Me, Too.
Cat-calling, salacious & invasive up-and-down stares, unsolicited grinding at the club & degrading compliments like “totally fuckable” are foundational experiences in a young woman’s life. They happen when we are too young to know how to handle it – nervous laughter, ballsy bravado, averted gazes, shame-tinged pride (so does that mean he likes me? Fuckable is good, right?); these instances, lasting mere seconds or minutes, alter our selves forever. Once we know this is part of culture, it changes who we are & how we act in the world.
These experiences that women across the ages share, well, they span the spectrum. From verbal to physical assault, from singular, static experiences to continual, ongoing ordeals; from childhood to adulthood… we live through them, we deal with them (or not), and we continue to soldier on in a world of normalcy. While turmoil and clouds of rage churn within, our bodies walk about on sun-streaked sidewalks and in fluorescent-lit classrooms and offices with smiles plastered upon our faces.
The message I often received was that it was unbecoming to be a full-fledged feminist – those butch women were men-hating outsiders out to extort money from hard-working family men and were too frigid to handle a little fun. Instead, after a couple missteps and stumbles (by “missteps and stumbles” I mean speaking out; becoming physically ill from internalizing my emotions), I carefully crafted a persona who could take it; who could handle it; who could smile when somehow the behavior came my way; who could deftly maneuver away from potential threats & somehow float above it all – detach myself from the world in which I lived. And that worked for a while. Until it didn’t. Until I had to come to terms with the fact that I was so emotionally detached from the world that I could not sustain real, authentic relationships, platonic or otherwise. It required soul-deep introspection and eventually therapy to integrate these experiences into my whole self; to reclaim the person I believe God intended me to be.
Last week, the Harvey Weinstein revelations hit my newsfeed & it reverberated through my core, shaking loose experiences and feelings archived long ago, yet they felt fresh as spit and my cheeks burned hot as the memories coursed through my mind.
What began with an article in the NY Times (read it here: NY Times article) was shortly followed a few days later by an explosive exposé carefully researched & written by Ronan Farrow (read article here: The New Yorker). Buzz was generated. Women, famous women – the ones who grace the covers of magazines and glitter in designer gowns as they float down the red carpet of life – were speaking out about their experiences. It is snowballing and now appears to be turning into a movement of sorts. Scores of women sharing their Harvey Weinstein experiences on social media has evolved into women, completely detached from Harvey and the trappings of Hollywood, chiming in. Unlike the Bill Cosby scandal or the Roger Ailes debacle, it is this unveiling that is generating traction and sustaining the public’s attention. Whether it is because our culture is celebrity-obsessed is irrelevant to me; it is giving normal, everyday people like myself the opportunity to add our voices to the chorus and say – out loud or quietly to ourselves – “Me, too.”
It is my hope that this expands beyond a social media blitz and can affect real change in an industry with such massive cultural control that the positive shift will inevitably trickle down into the suburbs and small towns of America. It is always my hope that I do not have to prepare my young daughter for a world in which predators are lying in wait for her. It is eternally my hope that I am a member of a sisterhood that can finally die out, one that does not need to induct new members; a sisterhood I did not choose to join, but was chosen for me.
As my Facebook feed is inundated with women from all walks of my life – baseball moms, high school friends, acquaintances – also claiming membership into this not-so-exclusive club, the pervasiveness of the problem is undeniable. The pattern of strength in the face of adversity is evident. It looks like this:
- It happened.
- I told someone.
- They said it couldn’t have happened like that. They didn’t believe me. They said he didn’t mean it. They thought I was exaggerating. They said I was drunk. They said I was a drama queen. They said he didn’t rape me, so there’s nothing I could do. They said I should feel lucky I wasn’t raped. They said I shouldn’t have gone *there* with him. They asked what I expected would happen if I went to his car/dorm room/my house/classroom.
- I wept.
- I carried on.
The shame that permeates us from these unhealthy experiences is insidious. Although we can logically explain to a friend they should not feel to blame, we cannot help thinking… could we have done more? Should I have worn that skirt? Why did I have a cocktail? Shouldn’t I have known better?
And yet… why should we be expected to find the solution to a problem we did not present? So, together with the starlets and the soccer moms, I say, “Me, too.”
May more women find the courage to speak out. May our little individual lights blaze in unison, so ignorance is no longer an option. May more men pick up the torch to be supportive to women; to listen to women; to see us as. just. us. And lastly, may light shine down so brightly on this issue that it shrivels away the shame, pain and anger.
