What I need from the men I love.
To men trying to do better in the midst of an epidemic of sexual violence.
Ihave become a tempest, an unpredictable squall, churning with anger, sadness, frustration, mourning. I know this new emotional undertow is a mystery to you. It’s a mystery to me, too. I am awash in an ocean of grief, and the startling grip of its undercurrent has seized us both. I have been marooned by the tsunami of sexual assault and harassment stories flooding every shore, waves of actors, politicians, comedians, producers, every kind of public figure, crashing over us both.
The storms never seem to end. Until recently, their wreckage didn’t seem deserving of the lofty titles of assault or harassment. These were the routine actions of men my mother taught me to expect. These were the hazards of living in the world as a woman, an everyday inconvenience that I simply needed to move past. Like an ankle twisted on uneven pavement, these were the risks of moving through this world, and they were too unremarkable to warrant a report.
That’s why I didn’t speak up about the apartment manager who denied me housing when I declined his advances.
His actions were his own, but when it happened, through some strange, dark magic, I felt disgusted with myself. I laid in bed the rest of the day…
