The infuriating reality of different perspectives
In 2013, I was sexually assaulted by a stranger on a bus who initiated sexual contact with me over my protest. This isn’t uncommon. One survey found 43.9% of women have experienced non-rape sexual assault. (http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/ss6308a1.htm?s_cid=ss6308a1_e) 21.1% of those incidents are from strangers. (http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/ss6308a1.htm?s_cid=ss6308a1_e#Table3) To be clear, the reason for the terminology rape is defined as requiring penetration. Sexual assault merely requires unwanted sexual contact. There’s at least some evidence that this distinction is based more on heteronormative assumptions about sexuality than on how those of us who are assaulted experience it. For example, at least one study found that PTSD symptoms in those who experienced penetrative sexual assault were no worse than those who experienced other forms of unwelcome sexual contact (http://www.cdc.gov/mmwr/preview/mmwrhtml/ss6308a1.htm?s_cid=ss6308a1_e). I personally had PTSD before I had been assaulted. I’d been raped by an intimate partner. This too is not uncommon for women like me. Transgender people experience around a 50% rate of having experienced sexual violence, and many of us having experienced repeated sexual violence. (http://www.researchgate.net/profile/Rebecca_Stotzer/publication/222055542_Violence_against_transgender_people_A_review_of_United_States_data/links/0deec52578acf33ed7000000.pdf). For me, in many ways being assaulted by a stranger in public was worse than being raped by my ex-boyfriend. Before, my primary fears had been of violence in private, something I had at least some control over. I could not date, or not date men. Both could reduce my risk. But after, it seemed like anyone who found me attractive could just walk up and assault me. I dropped out of public society for months. I was scared. When I would try to go out, sometimes I would find myself shaking uncontrollably. Anytime I was startled, a dog barked, a siren went off, whatever, my fight or flight response would be triggered and I would be sent scurrying for some place to breathe deeply for a few minutes or where I could swallow a Xanax. I dropped out of most public activities, dropped out of work, and hid. I couldn’t handle the fear that any man on a whim could hurt me like that again. Eventually, I found ways to reassure myself enough to get out in public again. I started carrying pepper spray and a stun gun. I got a tattoo of a rose growing through my arm that I hoped would send the signal that I was a badass lady not to be fucked with. I wore stud bracelets on my arms with pointy spikes so that I would literally stab people if they got too close. Instead of smiling at men, I learned to glare at them so they would stay away and not assume I was somehow flirting with them. During this process, this process of learning to stay safe, the most infuriating part was dealing with the men who did not get these signals. I still, as I had been got complimented on my ass, breasts, tattoo, whatever caught their fancy. I still got asked out. Each incident was yet another fight or flight moment for me. Each time I had to face the question of what would happen if they didn’t take no for an answer, just like the guy who had assaulted me before hadn’t. Each sent me home to breathe, enjoy some Xanax, and hermit for a few days to gather my energy for the trip outside once more. I cursed these men. What made them think that just because I walked out the door I might be interested in them? What made them think this is how I would even want to meet men? In an era of OKCupid where I can get dates exclusively with 90%+ matches, why would I take random dude off the street? If they wanted to date women, why not go to a bar, a speed dating event, Tinder, Craigslist, Fetlife, OKCupid, or any of the number of other venues where women are fine being approached and sexualized? Why make my life harder? I didn’t have a good answer to these questions and as I became more confident in my safety and reemerged from hiding, they became less and less a part of my thoughts. Until last Tuesday. After a few months struggle I’d found a group in public where I wasn’t being hit on, and where I didn’t have to deal with dumb remarks about women making up sexual harassment claims. It was at this group the issue reemerged. C. an 18 year old, talked about how decided one day to walk up and ask out every woman he came across on a college campus. He had decided this was a good idea to build up his tolerance to rejection.
C. and I quickly got into and argument over this, my viewpoint to the effect that this constituted unwelcome harassment of women and he should never do it again, his that “of course he would stop” when they said no and that it “wouldn’t bother him” if a woman approached him and did that. The conversation reached it’s climax with him saying something like “So what, if I fell down the stairs as a kid everyone should be prohibited from talking about stairs around me?”
Triggered, shaky once more, I made a speedy exit. C. was a smart, likable guy, and it was frustrating. The basic issue was a difference in life experiences. To me, rape and sexual assault was a very real thing that might repeat itself. 50% of my trans community has faced it, along with many women I know. A guy asking me out of a whim would immediately send me into an adrenaline rushed state of wondering if my “no” would be followed by force from him.
To C. it seemed a remote possibility, akin to the idea that some child would be traumatized by stairs. Not only was it not serious enough for him to change his behavior, it wasn’t serious enough for him to know, or care, that that comparison might be wildly offensive to me.
There isn’t necessarily much of a point to this story, other than that it sucks to be a transgender rape survivor in a culture dominated by social norms constructed by men. C.’s behavior is well-within the bounds of what our culture allows for, and there’s no rule that the culture has to know, or care, about my fear, pain, and struggle to reconnect to a world where my reality can be turned upside down by getting on the wrong bus, at the wrong time, and sitting next to the wrong man. Writing about it won’t necessarily change anything. But not writing about it definitely won’t, so here we are. Guys like C. can only remain clueless if women like me refuse to talk.











