Not All Men. But Enough.
Trigger warnings: sexual harrassment/assault, mental health.
(14 years old.) We’re walking home from school. It’s one of those baking hot summer days. My friend and I are wearing shorts and t-shirts, traipsing beneath the late-afternoon sun, and get a beep from a passing car. We giggle uncertainly. It’s a compliment, right? 3 beeps later we’re not so sure.
(17.) I’m in a crowd at a music festival. My younger sister and I are waiting for our favourite band to come on. A hand fumbles at the base of my long coat, darts up and grabs my bum. I spin round and a guy with mocking eyes jeers, “It wasn’t me!” My heart beats hard and my face flushes with embarrassment. I shift slightly behind my sister to protect her. A paranoia-filled minute later, I drag her towards the edge of the crowd until there is space around us. I don’t tell her why we’re moving, and she protests but follows. I’m glad I chose to wear the jeans, not the dress.
(19.) I’m walking to a wildlife charity meeting. To help me feel more confident I got up extra early, chose a smart flowery dress and did my makeup. It’s before 9am and town is quiet. It’s cold and my coat is buttoned up. Music is playing through my headphones but I still hear the remark of “I’d bang that, hard” between two men, and then a call of “How old are you love? Come over ‘ere!”. I quicken my step. Street harassment and I are not strangers. The comments ring in my head all day.
(18.) I’m in a club. First term of University. Contrary to my fears, I’m enjoying it, having a good laugh with my new friends. In the bumble of bodies I feel a hand slip beneath my skirt. This has happened before and I am prepared. I clamp my legs together, twist round and make a grab for the hand. It’s snaked away. All dark faces look the same. Anger sobers me up and I sit in a booth until the rest of the group want to leave.
(19.) I’m at a charity training session. Separated into men and women, each group is told to write what they are afraid of on a night out. The boys’ list includes “getting rejected”. After we list a multitude of dangers including inappropriate touching, getting spiked and rape, there is a stunned silence from the men. One of them remarks, half-joking, “I don’t think I’d ever go out if I was a woman!” No one tells him that these concerns are what keep many of us home.
(14.) I’m in a classroom at school. Rape jokes are in fashion and used to describe everything. Stop raping my pencilcase, get your own pens, God. A particularly crude one is yelled. The teacher absentmindedly tells the class to quieten down. A boy grabs a girl, holds her down over his knee and repeatedly spanks her, yelling obscene jokes. She squeals, feebly protesting, she’s laughing, everyone’s laughing. I tell myself it’s just flirting and that I shouldn’t feel so uncomfortable. I leave the classroom.
(18.) I’m at the Health Centre. My GP is trying, not for the first time, to persuade me to take antidepressants. Look, he says. A pretty young girl like you should be out every night, getting kissed by all the boys. I want to tell him that being touched without my permission nearly every time I have the energy to go out makes me question society, not my mental health.
(19.) I’m waiting at a bus stop on the way to a friend’s house. It’s mid-week, but a fairly busy club night. Far down the other side of the road walk three girls, linked arm in arm, wearing backpacks and obviously not on a night out. I glance when I hear a group of teenage men running down the street, chanting and wooping. One of them breaks away from the group, sprints across to the girls and strikes the middle one on the backside. Hard. My own cry of surprise is lost in her scream of terror and pain. Even from far away I watch the force of the blow knock her forward, away from her friends, on to her knees. The guys stop for a moment, confused, then led by the assaulter all run off again. My bus arrives and I get on quickly, scared. I wonder what he’ll think of himself if he remembers it in the morning.
(20.) I’m in the city library. I’m wearing my new favourite dress. Long sleeves and tights protect me from the unseasonal chill. A man with grey hair, a slight stoop and navy jumper stares in turn at the books on the opposite shelf and at me. He circles my table while fumbling in his backpack, getting a small object out. My heart rate rises a little, tampered by the beta blocker I took that morning. I look up directly into his camera lens at the same time as I hear the shutter go. The feeling of violation takes me aback. He sits down opposite, meets my eyes with a confident smirk. He owns a photo of me. Without my permission. I get up, go downstairs, try to find a staff member, return to my seat, he’s still there, start to write an email, delete it. The beta blocker is losing the fight against my rising panic. I lock myself in a toilet, hyperventilate until my adrenalin is appeased. A private conversation with staff members reassures me I did not overreact. They try to find the man, but he’s gone. A report is filed and I am advised to move to a more staffed area. I leave and sit and shake in a cafe, drinking tea until I regain enough control to remember which bus will take me home. A phrase uttered between staff examining CCTV sticks in my mind. Is he one of our, erm, known regulars? I do not wear the dress again.
(15.) I’m on the bus to school. My best friend and I debate whether what we’re wearing will get us through the school door. Shoulders, thighs, chests, bra straps — none should be visible. The school dress code includes a minimum measurement of the cloth that should cover shoulders. Teachers scrutinise every body that enters. Teaching us that our bodies are under their jurisdiction. Teaching us that it’s our fault if boys are distracted by our bodies. We know this is wrong, but don’t know how to say it. At lunch all the boys remove their tops.
(18.) I’m at a Fresher’s Week white t-shirt social. Sharpies are handed out in the first pub. I draw a cute little bee on my friend’s shoulder. A tall third year on committee comes over, flushed with excitement and authority. He holds my arm in one hand and with the other writes FUCK ME, I’M FRESH!! across my chest. When the group leaves for the next pub, I make my excuses and slip back to my uni room.
(14.) I’m leaving the changing room for PE class. The boys, as usual, have lined both sides of the corridor. The prettiest girls are let by with just a ping of the bra strap or a tug of the shorts. The rest of us are tripped up and given tips on how to improve our appearance. I’d rather be in the second group, and wear a full tracksuit even in summer. Once, I try to tell my form teacher about this ritual and wind up in a panic attack. The head of PE is called, and promises a confidential meeting at lunch time. I wait outside his office. He never turns up.
(20.) I’m in my favourite pub, alone, early for once. My boyfriend calls to say they’re just round the corner. The two guys standing opposite me are laughing and drunk, jibing each other about how 50 is too old to get with me. Offer to buy me a drink. Or three? I decline politely and start to move away. “Would you mind if I kissed you?” I smile vaguely, fix my stare on his shoulder. He’s closer than I thought. I mumble no, that wouldn’t be good, my boyfriend is just downstairs. “Ah,” he says. “That’s just a lie to put me off.” His tone is lower, his stare more intense. “I think I’m gonna kiss you anyway.” He puts his drink down and my world shrinks to my beating heart and how his hands are somehow already on the wall either side of my body how did I get into a corner why did I let myself get into a corner? I hear my voice squeak no, no thank you, really, please leave me alone. So polite. His friend sniggers, “He’s gonna have you anyway!”. I feel his cheek scratch down the side of mine, his face is in my hair and I suddenly, finally, realise I do have arms I can push him away so my hands on his shoulders, I shout NO, GET OFF. He stumbles back, blinking. Apologises; he “didn’t mean no harm”. His friend throws a gruff sorry over his shoulder as they leave. I feel oddly calm, and thank my medication for preventing a screaming panic attack right there and then. A bartender comes up. “You alright? That guy was, like, harrassing you?!” I wonder why he waited until now to ask.
All these incidents are fairly minor, and are over and done with. Except… they’re kind of not. These memories, these experiences — they all get stored up in our minds. We might forget the minutiae of when and where, but we remember the fear and the hurt and the anger.
I was on a bus when I first heard the phrase “not all men” deployed outside of Twitter, in real life. I’m on a bus to town.
“What d’you think I’m gonna do to you?!”
The driver had hit the brakes hard, nearly sending a slightly drunk man toppling over into some other passengers. A woman flinched away. This had completely enraged the guy, who seemed to take it as a personal insult and asked the above question. He yelled a few obscenities before the bus driver asked him to get off. As the doors shut behind him, Angry Man shouted “not all men are scumbags who’re gonna feel you up and rape you!”
Angry Man — you’re right. Not all men.
But in reply to your question, the lady who flinched away from you doesn’t know what you’re gonna do. What she does know are the things you are capable of. Therefore a wariness of all men is understandable. All women are subjects of sexism, and this can put us in danger. (If you don’t believe this, search #YesAllWomen and @EverydaySexism.)
Consider this explanation:
You know that some M&Ms are poisoned. Not all; but some. The poison might hurt you, and it might even kill you.
Maybe you have previous bad experience of being poisoned.
You are given a pack of M&Ms. Told that some are as sweet as can be.
Would you eat them all, straight away, without fear? Or return the pack and say no, thank you, it’s safer for me to assume they are all capable of poison?
So if you ever find yourself in Angry Man’s position, wanting to shout NOT ALL MEN, frustrated at the fear so many of us show at perfectly innocent men — remember the M&Ms. Not all men, no. But #YesAllWomen have had enough negative experiences, for long enough in our lives, to make us more than cautious.
Some things are pleasant to write and pleasant to read. This piece isn’t one of them. Its purpose was to inform and explain. Thank you for reading.
This article has some great suggestions on how to practice self-care when dealing with street harassment.
Huge thanks go to the amazing Hannah Watson who so kindly proofread for me!
Please feel free to add comments here or on tweet me @BeccaLaBee.
