Tags: Published On: Saturday, September 29th, 2018 Comments: 1
“Dr. Christine Blasey Ford knew that in coming forward with a sexual assault allegation against Brett Kavanaugh, she’d have to prepare for the fight of her life,” the New York Times tweeted on September 20th, 2018.
I don’t know if what inspired me to finally write this essay was the combination of the words — fight of her life, or the fact that I misread them for fight for her life. I think it was a combination of the two, because, in a way, they mean the same thing. Women are fighting for their life, and it is the fight of their life.
***
Back in 2016, when Trump’s 2005 Access Hollywood video was made public, a family member replied to my shock, disgust, and rage by saying that I was “making a big deal out of nothing,” and that comments such as “grab them by the pussy” could be in fact, just men talk, or locker room talk, as it was described by some. I was disappointed and I felt unheard, voiceless.
“What deal am I making out of nothing?” I asked myself over and over again. “What deal are women making out of nothing?”
I thought about this a lot, and I realized that what hurt me the most about the response was the extent to which such reactions and justifications have become ingrained in society.
Like most Americans, on September 27th I watched the Ford-Kavanaugh hearing before the Senate Judiciary Committee. Sadly, during Dr. Ford’s testimony, I wasn’t surprised to read comments such as this one, coming from a woman: “She [Dr. Ford] was groped and not raped. Women crying over this are first-world privilege pieces of crap.” (Casey Parker NYC, Twitter).
When did some women start to believe this was acceptable?
A few days ago, NPR reported from Seoul, South Korea, where men have been recording women in all kind of public places (including public restrooms), to then upload the videos on pornographic websites.
“The perpetrators get the kind of pleasure that they can’t get from watching explicitly exhibited sexual intercourse in commercialized pornography. The problem is that this kind of distorted sexual culture is becoming the norm,” said Lee Sue-Jung, professor of criminal psychology at Kyonggi University, through an interpreter (source courtesy of NPR).
I had just put Catherine to sleep, and I felt a deep sense of sadness for the world Ben and I had invited her in; Catherine didn’t “happen,” in fact, we went through several fertility treatments to conceive a child. We wanted her; we summoned her here, in this world. Together with the sadness and the fear, however, a strength I didn’t know I had surfaced. For I know I will teach her that nothing about sexual assault and sexual harassment is “making a big deal out of nothing.”
I will teach her that nothing is “just the way it is” when it comes to racism, inequality, harassment, exploitation, sexual assault, and rape.
Rape is my biggest fear.
The definition of rape, according to the Merriam-Webster dictionary, just to quote one, is: unlawful sexual activity and usually sexual intercourse carried out forcibly or under threat of injury against a person’s will or with a person who is beneath a certain age or incapable of valid consent because of mental illness, mental deficiency, intoxication, unconsciousness, or deception.
Attempted rape, I believe, is as much a crime as rape is, just interrupted by the ability of the victim to escape, or by a third party helping the victim escape. Violation starts at the first unwanted touch.
On September 24th I published a black and white photograph on Instagram in support of sexual assault survivors, and in support of Dr. Ford’s bravery in coming forward and sharing her story under the scrutiny of an utterly divided nation, of a bipartisan culture that has proven incapable of putting human rights before politics, power, and greed.
This is what I wrote:
“Oh, don’t make it bigger than it is,” a dear family member said to me in regards to the “grab them by the pussy” presidential disgrace. I am fucking tired of this. I am writing about this, and my essay will be out soon. My daughter will not live in a world in which men don’t face the consequences of their actions (read: lack of control of their penis). My daughter will not witness the inequality, the injustice, the discrimination, and the fear of rape that we, women, have to live with, every goddamned day. I will fight for it until the day I die. I #believechristine #believewomen and I am blessed enough to be surrounded by amazing men who do too (yes, they are out there and more than we think). My daughter will not be told: “don’t wear that, you might arouse the wrong man.” She will not need it. I have been drunk, and I never harassed or raped anyone. I am a sober alcoholic; I have done and seen shit without sexually abusing another human being. It is fucking time men do the same. I don’t give a shit the pig was drunk. I don’t care if they are young and they made a mistake. They must pay. We are paying for it and it is not fair. They will pay. TIME IS UP. #christineford #timeisup #metoo #womenempowerment
Among the comments of support, a few strikingly aggressive ones appeared also:
“Women are physically inferior and thus subject to rape. I’m saying reality is rape is an uncontrolled response due to serious issues. Some even linked to mental deficits. Most rapes happen when alcohol is consumed. Most happen to college age girls with someone they trust. Some are random and end in death. I would love to say “please don’t murder” yet I know it’s a reality. People are animals who lose control of themselves and this must be understood.”
This kind of horrific justification is what little girls wake up to every day, when the truth they should learn is that rape is not inevitable. They should learn that when they speak up, their voice is heard; that sexual harassment doesn’t have to be tolerated, and that they don’t have to be “likeable” and “composed” in order to be believed.
Another reader advised me to raise my daughter with integrity, that by doing so she will be fine. “Oh, if integrity was the solution…” I sighed.
A man with the Instagram username of @joejuett wrote:
“And we wonder why men beat women lol look at y’all thinking you are all high and superior to men [emoticon of a laugh] all y’all need to learn your place in society.”
I reported him, but his words triggered in me the same suffocating anxiety I would later experience during Brett Kavanaugh’s initial statement in front of the Senate Judiciary Committee. His rage terrified me, all too familiar and unhinged; I panicked. I was driving to see my therapist, and only when I had parked my car in a safe place I was able to take a deep breath, and calm down.
For years now, my fear of rape has prevented me from being the adventurous woman I used to be. I used travel alone, to go to the movies and to the beach by myself, I loved walking by the ocean, and sipping coffee with a book in local coffee shops. When I lived in London, I remember taking the bus home after an evening out; today, I don’t even take a walk in my neighborhood in the evening. These days, every time that I get home safe I consider myself lucky that nothing bad has happened to me. But women should not consider themselves lucky when nothing bad happens to them as they go out in the world on a daily basis. Coming home safe should be the norm, whether at 9:00 am or midnight, wearing skirt or trousers, a veil over their face, or bright red lipstick.
As I continue to write this essay, I also continue to feel the heavy weight on my chest. My heart is racing, and my hands are sweaty as they type.
Throughout my adult life, like many women, I have allowed sex and sexual acts to happen when I didn’t want them to. And not with strangers, but with men I was in a relationship with, men I knew well. One of them had even put a ring on my finger; I was 21, we lived together, and talked about getting married. Thank God we didn’t.
I was very insecure when it came to men, I was bulimic and anorexic, not sexual at all, and when I saw he liked and desired me, I thought I had to hold on to it, for fear of never finding a husband. I had met a good guy a few months before, in Long Beach, but I had completely bought into the the other’s apparent passionate love for me. Today I know it wasn’t love; it was possession, control, and machismo — the culture he came from. He was obsessively jealous, often made remarks about women being inferior to men, he had extreme right-wing ideas, and drank too much beer. I didn’t share his political views, his taste in music and in the arts (if any), his provincialism and lack of interest for the world outside of the little region he was from, but for some reason, I thought I was in love. I didn’t approve of the violent way he would, at times, treat our puppy, but I was afraid of standing up to him. So I silently felt the pain for our dog and tried to make up for it when my ex would leave the house. My father had warned me, but I didn’t listen.
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?” my boyfriend asked indignant one summer afternoon. “You are not going out dressed like that,” he said in front of my parents. I was wearing a knee-long green linen skirt that was slightly see-through. I will never forget that green skirt, and the humiliation I felt.
Like many women, as I was saying, I did things I didn’t want to do, especially when I was drunk and high. He gave me my first line of cocaine — and I loved it; it killed my appetite and it made it easier to say yes when I wanted to say no.
A man knows when a woman doesn’t want to have sex. And yet we, women, are somewhat implicitly imparted the lesson that, if we say no too often, he is going to leave us for another woman.
My ex repeatedly cheated on me.
I never felt safe saying no to him, and with a few drinks and more cocaine I kept saying yes. I will never forget how that made feel: violated, ashamed, unworthy, wrong.
My life changed after three years spent with him. I changed. Drugs and alcohol took over, and so did the mask I began to wear. I began to depict myself as a wild sexual woman who liked extreme sex, and who would go to any length for the forbidden – a woman like a man. But that woman wasn’t me. And the more I performed the part, the more indelible what I had let happen to me became, the more I lost touch with who I was before I started saying yes when all I wanted to say was no.
When I got sober, I began to love myself enough to surround myself with men who would never disrespect a woman. I am blessed with an amazing husband and a community of family and friends who are on the side of women, and who are fighting with them. But if saying “yes” when we want to say “no” is what too often happens at home, or in familiar places, can you imagine what happens in the world out there?
When I think about war, for example, I think that — on top of the bombs – women are being raped. When I think about workplaces I think that — on top of pay inequality — women are harassed on a daily basis. When I think about today’s society I know that only a third of all rapes is actually reported; I know that only 4 out of 10 cases are prosecuted, that defense attorneys often shame and blame the survivors on the stand, that only 3% of rapists spend even one day in jail, and that many times rape happens at home, at school — in familiar places.
When I think about my daughter, I think of a better world for her. I will give all that I have to fight that fight, the fight of our life and for our life, for a world in which a woman doesn’t have to be told: “Don’t wear that — you are teasing them.”
I was told that. My brother was never told to not work bare-chested on a roof because a woman walking by might not be able to control her impulses, and might therefore assault him.
How do you think the new generations of men will grow decently, when all they see is that they don’t have to take responsibility for their actions?
I know, too many questions and not enough answers. I know this writing is a drop of water in the ocean, but I am scared, I am angry, and I am tired. I still feel that weight on my chest, my jaw is clenched and my shoulders tense. I feel uncomfortable and vulnerable now, but I knew this was the story I had to write after watching Hannah Gadsby’s Netflix special “Nanette”. Her story made me cry and gave me strength. Her strength gave me hope and self-confidence, the courage to tell myself the truth. I believe in signs, you know this by now. I follow them.
I believe that what is happening in the world right now is a sign. This week has been extremely painful for most of us, but I believe that what is being triggered in us during dark times like these is also what gives us the power to overcome, and the courage to finally tell our story, the story of our life, the story for a better life.
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These are powerful words Alice. Thank you for them. There are thousands of women who feel the same way as you. This #metoo movement has brought too many memories back to the surface that I thought I had forgotten forever, but I’m realizing they’ve been buried just below the surface. I too am scared for our little girls. I tried my best to raise my grown daughter to be strong. And that no means no! Don’t be pushed around by men. Now I have a beautiful 7 year old grand daughter and I swear by everything holy I will rip a man apart if any of them mess with her. Thank you Alice for your own coragious fight. You are an inspiration to so many.
Sincerely with love,
Cherie