Me Too

My body is mine.

It is not yours.

Nothing I wear, say, or do will ever make it yours.

Only I can give permission for it to be held, kissed, touched, grabbed. And trust me, you'll know.

This skin belongs to me, as does the soul beneath it. But some people don't really seem to care about that part.

I am writing this because so many of you out there seem to think you have the right to put your hands on me in a crowded bar, or a crowded subway, and even more of you out there think that this doesn't matter.

It matters.

It matters when I am out at a bar with my brothers, having a great time, and I suddenly feel a hand insert itself into a place it does not belong. It matters that when I turned around to face him, he was already a shadow moving out the door and onto the street. One last grope for the road, he must have thought. Coward.

It matters that in my shocked state, I looked up at another man who immediately acknowledged the assault that had just took place. I thought I had found a champion in this man, the only witness of this violation.

It matters that he looked at me, shrugged, and said, "Well, you have a nice ass. What do you expect?"

It matters. It matters that I can be assaulted so casually, and that this assault can be witnessed and immediately justified by a stranger. But this is the world we live in.

It matters that my brothers and I had to yell at this witness, that I had to defend myself to a stranger, explain to him that this matters, and tell him that the shape of my body is not an invitation.

Let me repeat that, so we're clear.

The shape of my body is not an invitation.

And it matters that this isn't even the first time I can say, "Me too."

It matters that I'm still afraid to get on crowded subway trains, because a few years ago a man spent 7 minutes slowly and carefully groping me in such a calculated way, that I first thought someone's bag was brushing up against me. It's clear that he knew what he was doing. From Grand Central to Union Square he got to know my body gradually, intimately, while I was too afraid to look at his face. It matters that this was on a train full of people, that by the time I realized what was happening I was frozen. I couldn't say or do anything. It matters that I looked at another man next to me with desperation in my eyes, silently willing for him to do something, anything.

It matters that this man looked away from me, pretending not to notice.

It matters that I ran off that train and burst into tears, too frightened to look behind me and face the tattooed arm that had spend all that time getting to know my body without my permission.

It matters that I was once a teenage girl, begging a boy to get off me as he forced himself inside me. I was once a teenage girl, crying and trying to breathe as I tried to push two times my body weight off of me. It matters that I said no, that I pushed and shoved, that I cried. That it happened anyway.

It matters that some of you might be reading this, wondering why I would be so graphic and public about these assaults. It matters that some of you might be thinking, you should keep these things to yourself, it's a part of life, it's a part of being a woman, you should have done more to defend yourself.

These assaults need to stop, but they won't until we realize that they matter. These things happen all the time and no one takes them seriously because we are conditioned to not take them seriously. You see, I was too afraid to say something on that train, because I didn't want to cause a scene. I was afraid of accusing someone of something like that, because what if it really was his bag just brushing up against me? Don't be crazy, I tell myself. But the thing is, it wasn't his bag. I knew what was happening and yet, I gave a stranger the benefit of the doubt before I gave it to myself.

At that bar, I felt guilty for being upset after. I felt like I was going to ruin our night if I dwelled on it. I felt like it was my job to let it go, brush it off, smile, and drink my beer. Even though I felt sick, even though a hole was burning through my body while to my assailant, I was just another ass grabbed.

And it's sickening that I could easily double or triple the size of this post if I were to actually detail all the other times in my life I've been violated. Starting in high school, through college, into my mid-twenties, there have been seemingly countless times that people were confused about who actually owns my body.

And it's even more sickening, that there are probably many, many women reading this post and thinking, me too.

Don't be crazy, we use to tell ourselves. Not anymore. Us too.