Predation

Inspirational song: Mad Man Moon (Genesis)

It’s no secret I am a news junkie. And once again in the news, the story of sexual predation is inescapable. Which is ironic, actually, because for a disturbingly large percentage of women, the reality of it is inescapable too. Statistical studies paint a bleak picture, with some surveys saying one in three women in the US have been harassed at their work place. One in five has been sexually assaulted. Instances of unwelcome sexual advances in public spaces are even higher, with about 65% of American women reporting being catcalled, propositioned, or touched in a sexual way by strangers. But finally we seem to have reached a tipping point where it is no longer a societal norm to hide it and take it as a part of getting along to get along. Women are speaking up, and while there are still dinosaurs whose go-to response is victim blaming, the chorus of voices is getting louder. We are finally being believed. And in the process, we are exposing powerful, horrible men who got away with ruining the lives and psyches of countless women. This week it is a disgusting Hollywood producer. Last year powerful men in TV news were taken down. Nearly every year now, some figure in politics finds himself at the bullseye, giving the same speech of contrition with his wife by his side.

This week last year, when the infamous Access Hollywood tape came out, some woman on Twitter challenged women to reply to her with our earliest instances of unwelcome sexual advances. First I thought, well, there was that time in fourth grade when I walked past some boy’s desk and he grabbed my butt. And then I thought, no, there was that day in second grade when I wore a halter top to school, and some boy untied it, and I walked home, crying the whole way, clutching the top to my chest, unable to retie it by myself without exposing myself. Then, I remembered that in first grade, there was something commonly known as “Friday Flip Up Day,” where any girl foolish enough to wear a skirt or dress was going to have it flipped up by one or more boys, revealing our underwear. If there was anything before that, I have become blissfully unable to recall it. I’m pretty sure remembering being six years old and having to deal with it is bad enough, and common enough.

It is absolutely impossible to hear all of these stories and not internalize them. Compared to some, my stories are tame and easily survivable. That does not mean they sit easy in my memory. They did damage to my sense of self worth. The Harvey Weinstein story opens a particular drawer in my memory vault. When we lived in California the first time, my younger daughter wanted to learn to play guitar. We found her a private teacher who gave lessons in a music shop in Lompoc. I stayed in the room during the lessons, because she was very young at the time, and this guy was a stranger. We talked a lot while she practiced. He learned that I had a dream of singing professionally, and he spun a tale about wanting to help me record. I kept asking about when it would happen, and there were lots of delays. All the while, the conversations we had became increasingly personal. He dug for details of my love life I was not prepared to share, but he wouldn’t stop asking. Then the things he said became more aspirational rather than simply nosy. I was embarrassed by his questions and suggestions, but I felt that same sense of shame and guilt, thinking maybe I held some of the blame for talking to him at all. I tried to bury my feelings, because he swore he would help me record a demo. After weeks of this, in a burst of honesty, I asked him to stop speaking this way (not for the first time) because ... and I paused, trying to decide whether to say it out loud... because it was starting to feel like sexual harassment. I said it just like that. That I sort of felt maybe like it could be. He was instantly angry. He canceled guitar lessons with my daughter. He told me to get bent when I asked whether the demo recording was going to happen.

I understand what these actresses are feeling, who are speaking out against Weinstein. Even though I was never touched, I still felt dirty and used. I felt pressured. I know if I had not spoken up, it would have gone much farther, to places I would rather not consider. When I told my husband about it, he reacted at first like it was my fault somehow, possibly for just not speaking up sooner to explain why I was so stressed and upset. I didn’t feel supported, and it hurt me. I’ve spent fifteen years with that splinter under my skin (this whole story), and I hope this moment, this cultural zeitgeist, is finally my chance to excise it forever.