When I was seventeen and preparing to leave for university, my mother’s only brother saw fit to give me some advice.
“Just don’t be an idiot, kid,” he told me, “and don’t ever forget that boys and girls can never just be friends.”
I laughed and answered, “I’m not too worried. And I don’t really think all guys are like that.”
When I was eighteen and the third annual advent of the common cold was rolling through residence like a pestilent fog, a friend texted me asking if there was anything he could do to help.
I told him that if he could bring me up some vitamin water that would be great, if it wasn’t too much trouble.
That semester I learned that human skin cells replace themselves every three to five weeks. I hoped that in a month, maybe I’d stop feeling the echoes of his touch; maybe my new skin would feel cleaner.
It didn’t. But I stood by what I said. Not all guys are like that.
When I was nineteen and my roommate decided the only way to celebrate the end of midterms was to get wasted at a club, I humoured her.
Four drinks, countless leers and five hands up my skirt later, I informed her I was ready to leave.
“I get why you’re upset,” she told me on the walk home, “but you have to tolerate that sort of thing if you want to have any fun. And really, not all guys are like that.”
(Age nineteen also saw me propositioned for casual sex by no fewer than three different male friends, and while I still believe that guys and girls can indeed be just friends, I was beginning to see my uncle’s point.)
When I was twenty and a stranger that started chatting to me in my usual cafe asked if he could walk with me (since we were going the same way and all), I accepted.
Before we’d even made it three blocks he was pulling me into an alleyway and trying to put his hands up my shirt. “You were staring,” he laughed when I asked what the fuck he was doing (I wasn’t), “I’m just taking pity.”
But not all guys are like that.
I am twenty one and a few days ago a friend and I were walking down the street. A car drove by with the windows down, and a young man stuck his head out and whistled as they passed. I ignored it, carrying on with the conversation.
My friend did not. “Did you know those people?” He asked.
“Not at all,” I answered.
Later when we sat down to eat he got this thoughtful look on his face. When I asked what was wrong he said, “You know not all guys do that kind of thing, right? We’re not all like that.”
As if he were imparting some great profound truth I’d never realized before. My entire life has been turned around, because now I’ve been enlightened: not all guys are like that.
No. Not all guys are. But enough are. Enough that I am uncomfortable when a man sits next to me on the bus. Enough that I will cross to the other side of the street if I see a pack of guys coming my way. Enough that even fleeting eye contact with a male stranger makes my insides crawl with unease. Enough that I cannot feel safe alone in a room with some of my male friends, even ones I’ve known for years. Enough that when I go out past dark for chips or milk or toilet paper, I carry a knife, I wear a coat that obscures my figure, I mimic a man’s gait. Enough that three years later I keep the story of that day to myself, when the only thing that saved me from being raped was a right hook to the jaw and a threat to scream in a crowded dorm, because I know what the response will be.
I live my life with the everburning anxiety that someone is going to put their hands on me regardless of my feelings on the matter, and I’m not going to be able to stop them. I live with the knowledge that statistically one in three women have experienced a sexual assault, but even a number like that can’t be trusted when we are harassed into silence. I live with the learned instinct, the ingrained compulsion to keep my mouth shut to jeers and catcalls, to swallow my anger at lewd suggestions and crude gestures, to put up my walls against insults and threats. I live in an environment that necessitates armouring myself against it just to get through a day peacefully, and I now view that as normal. I have adapted to extreme circumstances and am told to treat it as baseline. I carry this fear close to my heart, rooted into my bones, and I do so to keep myself unharmed.
So you can tell me that not all guys are like that, and you’d even be right, but that isn’t the issue anymore. My problem is not that I’m unaware of the fact that some guys are perfectly civil, decent, kind—my problem is simply this:
In a world where this cynical overcaution is the only thing that ensures my safety, I’m no longer willing to take the risk.
Emotional violence is not captured in police statistics… It is the silent death that women live with daily and which affects their agency
things girls are made to feel ashamed of-
- having periods
- choosing what they want to wear on their body
- wanting to/not wanting to have sex
- putting boys in the ‘friendzone’
- standing up against misogyny
- ruining a boy’s life by telling the police that he raped her
- having hair on their body
- not appreciating catcalls
- not appreciating chivalry
- having control over their own fucking body
disabled women face some of the highest rates of sexual abuse and are routinely sterilized without their consent but according to most of feminism, neither of these things are issues worth mentioning or connected at all.
why the fuck should i care about a feminism that makes the face and focus of rape culture and reproductive rights a nondisabled person and refuses to admit or accept that disabled women are incredibly at risk and have been and will continue to be victimized?
I know it’s not the most feminist idea to be a woman in a tower wanting to be rescued, but for a woman of color in this country, we’ve never been afforded that fairy tale because of how the black family was ripped apart [during slavery],” Washington said. “I really saw the value of having a story that empowers the African American man to do something chivalrous for the African American woman, because that hasn’t been an idea that has held women back in the culture — it’s something we’ve never been allowed to dream about.
the really frustrating thing about sexism in gaming communities is that even if it were true that men are better at video games than women—they’re not, first of all, that’s some massive bullshit; second of all, despite being constantly harassed, bullied, denied their equal representation and invalidated, women still make up nearly half of video game consumers, which i think might prove, if anything, the tenacity and the true enjoyment women manage to find despite all the bullshit lobbed their way whenever they attempt to engage in the community—it’s that there’d be a perfectly valid reason as to why. boys are given video games at a younger age whereas the big dumb lumbering oaf of ‘popular opinion’ doesn’t encourage parents to buy their daughters video games at the same age as they procure consoles and games for their sons!!!
so let’s look at this way
1. despite a late start;
2. despite constant harassment;
3. despite continuously being told ‘we don’t care about what you think’
women continue to play video games passionately and determinedly and get damn good at it.
no wonder some people feel the need to shout it from the rooftops, over and over: YOU’RE NOT AS GOOD AS WE ARE.
i mean, it makes sense you’d be feeling threatened :)
This is what I don’t get - Women are impure because males have touched them. Who’s the dirty one here?