Metoo

On facebook this week a new hashtag has sprung up: #metoo. Women post it who have experienced sexual abuse/assault or sexual harassment. Many friends, particularly younger ones, have shared that this offensive experience has been theirs.

I pondered. I've never been sexually abused. But have I ever been sexually harassed? At first, I thought, "No ... I don't think so." I reviewed my workplace experiences, and could not find an example. I've worked with and for some kind men who knew how to behave. And about 20 years ago, when sexual harassment became a more public issue for women, the workplace was the focus; women should be able to stand at the copy machine without their sexuality being brought up.

Then I remembered when I was 12. One Saturday I dressed in my favorite "cool" new outfit: cut-off blue jean shorts and a gray t-shirt that stated "West Virginia Is for Lovers." A strip mall across the street had a little store far in the back, in the dark inside of the mall, that sold something I was interested in -- I forget what. That mall was always empty. A guy was the sales clerk, and as I looked around the store at the wares, he began standing too close to me. Then he began brushing up against me, and it made me very uncomfortable. I wanted to think it was an accident, but when it happened a few times in five minutes, I knew it wasn't. I quickly left the store. I never went back.

He was a creeper, as we'd say now. I wasn't much damaged by the event except that I was scared. I was a child; he was an adult. We were in an isolated place. The physical contact was intentional and inappropriate.

For a funny story, about 15-20 years ago we were tubing down the French Broad River in Brevard, NC. It's the last time we went, because low water made for a tedious, painful ride. Failing to float over a rocky stretch, I picked up my inner tube and walked clumsily, bedraggled, plump in my ugly purple bathing suit, wrangling the tube, my wet hair plastered across my grumpy face. Suddenly I hear from the river bank a loud wolf whistle. For me! In such a state! I look over, and some very rotund geezer is standing there, grinning at me. I stood in mid river on the rocks, and I laughed. I laughed at him, and I made sure he could hear my assessment of his taste in feminine beauty. Because he was ridiculous (and blind) and I wanted him to know it.

When the #metoo thing came up on facebook, I asked Adam about these incidents, whether they qualify as harassment, and he said yes, they certainly do. He's a man, and he knows how men think. The whole idea that a man can look innocently upon the female form and, without a sexual thought, let out a big wolf whistle to let the woman know he's looking, is ludicrous. The man on the river bank was lewd, period. Adam said he probably was not primarily trying to communicate to me; he was probably doing it for the sake of his buddies in the truck.

I was about to post on facebook: #metoo, followed by a question mark. Because my very-mild experiences of harassment are almost an insult to the women who've experienced horrific abuse, assault, or harassment. I was about to post, I had my fingers on the keys to type ... and then I remembered.

I remembered the experience I should have thought of first, but I'd forgotten. It was the earliest, and certainly the most damaging, sexual harassment in my life of limited harassment. I was about 4 years old. It was spring, I think. We would move from West Virginia that summer. It was an ongoing experience over months. My four older brothers sometimes played football in the field next to our house with other neighborhood kids. A boy from down the street, probably 5 years old, would come find me and tell me to come into the big bushes with him. The bushes were tall and large enough that we could stand inside them like a little room. He would then take off his pants and urinate, and tell me to come watch. He also told me to urinate for him to watch, which I think I did once, but I didn't like that, so later I refused. I was scared and embarrassed, and he told me not to tell anyone. I was ashamed and guilty. This event happened various times - I don't know how many, or for how long. I was quite young. But when it became clear our family was moving away, he was upset, and he threatened to tell my grandparents (who lived in town) about what we'd been doing, if I moved away. His last name was Main; I don't remember his first name. I only give the name so that any childhood friends would not mistake some other family or boy for the offender.

He was five years old. Can a five year old commit sexual harassment? Was it sexual? He didn't learn such behavior on TV (back then), so where did he learn to threaten, to hide, to humiliate, to demand? What was happening in his home? 

I didn't tell anyone about this for many years. The shame of a 4 year old girl, scared in the bushes, lasted so long. I could have yelled for my brothers, who were only a stone's throw away, and they would've beaten him up. How did he know I wouldn't do that? How does a five year old boy balance thrill, risk, control, manipulation? What, in his character, was already so broken that he found this pleasurable in some way? I don't know.

So, yes. Me too. But women's experiences are so different, so unusual, so nuanced. My early experiences taught me to be distant with guys, intimidating, stand-offish. I became a young woman who, without an abuser in the family (thankfully!), was fairly safe as long as I did not allow guys close to me. I did not flirt (unless I knew the guy was safely off limits); I did not send out "bids" or invitations for romance. I would never be "caught in the bushes" again. That early harassment impacted my temperament, my relationships, and how people thought of me -- for decades.

I'm proud of those who are willing to say, "me too." We'd be wise, men and women alike, to think carefully about what constitutes harassment, about how we think about each other's sexuality, about how careful we are to treat everyone with dignity, privacy, and respect.