Though Hillary’s debate
triumph last Wednesday filled me with bratty, exuberant defiance, the fact
still remains that we all sat through ninety minutes of misogyny, gaslighting,
and rape culture. It was a night of calling Secretary Clinton (and by extension
us) stupid, incompetent, a liar. Trump actually came out and said that if she
didn’t want him to do bad things, she should have stopped him. We’ve been
through the “debunking,” dismissing, and discrediting of rape victims by both
parties. Though it was a wild relief to hear Hillary speak up so unequivocally
for our right to physical autonomy, it feels unfair that we should still have
to be fighting so hard for it. A lot has been written about how this is a
different election for women than for men, about the way Trump’s debasement of
women has gotten into our bodies. I hate the way it separates women from the
men in our lives and bonds us in a state of Get
the fuck off us, already.
Going into work after the
“grab them by the pussy” weekend (which, by the way, made the Internet what
I’ve always wanted it to be, a barrage of incensed women vowing snarlingly to
reclaim our space.) I sat down next to a female coworker I don’t know that well
and told her that I was feeling jangled. She knew exactly what I meant and
expressed her own wish for a blanket fort until the election is over. We had
trouble settling in, we were vigilant, both hyperpresent and not there at all.
That’s what Trump’s abuse and violation of women reminds us of: The times our
bodies were not our own, the vague threat that if we’re okay right now, it’s
only because they’re letting us be.
When I went to my tutoring job the same day, the dad
had the news on and Trump was dismissing his most recent accusers. Though I
shuddered at the situation and the sound of Trump’s voice, I tried to be jokey
about it while making it clear that I wanted the news to go away so I could
work.
Nice Tutoring Dad said this:
“I don’t know why they’re talking about this. It
doesn’t even have to do with policy.”
I was done being jokey. My expression darkened and my
voice dropped all the way down.
“Yes. It. Does.”
(I didn’t say: Trump’s WHOLE policy is rape,
dehumanization, coercion, entitlement. Instead of “Make America Great Again,”
his slogan should be “Let Straight White Men Define, Harm, and Exploit
Everything and Everyone.” From stop and frisk to forced pregnancy to anti-gay
conversion camps to fetishizing the Second Amendment, Trump’s campaign is aimed
at using force to shore up the power of a majority that will soon no longer exist,
using fear to fuel oppression of people who are no longer willing to be
oppressed.)
Nice Tutoring Dad did
turn off the news and I got my work done without a panic attack, but as I was
leaving, he put the news back on and when Trump inevitably appeared on the
screen, he said “There’s your friend.” Haha yes, my friend, the pussy grabber,
the stop-and-frisker, the child-rapist. His jokey comment took me out of any
sense of equality and put me solidly on guard, that awful closed-up feeling of
suspecting my safety is provisional. I didn’t know how I would go back to work
at that house.
I needed to find a way to
bridge the distance between my experience of the election and his and so,
emboldened by the thousands of women around the world who were stepping up to
tell their stories, I just came out and told him. I texted and told him that
I’m an “assault survivor” (both “rape” and “sexual” seemed like words I didn’t
want to text to an employer, even an informal one) and that the news made me
panicky and made it hard to concentrate on my student. He took it very well and
there has been no news on and no more insensitive comments. Sending that text
was a powerful moment for me, a genuine flawed human connection in the midst of
a professional relationship, one of those magically humane moments that always
manage to sneak in. But at the same time, why did I have to tell him that I had
been raped in order for him to be respectful about it—why isn’t it enough that
ANYONE had been?
This week I took to heart
the fact that while I have the courage/privilege/years of therapy to stand up
for myself, to come out and tell my story, there are so many women who don’t
have the words. For every generous soul who shares her story at #notokay, there
are countless others who blame themselves instead, who turn themselves inside
out to excuse and identify with their attackers, who lose the power of speech
entirely just when they need it most. I want to recommit to speaking up for and
with them.
In large ways and small,
the times our bodies are not our own changes us, changes our course like creepy
rocks in an otherwise lovely stream. For me, it’s the constant battle between
liberation and safety, between my openhearted adult self and my inner teenager
who is livid and snarling because she couldn’t fight off her attackers. No
matter how full my life is of flowers, cake, and kid-art, the past is still in
me: The drugged, helpless feeling, the favorite shirt covered with blood, the parts
left out of the deposition, the loss of connection, the struggle for hope.
With so much grace and
work, I’ve transformed my past traumas into superpowers. My pesky vigilance
gives me a knack for creating an atmosphere of acceptance and safety. My sensitivity
to persecution gives me a chance to be a voice for anyone who might need an
advocate. Knowing the true meaning of helplessness gives me the drive to always
believe I can make things better, to hang in there for the little changes that
add up to big ones.
Still, I’d love to go
back in time and lead my childhood self briskly and decisively away from every
abuser, every “you’re too sensitive,” every questionable babysitter, every
non-consensual bruise. I’d love to intercept myself on the way to one particular
party, wrap up my teenage self in blankets, and tell her she is so, so loved.
And I can, I do.
Every uncomfortable text,
every campaign call, every door-knock, every march and rally has been for that
little self, to show her she’s not trapped, to show her the love she deserves
and make the world a little safer for other little girls, for everyone.
I hate the things that
divide us, especially the disconnect I’ve always felt from men. The times that
I manage to bridge the gap are too precious and lovely to contain. In the last
few weeks, sprouting like a morning glory on a trellis of triggers, I’ve felt
something else: A reconnection to the part of myself that’s open, yielding,
willing to let my imagination run away with me in the best ways. In the safety
and strength of a sea of riled-up women (and a few adorably ally-ish men) I’ve
felt something strangely and miraculously like health, the knowledge that our
bodies are have infinitely more love and magic than oppression could ever
really take away, that the angry cries of Trump supporters are those of a dying
way of life. They’re trolling us because they are at the end of their
relevance, because their time is up. Part of me, most of me, is glowing pink
for whatever life comes next.
