What if we all knew what we all know?

Me? Oh no I haven’t been sexually assaulted. Well, sure a guy totally grabbed my butt on a city street, but whatever. Oh. That’s unwanted sexual attention or contact? Yeah, I guess it is. I guess it technically qualifies as assault. Yeah, I felt affronted. I was shocked. I didn’t really know what to do. I didn’t even bother slapping the guy because I was too surprised. True. I was a little rattled by it. But then I just went on. And I mostly stopped thinking about it. Why? Because shit like that happens all the time. No, I wouldn’t say it’s no big deal. It’s just…I don’t know…not worth worrying over. There was also this time…

What would happen if all the women who have experienced this kind of casual sexual assault could be seen? What if its ubiquity could be manifested? It wouldn’t have to be some giant melodrama. It could be something small, a not-so-secret secret signal to each other just so that we could be visible. So we could be seen without having to re-hash. Without having to tell each exhausting story in its mundane or gruesome facts. What if we had some kind of lady-batsignal that we could all adopt, and wear openly and unashamedly. What if we got an actual visual register of just how many women go through the world bearing the unbearable weight of misogyny, misogynoir, objectification and male entitlement?

What if, looking back on this moment decades from now, some woman was trying to explain to her daughter why almost all the women they knew wore the fleur-de-lis pin on their lapels or bags?

Well, honey, I don’t really remember exactly when it started, but there seemed to come a moment when women all over this country just seemed to stand up and rip off the mantle of shame that had kept women silent about sexual aggression and violence for years. It’s not like we didn’t know that not talking about it was playing right into the hands of the aggressors. As long as no one knew for sure that it was everywhere, men could continue to pretend like sexism wasn’t real, like women who did speak about it were hysterical, or liars, or attention whores, or worse — sluts who deserved it.

What’s a slut? Well, “slut” is a term we used to use — yes, both men and women — to describe women who were sexually promiscuous. Well, because it was deemed a bad thing for a woman to be too sexually active. Yeah, even when they were supposed to be sexy all the time, they weren’t supposed to actually have to much of the sex. Or at least, not have it and then be open about it. I know. It’s confusing. No, men weren’t really called sluts. Well, because men who had lots of sex were macho, or deemed rockstars by their peers.

So, for a long time, women who had been sexually assaulted just kept quiet about it. If it was something small like a kiss or a grope they’d tell themselves it wasn’t really that big of a deal. You didn’t want to “cause a scene” over something that someone would say you should consider a compliment, or flirting. If it was bigger, you’d write it off as “a bad night” and go on. Or if you thought about reporting because you knew you’d been wronged, you’d then have to convince a whole bunch of other people that what happened to you really happened and that it was not okay. Because lots of people would think you were making it up. And even if they admitted it was real, they wouldn’t necessarily think it was something you should make a scene about.

So, lots of women just never said anything. And these things would happen. And they’d go on. And some would forget, because these things were so common they almost seemed normal. Upsetting, sure, but not out of the ordinary.

And some would not forget. Some would be ashamed that this had happened to them. Feeling like it had been their fault. Like if only they had worn something else, or not made eye contact, or said “no” differently, or had fought harder it wouldn’t have happened. Or if they weren’t ashamed of that, they were ashamed that they were somehow tainted — damaged goods. That because someone had treated them like a subhuman object and then discarded them no one else would ever want them. Or worse, that they really weren’t a whole human, and didn’t deserve to be treated like one.

For a long time we kept quiet. And women everywhere went around pretending it hadn’t happened to them because it hadn’t happened to anyone they knew. And if we all pretend it isn’t happening, it’s like it’s not real, right?

And then one day, no. Everyone knew that everyone else had been through it. Men started assaulting women in bathrooms if they didn’t look female enough. They started policing women’s wombs, raping women with ultrasound wands if women got pregnant and didn’t want to have ababy. Putting women in prison for the accidental death of a fetus. And they bragged publicly about grabbing women by their pussies, and I don’t know. No, none of that was new. But it was after women thought they’d gained some kind of equality and freedom. So they let their guard down a little, and assumed they could go into public spaces, and do what they wanted with their bodies, and take their pleasure as they desired.

So one woman suggested we all wear a pin. Maybe a fleur-de-lis…because some woman in the Middle Ages had pushed back against sexism and misogyny by re-writing all of women’s known history into powerful stories about women who made the world they way they wanted it. And by re-telling the stories she built her own “city of ladies” as an alternative to the world she was living in that didn’t allow women very much freedom and no equality. She used the fleur — it signified the trinity of Justice, Reason and Rectitude, the three goddesses over her city of ladies. Justice helped her to know that the treatment of women was wrong. Reason helped her to know that there is a truth in the virtue and power of women, and to help her find that in the stories she collected and retold. And Rectitude helped her to measure out the steps of her task as she “builds” the city. But Rectitude also divides good from evil, punishes the evil and rewards the just. Something like that.

So you started to see them. Women had shared their stories of assault on Twitter, and in cafes, and started talking. And you sort of knew that there were so many of you, so it kind of became easy to wear it on your sleeve, so to speak. You’d already broken the glass…you’d already told the entire world, and all your colleagues, and friends, and sexist right wing cousins that you’d been through it. You’d already had some gross dude (or many) on Twitter tell you to “stop whining” about nothing or he’d “give you a sexual assault to ‘share.’” You’d already put your name on your assault. Why not put your assault into something beautiful that you could wear in solidarity with everyone else?

I put one on. So did a few million other women. Not enough to really be representative. But then people started to talk about it. And it was on the news, and more women who had been assaulted did. And then, before you knew it some jerks were making bundles off of designing and marketing these little pins for the “empowerment of survivors.” But that didn’t stop the movement.

And what happened is we discovered through those little pins that we all shared something. And some men started to appear with the pins. It wasn’t clear if they also had been assaulted, or if it was just a signal of solidarity, but it was ok either way. What we started to realize is that almost all women had experienced some version of sexual aggression and/or violence. Yes. All of them.

No, not all wore pins. Some resisted. Some said the pins were shameful. Like the branding of slaves or the labeling of Jews during the Holocaust. Some tried to put the veil of silence and denial back over everyone, screaming and yelling, and telling all of us we were whores and should be ashamed of ourselves. But it was too late. Their shrill cries started to have a hollow echo because now we knew. Now we could see.

When you went into a busy area in New York and you looked at every woman who passed by, you could find the pin. You could find it on all kinds of women: young, old, rich, poor, students and professionals, beautiful women and mousy women who hid behind their bangs or belly.

And there was some kind of power in that ubiquity. We didn’t have to argue anymore that misogyny was real. We didn’t have to say that sexual assault should be taken seriously. We could look around and know that it was real. I don’t know if it makes sense, but that was a really big deal. Why? Well, because the massive effort to try to push it under the rug was *almost* working. It had all the women in the country *almost* convinced that what they were experiencing — violence, aggression, intimidation, objectification, assault — wasn’t really happening, or at least that it wasn’t that (violence). We doubted ourselves. And as long as we did, we didn’t talk about it with anyone else, because it was bad enough to have to convince ourselves that it was real. It would be worse having to convince someone else it was real just so you could get the encouragement you needed.

But then there it was. In silver, and gold, and rhinestones, and resin, and tiny little flashes of metal and big, colorful displays. Each woman wore it differently, but she wore it. And it was like we all decided to signify what we knew to be true. But we didn’t need words. And we didn’t have to win any arguments. And we didn’t have to convince anyone. Each one of us just put our truth on our jackets and shirts and necklaces and suddenly, the sexus viris was made manifest. It was like genocide without the dying. The scale of it was staggering. But also life-affirming. You looked at another woman and now she caught you in the eye, “yes. Yes you too? Yes.” and you walked on, and you held your head high, in defiance, strengthened knowing that this woman was at your right flank if you had to go into battle.

But you didn’t, and that was what was great. At first.

But also, it meant you didn’t have to prove it to men. There were two kinds of men that needed “proof” back then. The first was the kind that meant well but just couldn’t see any of it because he himself wasn’t the kind of person who would do it. So he just thought it couldn’t be that bad. Surely. The second was the kind that would perpetrate it and then deny it existed. Arguing not that it wasn’t real, but that it wasn’t what you thought it was, that you were too stupid to understand, you were being irrational, or emotional, or oversensitive, or just needed to learn how to take a joke or loosen up a little. He knew what he was doing and just wanted to bully you into not talking about it so he could keep doing what he was doing and getting away with it.

And if a man argued, you never knew which kind he was. So you stopped arguing. They weren’t worth it. Why try to explain it to someone who might be a good man, who could care, and be on your side, and love you, if only he could understand when you could go through all of that only to find out that he’d actually just be one more of those bullies and abusers you’ve been trying to convince him of. He knew it all along, but pretended otherwise. You thought he might be ok, but then no. Why risk it?

But the pins meant we didn’t have to explain. It was real. Men or no. And when the pins were there, you could tell which kind of man was which. Because the ones who meant well but couldn’t see it, well, now they could see it. So we didn’t have to argue. Because those who were going to get it, well, they got it. It was right in front of their faces. I mean, it always had been, but they could compute seeing the quantities of pins better than they ever seemed to be able to process the voices of women who were telling them. Men are better at visual things than auditory learning.

It was surprising to realize how few men there were of this kind at first. Most just wanted to keep on not seeing, so they did. They ignored the pins everywhere. And if some poor woman tried to make them see, they’d just yell and bluster and threaten. And then go on not seeing. You can’t make men see things they insist on not seeing.

But over time, there were more who could see the pins than those who couldn’t. And that changed things for women. The assaults and aggression got less and less. And that made it easier to move about the world freely. Public spaces became less threatening, and the behavior of un-seers started to become taboo. It didn’t disappear, it just went underground. They couldn’t be so open about it because they’d get publicly shamed for sexual aggression. But it would still happen in private, in corners, late at night, after a few drinks, or when no one else was looking. But it was better.

It wasn’t a city of ladies, but it was a city that ladies could live in, move in, breathe in, and expect not to be assaulted in.

We still wear the pins, because it’s still the truth. These things have still happened to us. That doesn’t ever go away. And the pins are a reminder of that truth, and what happens if we cover it up.

Yes, everyone knows now. Or almost. But as soon as everyone knows, and we think we don’t need the pins anymore, then we will forget why we needed them in the first place. No, dear, I don’t think that would be a good thing. Forgetting is not healing.

Well, one day you’ll become a woman, and then you’ll wear a pin. And then you’ll understand.