday, it seemed like four or five minutes. In actuality, it might be a minute. Maybe. I was so lost in that thought this morning that I didn't realise that guy sitting next to me was trying to get off. I almost made him miss his stop. I tend to be a fairly observant person, and it struck me that I still wasn't fully recovered from yesterday's incident. It's scary, because it almost felt like Asshole still had control over me. 24 hours later, and I still hadn't escaped him. Horrible.
Another reason why I'm so wary of the 'don't blame the victim!' mentality is that it can prevent people from taking control. I thought this today, I thought so yesterday, I thought so last week, and I thought so last year. And I'll probably still feel this way in a year from now. No, it's never your fault, but one of the most damaging consequences, or so I think, is the feeling of not having control over your own self and your own body. Someone else decided to have their way with you, and what you said or how you felt didn't matter. Someone else had more control over you than you did. In looking at what you did 'wrong', and what you could do differently next time, you can grasp back a little bit of that control of your life.
So what could I have done differently?
1. Be more confident. When that first red flag popped up, pay some bloody attention to it. It was there for a reason. Putting my elbow into him was definitely a great response, but perhaps asking him to give me a bit more space might have been better. I'm not sure about this one, and in any case, I think my response up until I noticed where his slimy little hand was was adequate.
2. Not stop at 'Dude, get your hand off me!' I was far too shocked to have gathered the ability to say more, but should there be a next time, if the first comment doesn't get a reaction from the passengers, continue on. I'm wondering if the muted response from others was because it couldn't have been clear to them what was going on. Maybe they thought he was just leaning his hand on me, and it was annoying me. Other passengers had no way of knowing. Following it up with something like 'Don't you dare try to touch me there, you creep!' might have been better. Or just giving him a piece of my mind right there and then: 'who the fuck do you think you are? Don't touch my hip or my groin or my hand, or any other part of my body!' I stopped too early and let him off.
3. The Metro is, really, about the best place to be groped. No, I'm serious. As long as there are plenty of people around, you're probably safe. Until we reached the next station and the doors opened, Asshole was stuck in that train. I could've yelled at him for a good 20 seconds and he would've had to sit there and take it. I could've told other passengers 'this man tried to molest me!', and Asshole wouldn't have been able to run anywhere. Metro trains are well-lit, and at a minimum, there's an indifferent station attendant at each stop. Better than a lonely unlit back alley.
4. Take a picture. A continuation of my 'If you're going to be groped, hope it's on a Metro train!', as long as you're between station, you can take a picture of the assailant with a mobile phone camera, and he's not going to be able to hide. This is also another reason why I should never have gone so long without an adequate battery in my phone. New battery should be here shortly.
5. Stare. This isn't so much a lesson learned as much as something to do again, should this ever happen again. It made me feel better to stare him in the face, not letting go until he looked back at me. I am not afraid. But not only that, I wanted to remember his face. I wanted to know the shape of his eyes, the roundness of his face, and the wideness of his nose, so that if I ever saw him again, I would have his face printed indelibly on my brain.
6. If the situation allows, don't let him get away. I should have followed him at Rosslyn. Him trying to leave the station would've given me a golden opportunity to alert the station attendant that this man just tried to molest me. It's not a 'failure' that I didn't do this, because I can only ever do what I'm able to do at the time (and I was, again, just a bit too shocked to think clearly), but next time, should it ever re-occur, I will not let him go. The best action can -- and should -- be taken immediately following. Filing a police report, or even simply reporting the incident to a Metro official hours after the incident can't do much. Having the offender right there makes follow-up action a lot easier.
The following 24 hours after the incident weren't unbearable, but I have to admit it plagued me constantly. As what had happened started to fully sink in, probably about 2 or 3 pm that afternoon, I was having to hold back the tears. I hated feeling so violated, so crappy, so useless, so unworthy of my own personage. And fuck, so unable to control anything. I couldn't control my own emotions, and I certainly couldn't control him. He was long-gone, and I would probably never be able to see him again. I wanted to do something about WMATA's indifference to sexual harassment, but couldn't see how I could do anything to change that. I was powerless. I hate being powerless.
Baking that evening cheered me up. Finally, something I could exert complete control over, something that was mine, something that I enjoyed, and something I could feel good about. I'm pretty pleased with how my cheesecakes turned out. And the white chocolate ganache to die for. I bought a food scale a few weeks ago, and I'm realising just how much more power and control this will give me over creating and replicating my own recipes. Yay!
I also went to Pilates last night. One of the things that struck me immediately following the incident was that I felt confident in being able to hit him if I wanted. No question this comes from the past year of regular yoga practice. I love feeling and seeing the muscles in my arms, knowing that I can actually hold Chaturanga Dandasana. Feeling strong is good. Am I in a position to win a fight? No way. Fuck no. But I am in a position to defend myself, definitely so with adrenaline. More exercise can only been a good thing, so Pilates it was.
The Metro commute this morning was super uncrowded, but that was likely due to me going in at 9.40 this morning, instead of my usual 8am. This wasn't accidental. I guess I wasn't completely confident that I was ready to bear crowds again, and I didn't want to put myself in a position of having to make that decision.
The ride home was a different story. It was crowded as fuck. But I didn't feel scared. I was unquestionably more mindful of where everyone else was, but there was no fear. It was a good feeling.
Actually, most of today was pretty good. The outpouring of support from people was . . . amazing. Everyone who sent me messages, or spoke to me in person: thank you. Not feeling alone gave me confidence, and allowed me to get up this morning and not feel 'in the wrong'. I am forever indebted to you. You are truly good people, people who I should hold and keep close to me. Really: thank you.
While the nagging thought of what had happened wasn't as bad today as it was yesterday, it was still there. Walking home from Whole Foods, Asshole popped into my mind. Deciding what to wear this morning, Asshole was there, pointing to which clothes would not be comfortable. He was everywhere, lurking in the shadows. Sneaky bastard.
You know, it's funny how I tried to process this whole thing. It's strangely impersonal and yet so very personal. Asshole has probably done this before, and will do it again. I am not a special case. I'm just another girl he tried to help himself to. And yet, I wasn't the only female on the train that day. Why me? What was different about me? A coworker pointed out that it was probably the off-the-shoulders sweater-thing I was wearing (it's white and sort-of see through but not really. I was wearing it over a purple strappy tank-top thingy). And that was undoubtedly part of it. It won't change what I wear (at least not permanently), but I think it makes sense to be mindful that when I'm wearing something that doesn't make me look fat or a bit butch, it is possible that I might be slightly more likely to encounter creeps like Asshole.
I don't think I come across as the bitch that I really am. It's hard to see myself as others see me, but I suspect I look a bit sweet and maybe even borderline innocent. Definitely not the type to speak up if some idiot was to try to touch me. And let's be honest here, these molesting types are assessing who provides the best chance for a bit of a fondle without consequence. They're not going to go after the 200-pound body building chick, and also probably not the chick with the 'I support the 2nd Amendment!' shirt. They're self-serving, and are going to look for the girl who provides the best opportunity for their own selfish, fucked-up little desires.
Not that it really matters, because all of these reason are immaterial: I'm unwilling to change how I dress, and I can't change how I look (nor care to), but self-awareness is always a good thing. Understanding how you come across to others helps you to better interact and react to others.
Though bitch-face or not, I am not scared of anyone who to tries to hurt me, and all y'all fuckers better be careful when you go about trying to molest chicks, especially if that person is me. Don't judge a book by its cover, fuckheads.
During the 24 hours following the incident, and most distinctly over the 12 hours immediately following, I grew up a whole lot. It's almost like the first time you get high, and you're amazed at the doors you've opened and the world of understanding you've seen. I get it. When women talk of the horror of being sexually harassed and assaulted by men, I get it. I really do get it now. I am not a naturally sympathetic person: it's a feature of being a Republican. 'Personal responsibility', and everything is under your control. How you react and how you feel is always under your control. And while that's certainly more true than most of the bleeding-heart left let on, it's not the complete story. None of us are super-Zen Buddhists, and we're always influenced by those around us. Don't think so? Tell me where you got your accent from. That's not that only way, but it's the most telling (and, conveniently for me, most easily illustrated!) way of showing that none of us live in a bubble. We are, by design, meant to react to the actions of those around us. I still have no sympathy for career-rape-victims, as I rather unkindly call them, but I sure as fuck have sympathy now -- empathy, even -- for every single person who has felt violated by some creepy man. I understand the reasons behind women-only trains, public campaigns to spread awareness of sexual assault, reminders to women that this sort of thing is not okay. And, most importantly, I understand why a woman might be so traumatised after an attack that she's unable to function in everyday society. I've often wondered what I'd do if I was raped, and while I still don't know, I don't think I'd deal with it as well as I'd like to think I would. It's not just the bare fact that you've possibly been subjected to STIs or pregnancy. It's the anger and fear and anxiety and disgust and rage and remorse and lack of trust and disappointment and contempt for yourself and your assailant and everyone who didn't do something when they should've, all rolled up into one. And it's losing the right to yourself, the right to have control over your own body, and the expectation that the world around you understands and respects this right.
I wouldn't go as far as to say what happened on Monday was a 'good' thing. Well, not like chocolate is a good thing and I want more of it. I don't want it to happen again. But it has happened, and I can't change it. All I can do is take from it and learn from it. 'Succeed in spite of them' my Dad has always said when I've complained that a situation seems designed to prevent me from gaining anything. He most often used it in reference to the school system. 'Learn in spite of it', he'd say. I paid that no mind, and barely graduated high school. But he's right that sometimes, when it seems like the world's set up against you to stop you from succeeding, take advantage of the opportunity to prove them wrong. Learn everything you can from a situation, no matter the actual outcome.
Even if I hadn't seen him today, I would be okay. I've come out of this silly minor little incident a better and stronger person. Seeing him this afternoon was an absolute stroke of luck, like the icing on the groping cake. It seems almost unbelievable. A story with a beginning, middle, and end. And while Asshole may have written the beginning and mapped out a draft of the middle and the end, I was the one who finished it. I scribbled out his silly little middle and ending and wrote in my own. I much prefer my version.