Last
Friday night, I went to Goth Night with a favorite friend and some of his
favorite friends. Though I’ve been going to Goth Nights for about 25 years and
my friend could NOT have been more welcoming, I was brightly-clad fish out of
water. The people around us were all young and fit in their perfect black
clothes, impeccably made up. (Including
these teeny tiny star decals—how did they know how to do that?!) But my perceived
disconnect with my fellow dancers could not have mattered less—my pal and I
were the smiliest goths in all of history and I could NOT contain my glee at
getting to dance to Nine Inch Nails just like I did when I was 19.
At one
point, a bro-y guy sort of got in our space and maybe without even meaning to,
my pal and his beautiful variously-queer squad formed a dancing wall between
the bro and ourselves until he faded off away—a gift and a miracle.
As I
flailed around awkwardly and joyously, I compared this evening to the dance
nights of my twenties and felt a PROFOUND difference—I’m all the way here on
the planet more than I’ve ever been. My dorky fake converses felt grounded to
the earth, solid in a way it’s taken me so long to achieve. I’m not just
reacting to the currents of life anymore, I’m planted. Even when I’m not in my perfect
blue bubble of an apartment, I’m home.
I wanted
to hug my twenty- and thirty- and forty-year-old selves, tell them how proud I
am of how far we’ve come, how strong I am now, but instead I settled for
leaping about like a demented cheerleader to the supposedly bleak music. I was
so, so happy that I’d put on an outfit and gone.
Earlier
last week, I had a far less joyful but just as grounding experience, writing this
bummer of a letter to my neighborhood gym:
“Dear --------------,
I am writing today to tell you a story that may be
triggering. I do not currently feel safe attending (gym name) and I hope that
you can help me. I am planning to pause my membership for three months to give
the issue time to resolve.
On Saturday, January 28 at about 12:20 PM, I was
sitting in the hot tub when a man came and sat down on the hot tub steps,
directly across from me, blocking any comfortable exit. He was white,
medium-height, bald, and had a mustache. As he settled into the water, he
started contentedly rubbing his crotch, as if there were no one else in the
room. He did this for several minutes, alternating with splashing water on
himself. I felt very uncomfortable and violated. It didn’t seem like he was
directing the behavior at me, more like my presence and the presence of other
gym patrons didn’t matter at all.
When I asked him why his hands were in his crotch, he
denied it, got very flustered and angry and stormed off. Although he had left
the room, I did not feel safe and was forced to leave my workout early and go
home.
I called and reported it on Monday morning, January 29th,
at around 7 AM. The woman at the desk was very kind and receptive, but the
situation still feels unresolved. I often enjoy attending the pool at night,
and I don’t want to risk being alone in the pool area with this man. I
absolutely do not feel that this is something I should have to worry about at
the gym (or anywhere!)
Female customers should feel just as safe and entitled
to their space at the gym as men do. We are paying the same amount and we
deserve the same access to services without fear of violation.
Here are the fixes that I am asking for:
1. This
man should have his gym membership revoked.
2. The
gym needs a clear sexual harassment policy, sent to members, visible on the
website, and posted clearly in all gym areas.
3. A
female staff member should be posted in the pool area at all times.
4. Staff
should be trained in sexual harassment prevention and trauma sensitivity so
that patrons can feel comfortable coming to them with any concerns.
I would be happy to meet with you and discuss this. I
have otherwise enjoyed my time at (gym name) and I hope that we can find a just
solution for me and for your female patrons.
Best,
Jane”
I’m
so annoyed that I had to spend my time on this, and that I’ll probably have to
go to a meeting about it and/or find a way out of my membership contract, but
this is the widest margin I’ve ever given myself for recovering from this kind
of thing. I didn’t want to write the letter, but I asked my body what it wanted
and this was the only answer that I got.
This vexingly
commonplace incident reminded me of an earlier one, from when I was sixteen or
seventeen. I used to like to take the bus from the suburbs into what seemed at the
time like the “big city” of Syracuse, NY. On this particular day, I had spent
the day at the big library, picking out an art-themed and vaguely beatnik-y
book of poetry.
I was
dressed as I dressed for most of high school-- a polyester thrift store find, a
short, red floral print dress and probably lug-soled mary janes—I love the
Nineties SO MUCH. It was spring, just warm enough to go to the park and read. I
sprawled beside a tree with my poems and almost instantly, a man sat down next
to me. He had curly hair and a shiny grey mustache and was wearing several mismatched
hippie prints—and there was clearly something just…wrong with him. No one had
taught me that you can tell someone to go away, so I just tried to ignore him
and concentrate on my poems.
I heard
a terrible slish and looked up to see
him tugging on his flaccid, worm-white penis and staring at me intently. In a
wave of revulsion I stood up quickly to go and he said incredulously “You’re
leaving?”
What
happened next is so cliché that I don’t even want to type it—the police station
was like RIGHT THERE next to the park, they totally could have nabbed the guy.
The policeman, though, like a villain out of some perverse after school
special, said “What are you doing alone in the city, and what are you wearing
that dress for?”
I
quoted the cop in a bad poem at open mic night that night (I tried for decades
to get his line into a good poem, it’s
just too stupid!) but I’d gotten the message from both the regular creep and
the cop-creep: This city, this space, is ours, and anything that happens to you
in it will be your own fault.
The thing
is, though, that park was just as much mine as anybody’s. Despite the policeman’s
assertion, nobody had planted the trees and flowers so that guys in mismatched
hippie clothes could take full advantage of whatever glimpse of teenage leg he
happened to get. That park was mine to read in, just like the gym’s hot tub is
mine to soak in. This is my world too, and I am sick and tired of feeling
intimidated out of it.
Women
and other people with marginalized bodies (i.e. everyone who isn’t a straight,
white cisgender man) should always get to feel as welcomed, grounded, and safe
as I felt on that dance floor Friday night. I’m angry at the amount of
emotional labor it is taking to move us all forward, but I’m so, so glad to
help us claim our rightful place, which is everywhere.
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