What I Was(n’t) Wearing

[teaberryblue]

I don’t remember if I was twelve or thirteen. I do know that it was sometime during Bar Mitzvah season, the spring of seventh grade or the autumn of eighth. I’m pretty sure it was after someone’s Bar or Bat Mitzvah, and I’m pretty sure that it happened at a synagogue, even though my memory tries to replace the space beyond archway where I waited that night with the backdrop of my high school. But I remember fairly well that I was underneath a brick archway, the kind at pickup spots, where you can wait in the rain for your ride to come.

And I remember what I was wearing.

It was a black satin sailor-style outfit– one piece, with a high neckline and long, knee-length culottes instead of a skirt, white piping on the collar. It was dressy, and conservative, and appropriate to wear to a Bar Mitzvah service. I also thought it was very grown up.

It was dark, and most of the guests had left. The parking lot lights glowed overhead, but it was well into evening and the sky was dim. There were just three of us there, waiting for our parents to come pick us up. I was standing against one side of the arch. The two boys, both boys from my grade at school, were standing against the other side, chatting. I went to a small school, so while I wasn’t friends with them and wouldn’t say I knew them particularly well, I knew who they were, what classes they were in, that sort of thing.

The funny thing is, all these years later, I cannot for the life of me remember who the second boy was. I don’t remember if he did anything or said anything. I know there was a second boy there, that’s all. The other one, I remember vividly.

I don’t know how it started, but they came over to my side of the arch, and I think they chatted with me a little bit. Harmless, casual chat. I don’t remember that either. I do remember that I was downright shocked by the question the boy asked me.

“Can I touch your breasts?” he asked, suddenly, out of the blue, out of nowhere.

I felt like I’d had the wind knocked out of me. “What?” I asked him, and I hunched my shoulders over to make my breasts look smaller. They were already extremely large; I was already self-conscious of them. “No,” I added, once I came to the full realization that he had really asked that.

He seemed undeterred. “Please?” he asked. “Why not?”

I remember being mostly incredulous that he asked that. I think I laughed. I asked him if he was joking, and told him no again, more firmly, and probably with whatever kind of strong language passed for a swear in my very stuffy preteen mind.

He told me that he just wanted to see what it felt like.

I told him no, repeatedly, and in no uncertain terms. I am pretty sure I told him that was gross.

And then he reached out, and grabbed my breast, and squeezed it, with all five of his fingers. And then dropped his hand, and described it to his friend, as if I wasn’t even there anymore, now that he’d gotten what he’d wanted. I remember him saying it didn’t feel any different from any other body part, and sort of squishy.

I remember my face going completely hot, and I remember being struck dumb. I’d told him no, over and over again, and he didn’t listen.

I was lucky, I guess, that we were in a public place, even if it was fairly empty, and that my parents were on their way to pick me up, and that all he wanted was to touch my breast, because if he’d asked for something else, he clearly didn’t seem interested in taking no for an answer.

I have never written out this story in detail. I have mentioned it in passing a few times. I did drop out of peer tutoring in high school when I was assigned to tutor him. I couldn’t bring myself to tell the advisor why I was dropping out. I just explained that I was too busy.

I was wearing knee-length culottes and a short-sleeved top with a high neckline. It was black, and dressy, and conservative. It was not low-cut, or high-cut, or tight, or fitted. Because men (and boys) don’t take our clothing as an invitation. They take our existence as an invitation. A man who wants to humiliate a woman, or touch a woman in a way she doesn’t want to be touched doesn’t think about a woman as being a person with feelings and wishes of her own to be respected. He doesn’t care what she is wearing.

This wasn’t the last time this happened to me, although it was certainly the most shocking. That outfit was only the first in a line of outfits that I have taken home, and crumpled up on the floor of my closet, and been unable to bring myself to wear again. Because even when I know the things I’ve said above, girls are taught that it’s either something they’re wearing, or something they’re doing. I know it’s not. But it’s still easier to blame it on the clothes, even when the clothes were knee-length, high-necked, black, dressy and conservative.

Mirrored from Antagonia.net.

Comments

[geishawhite.livejournal.com]

I was going to say 'I think I am one of those women who has never experienced direct, physical counteracting of my wishes, who has never been made to feel like a sex object'. I was going to say, partly this means I am one of that group that does not know what it is like on an innately personal level and thus likely to be targeted by those attempting to rally support for the notion that how you dress is an invitation. Except:

I have had my breasts remarked on (whilst wearing my school uniform, whilst in school, whilst not wanting or invoking attention, whilst being obviously discomforted) and my appearance commented on by guys within my earshot, as if I do not matter. And I dismiss that in my head as 'well, that happens'. I have had men make remarks or whistle when on the street (and I am overweight and self conscious and dress like I am self-conscious, I read when I walk, I do not ask for attention figuratively or literally) and I dismiss that in my head as 'well, that happens'. I had a boyfriend (immediately after dumping him, sharing a house) corner me in my room, standing between me and the door and had my mind go terrified-blank, suddenly calculating all the ways this very angry male could hurt me because I was shorter and weaker and female. and I dismissed that at the time as 'well, this happens'.

I don't think there is a single woman out there who has not been made to feel lesser than she is for simply being female at some point. And some of us dismiss it as 'well, that happens' utterly missing the point. It shouldn't.

Thank you for sharing, Tea.

[teaberryblue.livejournal.com]

I think it happens to all of us in one way or another, and words and glances and hand-motions can be as humiliating and cowing as actual unwanted physical contact. I think it's very hard for any woman to be in a confrontational position with a man and not have those kinds of thoughts in the back of her head.

But we also do have to dismiss it as "well, that happens," some of the time, or we would never get through the day.

[dulcinbradbury.livejournal.com]

I have a friend who has said that this stuff has never happened to her. I wonder sometimes how much of it is just "well, this happens."

[geishawhite.livejournal.com]

I think Tea is correct in saying we must be cautious as to what becomes traumatic on the scale, as if every woman who has experienced incidents of the 'this just happens' kind reacted as strongly as the actions are wrong, we would be emotionally exhausted at being continually on the defensive. If we were always self-guarded, if we were constantly aware and vigilant, we would not be able to live life freely and happily, because being utterly conscious of one's status as a sexual object -- not sexual being, an object, because how I feel when I am feminine and sexual and am conscious of being so is entirely different to making sure my teeshirt does not cling to me -- is an uncomfortable way to go about living a life that is not all about sex.

And it is. Tiring. Exhausting. I have just finished a degree in politics. I want to work in politics. My interest is in the Middle East. I can't work in the Middle East in the companies I want to. They won't deal with a woman. Politics is, in my experience, an old boys' club and I have been subjected to some seriously blue jokes and been discomforted but kept my mouth closed because I was present as a politically interested individual and not as a woman (and I had to suppress my sense of self as woman and my sense of outrage at this 'humour' being aired in my earshot or aired at all, because to comment on it, to make a serious stance and be offended means switching lanes pretty quickly). I know this is a discussion on touching and being utterly unprovoked in any way the media and (I was going to say 'the patriarchy', self-edited then realized with a wry sort of smile, it's true) others would have us believe. But this robbing women of agency, reducing them to their genitalia and dealing with them as if that is their sum total, affects all and every part of life -- from being self-conscious, to being warned by a female tutor, 'don't wear short skirts in X class as they'll look and they won't take you seriously, if you're not here to sleep with them'.

[dulcinbradbury.livejournal.com]

I hear you on the need to not go crazy with paying attention to it.

But it's hard when someone is either so lucky or so steeped in the kyriarchy that not only do they not notice the more casual things, but, they don't believe the problem is as pervasive as it is.