Don’t Touch Without Permission
Something I was too timid to say
I became an adult in the 1980s, before the “Me Too” furor. It was a decade when national newspapers (admittedly the trashy red-tops) published images of topless girls as a ‘feature’, the cameramen on pop-music shows regularly upskirted the female performers and Gail Porter’s nude image was projected onto the Houses of Parliament.
It’s undeniable. The social mores of the 1980s left plenty of loopholes for predatory males to say inappropriate things and make physical contact that was not invited. The recipients, mostly the female population, were supposed to laugh along, be a good sport, take it as a joke (despite being disrespected and creeped out by it). Racial and homophobic comments and behavior were also rife, but I can only recount what happened to me.
I had a driving instructor who abused his position to get his kicks.
Although I am no great brain, I’ve always done well in class, but I stumble at practical challenges: playing sports, or using fabric and a sewing machine. I struggle to improve my basic technique, the way I do things. I can concede I needed more practice, but it doesn’t seem that coaching or advice help me correct bad technique.
