Member-only story
Sometimes I Wonder if We Know What Consent Really Means
It’s not up for debate.
I was 11, crying at church because kids had excluded me from their game. An older man comforted me. I didn’t want him to. I didn’t want his hand on my thigh.
I didn’t know I was allowed to say no.
We’re 19 years old, dancing in some shoddy nightclub. Someone pinches my friend’s ass. She turns around. She tells him that's not appropriate. No woman should ever have their body touched without consent.
He calls her a frigid bitch and throws his drink in her face, right there on the dancefloor.
I was shocked. Not at him — men pinch asses all the time, right? But at her confidence to call the behaviour out. I was just a few months into college and a long way from home. Back in my hometown, we would collect ass-pinches like medals. A sign of being wanted. Desired.
My new college friend knew what I didn’t back then. That unsolicited ass-pinching isn’t a sign of desire but a blatant violation of consent.
I should have known. But I was never taught.
Twenty years later, my niece wakes me up by opening the curtains and jumping under the covers. Little limbs clamber over me and snuggle down. When she comes to stay, this is my favourite thing when…
