Having had a moderately stressful week already, as a series of minor incidents piled on top of each other to make me feel overwhelmed and anxious, what I really needed was another stress-filled encounter.
I went to our local shop last night, while BigBear bathed LittleBear. We'd run out of bread and needed some before morning. It seemed a good opportunity to pop out. While in the local shop, there was what can only be described as a kerfuffle. I wasn't really aware of what was going on, though perhaps someone had tried to leave without paying, or perhaps they'd had an argument with the security man at the door, or perhaps it was nothing. There were a couple of mildly over-excited young women, rushing in and out and squealing to each other in the way young women sometimes do. I stood waiting my turn at the checkout, glancing occasionally towards the doors, along with the cashier and the other customers, wondering what was afoot.
The cashier commented that there didn't seem to have been any theft, and it was all OK. But a new customer had just entered the shop who made the off-hand remark that, "the bigger problem is they were trying to get the girls in the van." And while he rightly saw this as a "bigger problem" he clearly didn't see it as a big enough problem to get involved. The cashier and I saw things differently. She immediately called one of the young women over to find out what had happened and whether they were OK.
The girls were fine. They stayed in the shop, with bright lights and middle-aged women.
The men in the van had been calling them closer, trying to get them to come right to the doors of the van. They'd suggested the girls should, "come with us for a sesh".
The suddenly-maternal cashier and I both encouraged them to report the events to the police, to make sure they'd got the numberplate of the van, to take it seriously in case someone less sensible was approached in the same way. Once I was sure the cashier and the girls were sorting things out, I set off for home. But the van was still there. So I walked round to the front of it, mentally noted the numberplate and went back into the shop to give the cashier the numberplate so she could help the girls with the reporting.
Then I left again.
"Mind your own fucking business, you slut!"
Slut.
Really?
That's the best you can do?
Slut.
I set off for home and the van zoomed past me, obviously giving up on their quest to acquire female company at Tesco.
"Slut!"
I'm a middle aged woman wearing trousers with an elasticated waist and a beige jumper. But I'm a woman, so I'm fair game. And the obvious insult is slut.
I went home. I reported the whole thing to the police. I did my civic duty. But I felt tired, and depressed, and shaken, and disappointed with humanity.
All I wanted was a loaf of bread.
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feminism. Show all posts
Friday, 4 October 2019
Wednesday, 19 June 2019
Intimidating? Me?
Picture the scene...
A crowded meeting room, twenty-five or thirty people sitting around a conference table discussing the planning and implementation of a large football tournament. Only three of those people are women, me included.
My fellow manager pipes up with a garbled piece of information about the parent of one of our boys volunteering his firm to be a possible sponsor for the tournament, that he'd forgotten to follow up on. So I nudge him, tell him not to worry about it and make a note that I need to contact said parent.
At this point the Chairman jokes, "I can't believe you've managed to get yourself a secretary."
A secretary.
A secretary.
I am not sure if I am proud or ashamed of the fact that I picked up an empty coke can, and threw it, hard, at the Chairman with an emphatic, "I'm not a fucking secretary!"
There was a combination of shocked silence and laughter around the room.
I don't think anyone who was at that meeting is going to mess with me now.
A crowded meeting room, twenty-five or thirty people sitting around a conference table discussing the planning and implementation of a large football tournament. Only three of those people are women, me included.
My fellow manager pipes up with a garbled piece of information about the parent of one of our boys volunteering his firm to be a possible sponsor for the tournament, that he'd forgotten to follow up on. So I nudge him, tell him not to worry about it and make a note that I need to contact said parent.
At this point the Chairman jokes, "I can't believe you've managed to get yourself a secretary."
A secretary.
A secretary.
I am not sure if I am proud or ashamed of the fact that I picked up an empty coke can, and threw it, hard, at the Chairman with an emphatic, "I'm not a fucking secretary!"
There was a combination of shocked silence and laughter around the room.
I don't think anyone who was at that meeting is going to mess with me now.
Tuesday, 9 October 2018
Everyday sexism #3
This is getting to be a habit.
Maybe I'm having a midlife-crisis. Maybe all this rage I'm feeling is normal. Maybe I've just had forty-four years of living with sexist rubbish and I've finally reached breaking point. But, reached breaking point I have. I am occasionally lying awake, seething about the world I find myself living in. That can't be right.
Recently the daughter of one of my colleagues set off for her first term at university, leaving my colleague and his wife with an empty nest (their eldest, a son, already being in his final year at university). Wife is a bit of a worrier, which position I have a great deal of sympathy with, and I rashly expressed the opinion that I felt she would probably worry more about Daughter leaving home than she had done about Son.
"Why would she worry more about Daughter?" I was asked. "Isn't that sexist of you?"
I let go with both barrels. I reminded my (all male) colleagues that they didn't have the faintest inkling of an idea of what it's like to be a young woman, let alone a young woman away from home for the first time, faced with large numbers of (probably inebriated) young men. In fact, I leapt up and drew a line down the white board and presented them with Jackson Katz's challenge,
Yes, we are afraid to walk home alone at night. And no, this is not right.
This experience was followed swiftly by reading about a thought-experiment proposed on Twitter: if you are a woman, how would your behaviour change if men had a 9pm curfew?
There were two tragedies in the responses to this:
The first was the pitiful nature of the ways in which women's lives would change. We would go out running after dark. We would go for more walks. We would feel safe putting headphones on after dark. We would do our grocery shopping in the evenings when it's quieter at the shops. We would go to the cinema without worrying what time the film finished and whether the carpark was properly lit. Tiny freedoms that most men simply wouldn't think twice about. Tiny freedoms that in fact it turns out many men don't think about, and didn't realise women were living without.
The second tragedy was the number of angry men replying about the outrage of threatening men with a curfew, and that women were just being hysterical by being afraid, and that a generalised fear of men was just as bad as racism. Seriously. Women are afraid to go out at night, and the retort is to ascribe our behaviour to an ancient Greek idea of our uterus being so out of control that it wanders around our body causing widespread derangement. Way to go angry men. Missing the point quite spectacularly, and decrying even the the faintest inkling of a suggestion of a thought of playing with the hypothetical idea of any restrictions to male freedoms, while attacking women whose lives and freedoms are already restricted every single day.
And finally, I was reminded by this thought experiment of my own school days, when in our early teens, we had Personal and Health Education lessons (or whatever they were called then) at my terribly nice, all-girls, private school. We were told all about periods, and sex, and drugs (but not rock 'n' roll). We were given rape alarms. We were told how to hold our keys so the blade pointed between our knuckles, ready to gouge the eyes of any attacker. We were told how to make sure we didn't look appealing enough to rape. We were told how, if attacked from behind, to scrape a heel down the attacker's shin and grind it into his foot bones. We were told never to cry "Rape!" or "Help!" if we were being attacked, but instead to yell "Fire!" because the world of self-interest we were being raised in could not be expected to respond to attacks upon our person, but would rouse itself if there were a wider threat.
And over the past few days, as these memories have flooded back, I have been asking myself how my teachers could live with having to teach impressionable teenage girls how not to get raped? Why were they not marching through the streets demanding equality? Why were they not breaking down the doors of the nearby boys' school to demand the boys were taught how not to rape? Why were they not teaching us to burn society down and start again*? How could they be complicit in making us believe that rape was our fault if we didn't avoid it? Where was their outrage? Where was their fire? Where was their fury?
Maybe it was in the same place as mine, simmering along, with no outlet. I am filled with rage, with fire, with fury, and yet it is an impotent rage, because the truth is - what can I change? How can I defeat the sense of entitlement that some men have over women and their bodies? What can I honestly do? Maybe all I can do is issue a call to arms, shamelessly stolen from the film 'Network',
* I fear the answer to this may lie in two places. Firstly, undoubtedly our teachers were teaching us as they had themselves been taught. They too had been raised to assume that it was up to women to avoid rape. And no doubt they wanted to keep us safe from harm. The second reason may have more to do with the demographic of the school. I cannot imagine the plethora of Establishment barristers, doctors and bankers represented amongst the parents being delighted to have their daughters turned into societal fire-starters. You may think I malign them, but this was a school at which I was branded a communist for supporting the Liberal Party, so it was not a place where breaking free of the shackles of a conservative society was encouraged. I'm delighted to say that many of my friends have grown up to be perfectly normal members of society.
Maybe I'm having a midlife-crisis. Maybe all this rage I'm feeling is normal. Maybe I've just had forty-four years of living with sexist rubbish and I've finally reached breaking point. But, reached breaking point I have. I am occasionally lying awake, seething about the world I find myself living in. That can't be right.
Recently the daughter of one of my colleagues set off for her first term at university, leaving my colleague and his wife with an empty nest (their eldest, a son, already being in his final year at university). Wife is a bit of a worrier, which position I have a great deal of sympathy with, and I rashly expressed the opinion that I felt she would probably worry more about Daughter leaving home than she had done about Son.
"Why would she worry more about Daughter?" I was asked. "Isn't that sexist of you?"
I let go with both barrels. I reminded my (all male) colleagues that they didn't have the faintest inkling of an idea of what it's like to be a young woman, let alone a young woman away from home for the first time, faced with large numbers of (probably inebriated) young men. In fact, I leapt up and drew a line down the white board and presented them with Jackson Katz's challenge,
What steps do you guys take, on a daily basis, to prevent yourselves from being sexually assaulted?Unsurprisingly, and in keeping with the young men who were originally asked this question, they had no ready answers. And I then began to enumerate the ways that I, and other women, avoid being assaulted on a daily basis. The ways in which avoiding being assaulted is something we actively and regularly think about. I pointed out that one of my friends, in our quiet little village, was not going to come to the pub with me because she was too afraid to walk down the unlit lane from her house on her own. I cycled to her house and we walked together. At the end of the evening I took a small tour of the village to escort first her, and then another friend home, before cycling home myself.
Yes, we are afraid to walk home alone at night. And no, this is not right.
This experience was followed swiftly by reading about a thought-experiment proposed on Twitter: if you are a woman, how would your behaviour change if men had a 9pm curfew?
There were two tragedies in the responses to this:
The first was the pitiful nature of the ways in which women's lives would change. We would go out running after dark. We would go for more walks. We would feel safe putting headphones on after dark. We would do our grocery shopping in the evenings when it's quieter at the shops. We would go to the cinema without worrying what time the film finished and whether the carpark was properly lit. Tiny freedoms that most men simply wouldn't think twice about. Tiny freedoms that in fact it turns out many men don't think about, and didn't realise women were living without.
The second tragedy was the number of angry men replying about the outrage of threatening men with a curfew, and that women were just being hysterical by being afraid, and that a generalised fear of men was just as bad as racism. Seriously. Women are afraid to go out at night, and the retort is to ascribe our behaviour to an ancient Greek idea of our uterus being so out of control that it wanders around our body causing widespread derangement. Way to go angry men. Missing the point quite spectacularly, and decrying even the the faintest inkling of a suggestion of a thought of playing with the hypothetical idea of any restrictions to male freedoms, while attacking women whose lives and freedoms are already restricted every single day.
And finally, I was reminded by this thought experiment of my own school days, when in our early teens, we had Personal and Health Education lessons (or whatever they were called then) at my terribly nice, all-girls, private school. We were told all about periods, and sex, and drugs (but not rock 'n' roll). We were given rape alarms. We were told how to hold our keys so the blade pointed between our knuckles, ready to gouge the eyes of any attacker. We were told how to make sure we didn't look appealing enough to rape. We were told how, if attacked from behind, to scrape a heel down the attacker's shin and grind it into his foot bones. We were told never to cry "Rape!" or "Help!" if we were being attacked, but instead to yell "Fire!" because the world of self-interest we were being raised in could not be expected to respond to attacks upon our person, but would rouse itself if there were a wider threat.
And over the past few days, as these memories have flooded back, I have been asking myself how my teachers could live with having to teach impressionable teenage girls how not to get raped? Why were they not marching through the streets demanding equality? Why were they not breaking down the doors of the nearby boys' school to demand the boys were taught how not to rape? Why were they not teaching us to burn society down and start again*? How could they be complicit in making us believe that rape was our fault if we didn't avoid it? Where was their outrage? Where was their fire? Where was their fury?
Maybe it was in the same place as mine, simmering along, with no outlet. I am filled with rage, with fire, with fury, and yet it is an impotent rage, because the truth is - what can I change? How can I defeat the sense of entitlement that some men have over women and their bodies? What can I honestly do? Maybe all I can do is issue a call to arms, shamelessly stolen from the film 'Network',
All I know is that first you've got to get mad. You've got to say: 'I'm a human being, god-dammit! My life has value!' So, I want you to get up now. I want all of you to get up out of your chairs. I want you to get up right now and go to the window. Open it, and stick your head out, and yell: I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE! I want you to get up right now. Sit up. Go to your windows. Open them and stick your head out and yell - 'I'm as mad as hell and I'm not gonna take this anymore!' Things have got to change. But first, you've gotta get mad!...You've got to say, I'M AS MAD AS HELL, AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE!
* I fear the answer to this may lie in two places. Firstly, undoubtedly our teachers were teaching us as they had themselves been taught. They too had been raised to assume that it was up to women to avoid rape. And no doubt they wanted to keep us safe from harm. The second reason may have more to do with the demographic of the school. I cannot imagine the plethora of Establishment barristers, doctors and bankers represented amongst the parents being delighted to have their daughters turned into societal fire-starters. You may think I malign them, but this was a school at which I was branded a communist for supporting the Liberal Party, so it was not a place where breaking free of the shackles of a conservative society was encouraged. I'm delighted to say that many of my friends have grown up to be perfectly normal members of society.
Wednesday, 26 September 2018
Everyday sexism #2
Because I'm feeling militant (still), and because BrotherBear almost decided to wind me up last night, I thought I'd take the opportunity to recount another incident of everyday sexism that has irked me. Again, it wasn't a huge affront; I wasn't physically assaulted; my life's course has not been altered. But it was yet another tedious case of male entitlement. Male presumption. Male domination. It was a brief encounter with some boys from one of the local schools. Initially I laughed it off, with the currently-popular phrase, "boys will be boys" echoing through my mind. And then I thought, "No, damn it!" There is no reason to excuse bad behaviour on the grounds that boys somehow can't help being sexist pigs. They can. They should.
I refuse to be party to the attitude that boys somehow get a free-pass on shitty behaviour just because they're young. I refuse to accept that "we all make mistakes when we're young" is enough to excuse young men from sexual assaults. I refuse to sit down and shut up while my body is considered an open target for comment by any man who feels so inclined.
Rather than explaining in yet another way what this particular occurrence was, I shall instead share the letter I sent to the boys' school....
Dear School Office,
Yesterday afternoon I had a rather disappointing interaction with three of your boys. I couldn't tell you who they were, or even how old they were, though I would guess about 12-13 years old. They were wearing their school uniform, hence my decision to contact you. It was not a serious incident, and I don't want you to think I am seeking any kind of punishment to be meted out, but I would like you to be aware of the event.
I was cycling home with my six-year old from the Junior School site, when three of your boys, who were standing on the path with their bikes and scooters, called out to me...
"Can I ask you a question?"
Filled with the milk of human kindness, naturally I stopped and was willing to answer whatever question they might have had. I was met with silence. I gently prompted them to go ahead, only to have more silence. Eventually, my would-be questioner announced he couldn't remember. "That's unusual," I replied, and continued on my way, keen to catch up with my own son before he reached the road.
As I cycled off, the non-questioner then shouted after me, "You're fit!"
Not, as I said, a serious incident. It was probably a dare, and they probably thought they were being brave and funny and clever. And, as they were young, and I am old and wise(!) I didn't feel threatened. BUT, after a lifetime of living in a world where women are routinely whistled at, leered at, shouted at and judged by men, I had hoped the next generation had moved beyond that behaviour. It's just not OK for men to shout at women in the street. And when those boys are 16 or 17 instead of 12 or 13, what seems brave and funny to them now will be threatening and unpleasant for the girl or woman that they choose as their target.
I don't want anyone to make a huge issue of this, but I would like you to be aware that some of your students are behaving this way, and that perhaps a gentle reminder of what is acceptable and what is not would be in order.
best regards
PhysicsBear
I'm sure there are those among you who are now thinking, "Huh? That was it?" You are perhaps wondering why I am so enraged by something so minor, and why I am mentioning sexual assault in the same breath as "You're fit!"
It's because it's all part and parcel of the same attitude of entitlement; the same entrenched view that women are objects, present only for the titillation and gratification of men. And yes, I know, not all men. Don't bother to tell me that. The problem isn't all men. The problem is there are enough men. Enough men who don't see that wolf-whistling at a woman out running is sexual harrassment; enough men who don't accept that once you start viewing women as objects you open the door to treating them as objects; who don't understand that we're sick of it, we've had enough, we are not empty vessels for their fantasies, inadequacies or rage to be projected onto.
BigBear (and this is no insult to BigBear) commented to me that, "It's the same thing that happened when we were young. Nothing's changed."
And therein lies the problem. Nothing's changed. Isn't it about time something did?
Tuesday, 25 September 2018
Everyday sexism #1
I think I may be becoming more rabid as I get older. Or perhaps militant is the right word. I find myself increasingly intolerant of minor incidences of sexism that in the past would have glided past me without raising more than a rueful shrug. I was not someone who felt the need to change "human" to "hu-woman" or any other such mutilation of the language. I'm still not. And yet, I find myself now noticing more frequently the entrenched way in which the world is male-by-default. And I find myself less willing to sit back and say nothing.
I have been interviewing people recently for a job as a physicist (and the degree to which I don't enjoy interviewing could be the subject of another post). In the end, we narrowed it down to four candidates, chose one, and I had to write and say, "thanks, but no thanks" to the remaining three. Not something I enjoyed doing either. And since they were all good candidates, I tried to make sure that they knew that. Here's a snippet of what I wrote to one candidate...
Which I didn't think was particularly controversial. And the candidate in question, who I admit is not a native English-speaker, replied:
The other gentleman.
Gentleman.
Man.
I never said the successful candidate was a man.
And yet he assumed.
No, it's not a big deal. No, it's not the end of the world. Yes, statistically, most physicists are men, so it wasn't a completely unreasonable assumption. But it was an assumption that he didn't need to make. There are plenty of gender-neutral terms he could have used, as I did. But no. Physicists are men. It's just another brick in the wall of male-by-default. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the constant assumptions and presumptions. I'm sick of a world where being me needs an explanation.
I have been interviewing people recently for a job as a physicist (and the degree to which I don't enjoy interviewing could be the subject of another post). In the end, we narrowed it down to four candidates, chose one, and I had to write and say, "thanks, but no thanks" to the remaining three. Not something I enjoyed doing either. And since they were all good candidates, I tried to make sure that they knew that. Here's a snippet of what I wrote to one candidate...
Unfortunately, I regret to have to tell you that we are offering the position to another applicant. Part of the reason for the delay in giving you a proper reply has been that the final decision has been very difficult, as all the candidates offered different qualities. We were all impressed with your intelligence and abilities, and there was no question that you would have been able to do the job, so please don't feel that this is a reflection on your skills.
Which I didn't think was particularly controversial. And the candidate in question, who I admit is not a native English-speaker, replied:
Thank you for the quick reply even though it wasn't what I was hoping to hear. My compliments to the other gentleman.
The other gentleman.
Gentleman.
Man.
I never said the successful candidate was a man.
And yet he assumed.
No, it's not a big deal. No, it's not the end of the world. Yes, statistically, most physicists are men, so it wasn't a completely unreasonable assumption. But it was an assumption that he didn't need to make. There are plenty of gender-neutral terms he could have used, as I did. But no. Physicists are men. It's just another brick in the wall of male-by-default. And I'm sick of it. I'm sick of the constant assumptions and presumptions. I'm sick of a world where being me needs an explanation.
Saturday, 4 November 2017
Old dogs and New Tricks
In the wake of #metoo, more and more worms are munching their way out of
the woodwork and revealing the rotten heart of our establishments. And
there are the same tired non-excuses for crappy behaviour being wheeled
out, of poor, confused men who just can't tell in the face of all this
horrible, rampant feminism whether it's OK to call their assistant
"sugar tits" or not. And the not-at-all lamented Fallon, claiming that
“The culture has changed over the years. What might have been acceptable
15, 10 years
ago is clearly not acceptable now.”
And while he may (and I only concede this very grudgingly and with serious caveats) be right that the culture has changed in the last 10-15 years, it doesn't actually mean that it was ever acceptable to the women involved to grope, harrass or outright assault them. Just because it was possible to get away with it without losing your job, doesn't mean it was acceptable. It merely means unacceptable things used to happen.
I have a friend who falls into that group of people who seem to be mired in this confusion about what is OK and what is not. He is a sixty-year old, overweight, white man. For the sake of anonymity, I shall call this man Nigel.
Nigel describes himself as a racist, sexist, homophobic, misogynist pig. He says he was raised that way. But he is utterly aware that the way he was raised had flaws, he is aware that many of his knee-jerk views are wrong, and he makes a conscious effort to not allow his upbringing to drive his actions now. He admits that his initial reaction to the calls for gay marriage was that there was no need, marriage is marriage and is for one man and one woman, and if you're gay and want a partnership, have a different one. But he now says, "I listened to what everyone said, and realised I'd lost that argument. I'm wrong, and marriage can be for everyone."
Nigel torments himself over perceived transgressions. He was walking along the street recently when he passed a young, attractive, beautifully dressed woman. The sight gladdened his heart, not (according to him) in any predatory way, but just in a "isn't it lovely to see something attractive" way, and he smiled. He smiled at the young woman in question. And then he felt terrible. He asked me if what he had done had been wrong. Had he been lecherous, threatening, harrassing by smiling at her? Was it objectifying to find the appearance of a stranger a source of pleasure?
Nigel over-thinks things. But, despite his condemnatory self-description, he is a liberal, feminist, accepting man who is aware of his own potential to discriminate and tries not to.
Men - be like Nigel. It's really not much more complicated than that.
And while he may (and I only concede this very grudgingly and with serious caveats) be right that the culture has changed in the last 10-15 years, it doesn't actually mean that it was ever acceptable to the women involved to grope, harrass or outright assault them. Just because it was possible to get away with it without losing your job, doesn't mean it was acceptable. It merely means unacceptable things used to happen.
I have a friend who falls into that group of people who seem to be mired in this confusion about what is OK and what is not. He is a sixty-year old, overweight, white man. For the sake of anonymity, I shall call this man Nigel.
Nigel describes himself as a racist, sexist, homophobic, misogynist pig. He says he was raised that way. But he is utterly aware that the way he was raised had flaws, he is aware that many of his knee-jerk views are wrong, and he makes a conscious effort to not allow his upbringing to drive his actions now. He admits that his initial reaction to the calls for gay marriage was that there was no need, marriage is marriage and is for one man and one woman, and if you're gay and want a partnership, have a different one. But he now says, "I listened to what everyone said, and realised I'd lost that argument. I'm wrong, and marriage can be for everyone."
Nigel torments himself over perceived transgressions. He was walking along the street recently when he passed a young, attractive, beautifully dressed woman. The sight gladdened his heart, not (according to him) in any predatory way, but just in a "isn't it lovely to see something attractive" way, and he smiled. He smiled at the young woman in question. And then he felt terrible. He asked me if what he had done had been wrong. Had he been lecherous, threatening, harrassing by smiling at her? Was it objectifying to find the appearance of a stranger a source of pleasure?
Nigel over-thinks things. But, despite his condemnatory self-description, he is a liberal, feminist, accepting man who is aware of his own potential to discriminate and tries not to.
Men - be like Nigel. It's really not much more complicated than that.
Saturday, 21 October 2017
Is it me too?
Living a life, as I do, where social media features daily in my life, I suspect I'm living in something of a bubble. In fact, I know that I am. And most aspects of that bubble are clear to me. I am largely surrounded by people of a similar age, race, nationality, class, political outlook, education level, and social interests. Largely. Obviously, there are variations, but they're not massive. I know some Americans for instance. And Canadians. I really mix it up.
Because I'm aware of my bubble, I do venture outside it, to read and see what other people are thinking, saying and doing. But there's one aspect of my bubble that I'm not sure about - I can't discern whether what I've been reading and hearing inside my bubble is also occurring outside my bubble.
It's the #metoo movement. The movement whereby women are standing up to be counted, declaring that they have been the victims of sexual assault or harassment. Declaring publicly that their experiences are not unique, not one-offs, not aberrations, but the everyday lived experience of huge numbers of women.
Has this really been as widespread as it seemed in my white, middle-class, female bubble? Has the awareness of #metoo spread outside the people who are participating in it?
I don't know. And therefore I don't know whether what I'm going to write is going to make me look utterly abnormal, or utterly absurd for drawing such attention to my very normality.
Because I haven't been sexually assaulted. I haven't experienced inappropriate behaviour in the workplace. I haven't been shamed into keeping abuse silent. I haven't been groped, manhandled or interfered with at any point in my life. I watched, horrified, as more and more of my friends simply wrote "#metoo" on their Facebook pages, and I began to puzzle over why my own experience has been so different.
And I thought some more.
And I thought of all the things that don't count, because it's just what happens. The wolf-whistles from building sites. The requests to see my tits from pissed men at parties. The men in clubs and bars who wouldn't accept that it was possible to dance with other female friends, and that no, I didn't need a man to dance with. The hoots and yelled obscenities from white vans. The guiding hand in the small of the back to "help" me through doors.
But that doesn't count does it?
That's just the way life is if you're a woman, isn't it?
I haven't been sexually assaulted, so I don't need to write #metoo, do I?
And then I just felt rather depressed.
Because, no, those things aren't OK.
Just because I haven't been raped, doesn't mean every other form of verbal abuse and harassment is OK. And the very fact that I simply shrug it off as "just how life is" is not OK either.
I didn't claim #metoo, because by the time I'd considered the issue, and my own life experiences, it felt as though to speak up was to devalue those who've suffered real abuse, assault and pain. It felt like saying, "ooh, I know how you feel losing your leg, I broke a fingernail once." But actually, I think it's kind of the point - that every day, countless women face a constant barrage of sexism that ranges from "only" a wolf-whistle all the way to traumatic physical assaults, and that it is all part and parcel of the same thing, the treatment of women as lesser beings, as objects, as things.
And I'm not a thing. None of us are. And none of us should sit back and say, "being talked to like an object isn't real sexism, so as long as I haven't been raped, it's not a problem." It is a problem, and it's one that can't be fixed by one or two people speaking up. It will take all of us to speak up, all of us to say, "enough", all of us to say "no more", to refuse to accept a society where women are afraid on public transport, where women accept being yelled at on the subject of their bodies every time they go for a run, where women think daily insults and contempt are normal. And I mean all of us. Women and men.
#metoo
Because I'm aware of my bubble, I do venture outside it, to read and see what other people are thinking, saying and doing. But there's one aspect of my bubble that I'm not sure about - I can't discern whether what I've been reading and hearing inside my bubble is also occurring outside my bubble.
It's the #metoo movement. The movement whereby women are standing up to be counted, declaring that they have been the victims of sexual assault or harassment. Declaring publicly that their experiences are not unique, not one-offs, not aberrations, but the everyday lived experience of huge numbers of women.
Has this really been as widespread as it seemed in my white, middle-class, female bubble? Has the awareness of #metoo spread outside the people who are participating in it?
I don't know. And therefore I don't know whether what I'm going to write is going to make me look utterly abnormal, or utterly absurd for drawing such attention to my very normality.
Because I haven't been sexually assaulted. I haven't experienced inappropriate behaviour in the workplace. I haven't been shamed into keeping abuse silent. I haven't been groped, manhandled or interfered with at any point in my life. I watched, horrified, as more and more of my friends simply wrote "#metoo" on their Facebook pages, and I began to puzzle over why my own experience has been so different.
And I thought some more.
And I thought of all the things that don't count, because it's just what happens. The wolf-whistles from building sites. The requests to see my tits from pissed men at parties. The men in clubs and bars who wouldn't accept that it was possible to dance with other female friends, and that no, I didn't need a man to dance with. The hoots and yelled obscenities from white vans. The guiding hand in the small of the back to "help" me through doors.
But that doesn't count does it?
That's just the way life is if you're a woman, isn't it?
I haven't been sexually assaulted, so I don't need to write #metoo, do I?
And then I just felt rather depressed.
Because, no, those things aren't OK.
Just because I haven't been raped, doesn't mean every other form of verbal abuse and harassment is OK. And the very fact that I simply shrug it off as "just how life is" is not OK either.
I didn't claim #metoo, because by the time I'd considered the issue, and my own life experiences, it felt as though to speak up was to devalue those who've suffered real abuse, assault and pain. It felt like saying, "ooh, I know how you feel losing your leg, I broke a fingernail once." But actually, I think it's kind of the point - that every day, countless women face a constant barrage of sexism that ranges from "only" a wolf-whistle all the way to traumatic physical assaults, and that it is all part and parcel of the same thing, the treatment of women as lesser beings, as objects, as things.
And I'm not a thing. None of us are. And none of us should sit back and say, "being talked to like an object isn't real sexism, so as long as I haven't been raped, it's not a problem." It is a problem, and it's one that can't be fixed by one or two people speaking up. It will take all of us to speak up, all of us to say, "enough", all of us to say "no more", to refuse to accept a society where women are afraid on public transport, where women accept being yelled at on the subject of their bodies every time they go for a run, where women think daily insults and contempt are normal. And I mean all of us. Women and men.
#metoo
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