Not So Shocked: #MeToo

In response to the headline story of lecherous Harvey Weinstein, like so many of you I’ve watched my newsfeed fill with stories of #MeToo. FILL. As in, almost without exception, every woman I know has experienced sexual threats, bullying and/or outright assault at least once in her life. I include my mother, my aunts and seniors I know, among them.

I’ve also watched my newsfeed fill with responses of SHOCK! and OUTRAGE! How is it possible so many have experience so much, so often?

The only thing shocking to the women in my circle is how shocked everyone is.

Does sexual harassment and intimidation happen all the time, every day to someone you know?

Yes, yes it does.

Right in front of you, maybe without you even noticing?

Yes, that too.

We don’t see it or talk about it – haven’t been seeing or talking about it – because it’s become such a normalized part of the culture we live in. So much so that it’s hardly worth mentioning the guy who put his hand my ass at the coffee shop, and you, innocent bystander, didn’t even register it happened.

Who cares?

No one. It’s so common it’s boring. And invisible.

Such an episode is inconsequential until the story of a sufficiently heinous guy like Harvey Weinstein rises like pond scum, shaking out our collective consciousness on the issue in ways the abhorrent and offensive facts about Bill Cosby, R. Kelly and even President Trump couldn’t.

In the Atlantic this week, Sophie Gilbert wrote “A decade ago, I couldn’t have conceived of the fact that so many women had experienced sexual coercion or intimidation; now, I’d be surprised if I could find a single one who hadn’t.”

Exactly. Though I don’t think I would have found the revelation surprising a decade ago either. But then I’m older than Sophie Gilbert. I’ve had more years living and working in a world socially dominated by men where the balance of power has rarely worked in my favour.

In my own life, I’ve had more encounters with sexual harassment, bullying and assault than I can even tally, and I’m not even kidding. The first inappropriate exposure was when I was four years old, because this is the world we live in: girls and women as objects for men to claim; catcalling as compliment; uninvited and inappropriate touching in public; a man’s full-on sense of entitlement to our bodies for no other reason than they want it.

It happened just a few weeks ago at a live music venue, in fact. A man I didn’t know suddenly came up behind me and gently leaned himself and his big boner against my back.

I should add that I was casually dressed at this event, wearing neither short skirt nor push-up bra. And even if I was: Fuck you.

When I turned and said “Don’t do that and don’t touch me” the guy made a joke – as they do, because c’mon, it’s hilarious and what’s my problem anyway – and I became the cold-hearted bitch.

This is how our society works: When a woman claims her body as her own, she’s a bitch. When she dares to set a boundary around her physical self, she’s vilified. Shamed.

Which is a curious thing about abuse: It’s the victim who takes on all the shame of the experience. The abuser rarely feels anything beyond justified.

I should add that I felt safe enough in a public place with friends to say anything to this guy at all. Depending on the circumstance, I might not were the same thing to happen alone in an elevator or a closed office, say. It’s naive to deny the ever-present threat of physical harm in the face of resistance. And this mindfuck: to ensure our safety and guarantee a graceful exit unscathed, the onus is on women to make the man in this scene feel sufficiently secure about our “no” to allow us a pass.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, how successful you are, how awarded or attractive (or not) or how clever you happen to be – as a woman in the world there is little to insulate you from the fact of sexual intimidation.

A smart mouth and physical self defense only protect you to a point. It seems there is always a man at some point in your life who will claim or feel entitled to power over you by virtue of nothing more than your female-ness. And then he will exercise that power.

The dude hanging his wiener out for the little girl on her bike; the father of a kid you babysit driving you home, suddenly reaching out to kiss you; the “boyfriend” in junior high who forced sex because “you know you want it”; the manager lecherously chasing you around his desk in what would be comedy if it weren’t so frightening; the countless other “ohh yeah, that’s the way I like it right there” jeers while walking home and those who get leered at or groped at work, in bars or on the street waiting for a light.

That’s a smattering of real-life scenarios from women I know, by the way.

But what to do?

A ton of red-faced outrage has been expressed and written about Weinstein. He exploited his power and abused women for decades and the articulated fury about the cone of silence he operated in enabled by everyone’s knowledge and complicit acquiescence is both justified and everywhere. Related are the near rage-strokes of writing and speechifying about the continued injustice and relentlessness of sexual bullying and assault women in the world experience generally.

I get it. It’s all worth being mad about.

Maybe it’s my age, but as good as it feels to let my anger out for a run, I’ve rarely known it to bring people together or help create change. Yes, it can be motivating, but when was the last time emotionally unloading on someone really worked for you or furthered your argument?

In the face of another’s fury we defend. We protect. We hunker down. The louder they are, the less we can hear. Like getting really drunk when you’re down, rage feels good in the moment, but ultimately isn’t helpful.

So how do we make our indignation creatively functional? How do we use it to disrupt the skewed, sexual power dynamic in our culture and forge a new way?

When a man can gleefully admit to using his power to accost women for his pleasure, is on the record boasting about sexual assault and still be voted in as the 45th President of the United States, it’s easy to despair.

But despair is as useful as free-range anger, and as the mother to young children I can’t afford to be hopeless.

I think having the conversation in a public way like we are, is a start. Telling our stories and unloading the misappropriated shame of everything that’s happened to us as women is change-making. Because here’s what’s true about shame: the less you talk about it, the more of it you have.

We also need to collectively stop pretending we don’t see sexual intimidation when it happens - or worse, seeing it and ignoring it. Speak up. Be counted. “Be an upstander, not a bystander,” as Monica Lewinsky says. We all have the ability to stand up to bullying. Not actively interfering with sexual harassment when we see isn’t being “neutral” either - it’s offering tacit support. Don’t kid yourself.

With my kids, I’ve always been explicit that “they are the boss of their body.” No one is allowed to hug, kiss or otherwise touch them if they don’t want it - and if and when it happens they are to be clear it’s not cool, in no uncertain terms. They are to offer the same respect to other people: no touching unless they check in first. Other people are the boss of their bodies too.

I don’t know. It’s something, teaching our kids respect and boundaries for theirs and others physical selves. Being brave in the face of others inappropriate behaviour, speaking up and out. I want their world to be better than mine, because, as Nilofer Merchant has written, If there is no safety for each of us, there is no safety for any of us.”