what degree of sexual harassment are you comfortable with?
Provocation is not the intention here. I type these words, among many an anecdote, souvenir or more docile topic to talk about. I'm in the middle of a move, mind you -sitting on a pile of clothes and cables and post-its too stuck together to evaluate one by one if they carry any importance. Movers will be at the door 7am sharp tomorrow morning. Three hours short of midnight -I must write one post a day- I take my fingertips on a little zigzagging about a painful subject matter as if it were something toward which I felt an altruistic responsibility, intellectually bien sur.
I have been sexually harassed, in different forms and time periods of my life. There is no other way to say it except this dry confessional tone. I will not tell you much, suffice it to say I have invisible engravings on my body and psyche that, underneath layers of consciousness, mental activity, nature and nurture remind me of their presence at the sight of a laughing girl, the smell of a summer afternoon in the city, the sound of a convincing male voice. Sexual harassment inflicts a permanent disease: it snaps, catches you off guard in moments of abandon, bliss or worse, much worse true and complete trust. And so all these things are a little tainted, a little offish.
"What degree of sexual harassment are you comfortable with?" asked the woman in me who seems to know better. Indeed, I of all people, could spit fire when I'm wronged. I have chased a man into a dark alley and nailed him to the floor (with the help of a few strangers who immediately guessed what happened) for groping me after a concert a couple of years back. Not advisable, no. Not safe. But as the saying goes 'blood tainted my vision', I was too mad to reason with. The police did anything after keeping me in the police station for 3 hours? Nah. But you know, two young girls who had seen what happened followed me to the alley, the station and stayed with me till the end. "We were gonna go clubbing." they said in the cutest way possible, "but this is more important."
The point I am taking detours to make is that sometimes women dismiss certain behaviour as mildly harassing, yes, but not quite. Excuse me? Yeah, excuse me, cause I grab myself by the back of my neck like a kitty caught in indecent demeanour. Excuse me ladies and gentlemen as I tolerate a drunken friend. A drunken friend who hits on me. I laugh it off, for alcohol is the maestro devil of all evils and should I not be in bed after the clock ticks inhibition-free testosterone in town? Have I not watched in amazement as women gently, gracefully, quietly fend off drunken men at all sorts of occasions? Have I not kept my mouth shut when a friend's partner made an inappropriate remark, a slight gesture, what I knew within to be alarming even though I had nothing to say outwardly? "I instinctively feel a threat here." would be my defence. Your honour, my guts in view of your male parts…
Women risk not recognising sexual harassment for what it is. Women of all walks of life, social strata, cultural background… Denial is infused like chamomile tea… comforting at times. Forgetfulness is a bubble bath. Keeping the chin up, smiling, minding one's own business… Especially in academia this is chilling when done by women claiming to feminism. "Why don't you just get over it?" once, a feminist supervisor of mine told me about a troubling case of sexo-psychological harassment. Or a course director who said "Professor E is the head of program. I don't know what his issue with you is but you know, I'm waiting for my tenure…" She knew too well that Professor E wanted submissive female disciples -I was not the only female student, platonic of course and purely intellectual.
What degree of not feeling right, secure, confident and truthful are you comfortable with? The question scares me. But it's the best question I asked myself lately.
I have been sexually harassed, in different forms and time periods of my life. There is no other way to say it except this dry confessional tone. I will not tell you much, suffice it to say I have invisible engravings on my body and psyche that, underneath layers of consciousness, mental activity, nature and nurture remind me of their presence at the sight of a laughing girl, the smell of a summer afternoon in the city, the sound of a convincing male voice. Sexual harassment inflicts a permanent disease: it snaps, catches you off guard in moments of abandon, bliss or worse, much worse true and complete trust. And so all these things are a little tainted, a little offish.
"What degree of sexual harassment are you comfortable with?" asked the woman in me who seems to know better. Indeed, I of all people, could spit fire when I'm wronged. I have chased a man into a dark alley and nailed him to the floor (with the help of a few strangers who immediately guessed what happened) for groping me after a concert a couple of years back. Not advisable, no. Not safe. But as the saying goes 'blood tainted my vision', I was too mad to reason with. The police did anything after keeping me in the police station for 3 hours? Nah. But you know, two young girls who had seen what happened followed me to the alley, the station and stayed with me till the end. "We were gonna go clubbing." they said in the cutest way possible, "but this is more important."
The point I am taking detours to make is that sometimes women dismiss certain behaviour as mildly harassing, yes, but not quite. Excuse me? Yeah, excuse me, cause I grab myself by the back of my neck like a kitty caught in indecent demeanour. Excuse me ladies and gentlemen as I tolerate a drunken friend. A drunken friend who hits on me. I laugh it off, for alcohol is the maestro devil of all evils and should I not be in bed after the clock ticks inhibition-free testosterone in town? Have I not watched in amazement as women gently, gracefully, quietly fend off drunken men at all sorts of occasions? Have I not kept my mouth shut when a friend's partner made an inappropriate remark, a slight gesture, what I knew within to be alarming even though I had nothing to say outwardly? "I instinctively feel a threat here." would be my defence. Your honour, my guts in view of your male parts…
Women risk not recognising sexual harassment for what it is. Women of all walks of life, social strata, cultural background… Denial is infused like chamomile tea… comforting at times. Forgetfulness is a bubble bath. Keeping the chin up, smiling, minding one's own business… Especially in academia this is chilling when done by women claiming to feminism. "Why don't you just get over it?" once, a feminist supervisor of mine told me about a troubling case of sexo-psychological harassment. Or a course director who said "Professor E is the head of program. I don't know what his issue with you is but you know, I'm waiting for my tenure…" She knew too well that Professor E wanted submissive female disciples -I was not the only female student, platonic of course and purely intellectual.
What degree of not feeling right, secure, confident and truthful are you comfortable with? The question scares me. But it's the best question I asked myself lately.
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