What is scary in all this, is not that men are suddenly being "persecuted;" rather that they have to see that generations who stand before them have failed to be an example, have failed to do better, and now, are failing to take responsibility for the system which has indubitably favoured them and left women in the position of vulnerability, a vulnerability that our legal system STILL plays to the favour of men.
What's difficult is the process of self-reflection, of recognizing fault, of recognizing privilege. Harder still is taking the things gleaned from this reflection, from account upon account from women, from research, from friends, from family, and coming to the conclusion that, now that you KNOW better, it is time to DO better. How to change the narrative, how to change the system, how to recalibrate the balance of power, all of these things are incredibly difficult, and doing these things cannot result in something better if the onus to change rests squarely on the ones whom the system says aren't worthy. The ones who are afraid to report rape, assault, or harassment because they won't be taken seriously or will be blamed for it in some way. The conversation MUST include men, and talk must become action.
The proceedings of the past weeks have left me wondering if it's even worth it, to articulate this at all, but in a bolt of clarity, I know it is, because I have seen the system fail people I love, and because it has failed me.
A month ago, I left my apartment and did not return. A 38-year old male roommate suffered something I can only describe as a psychotic break. There was shouting, screaming, and banging on doors and walls. I thought I would vomit from fear, and it was only luck that I had locked my door, otherwise he would have smashed it in during this rage. In the following days, he sent a series of harassing messages to me, left inflammatory notes on the walls leading up the stairs to the second floor where our rooms were, and in general did his best to explain all the ways in which I had hurt his feelings and I was mean, cruel, and unyielding toward him. After twice telling this man to cease contact with me and his refusal to do so, I went to the police.
The police officer read the messages, in which I said nothing untoward, racist, or inflammatory toward this man, except to demand that he take responsibility for his behavior and his failings, and in return, this man managed to call ME racist, ageist, a cripple, a liar, among many other things. At the end of this, the officer looked up and told me that I was being unreasonable, as I sobbed in front of him, that I should just apologize and smooth it over, that it seemed like a clash of personalities. He told me he would do nothing, because a direct threat had not been posed, and because I had not yet been physically harmed. My refusal to return home made neither of those criteria possible to come to pass.
This man went on and on and on about how I hurt his FEELINGS, and here I was, fearing for my life, facing targeted harassment, and terrified that if I stayed, this could end in rape or assault if the right thing set him off, an arbitrary thing. He is a full-grown, 38-year old man. I am a 26-year old disabled woman with an autoimmune disease so crippling that there are days where I cannot move. Like in horse-racing, everyone comes to the table with certain handicaps. They are not created equal, and the weight of what I bear is, unfathomably, more than what he will ever have to even WORRY about. These handicaps, at present, as male and female, are not comparable.
I think of all the times I wanted to bail on a date, or felt obligated to placate a man's ego to stop him from making advances I did not want, because sex means something to me that he cannot fathom and because my body is MINE, and the times where stopping these advances only just worked. In the back of my mind, a voice lives there, telling me that there is an expiration date, that one day, I won't be able to walk away unscathed, and I wonder, when? Next time? The time after? Perhaps the next man I get to know with romantic intent won't be this way, and I can let my guard down... but probably not. That is my daily reminder.
I have watched married men stare at my chest and undress me with their eyes, their wives sitting right next to them. I have been touched, groped, and coerced without invitation. I can count on being catcalled at least once per semester, but it's usually more. Several times per year I revisit the idea of investing in a Rottweiler and conceal-carry.
A drink has been assumed as an invitation to bed, my bed. Why? What a silly, stupid, ridiculous, dangerous game. How dare I want to know a person better over a drink one evening. How dare I not play the game that says I owe my body for that pleasure. Men, I promise you, if I want any part in your stupid games, you will know, and it will not be a game. That game you think you have to play is a lie you have been told, a lie created by the very generations who are failing you now, who are, unfairly, yes, placing the onus on you to be the force of change. But it is not a lie you have to buy, and that is half the battle.
So yes, it's scary and difficult, because the young men of today are being pushed into unknown territory, particularly the white, Christian, middle-class American man. Anything worth changing, anything worth doing, is straight horrifying most times.
Women are not the problem. Revenge is not the goal; change is.
blakekathryn
kianamaiart
theartofmadeline
