You're Weak

I was visiting my friends at the University of Illinois during my sophomore year of college. My friend, Lisa, lived in a four-bedroom house with her brother, her friend Lizzie, and a friend that I can’t remember the name of. Let's call him Steve. Lisa's brother was out of town for the weekend, so I bunked up in his room. 

That Saturday, all the housemates and a few other friends hung out in the evening. Later on, mostly everyone including Steve decided to go out to the bars. Lisa and I opted to stay in, and Lizzie went to stay at her boyfriend's apartment.  

What must’ve been a few hours later, I was asleep in bed and felt someone climb on top of me. I woke up to heavy pressure on my hips, blinking my eyes open to the darkness. I made out that Steve was on top of me. He pulled me up to sitting position and urged me to come out to the hallway. I pushed his chest, saying to leave me alone. I turned around and lifted the covers over my head. This pissed him off. He remarked, in a drunken slur, that this was his home and he could do what he wanted. He ripped the covers off the bed, the cold air reminding me I was wearing only my underwear and a cami. He pulled my arm so forcefully that I nearly fell out of the bed. I continued to resist until I had no choice but to stand, as it felt like my arm was being pulled from its socket. I kept mumbling, "What are you doing...stop...leave me alone...where's lisa..." Deaf ears.

Steve dragged me outside into the dimly-lit hallway where several other people stood, drinks and cigarettes in hand. He positioned me next to him, his arm firmly around my waist. I didn't recognize the people--these were not the friends from earlier in the evening. They seemed older. They laughed and chatted, seemingly ignoring what was going on. Still confused from sleep, I muttered to Steve, "Let me go." He laughed, mocking my timid voice. "What was that? Can't you speak up?" He refused saying he was stronger than me, and I couldn’t do anything since I was weak. He continued to grope me: my stomach, my breasts, my butt. Anytime I pulled away or told him to stop, he gripped harder, enjoying my weakness. 

I don't know why no one helped me. I remember staring at the individuals in the hallway, pleading with tears in my eyes for them to say something, do something. I don't know why I didn't scream. I suppose--at the time--the embarrassment of being fondled and toyed with was easier to stomach than putting up a fight in my friend's home. Was I disturbing the peace? Would I cause a fight among the roommates? Whatever logic I had, my feeble attempts to stop him went nowhere. I felt defeated.

At one point, he let down his guard to get a drink. I jerked away and ran into Lisa's brother's room, locking the door. As I pulled my hand away from the door, I saw it vibrate from knocking. Steve yelled, demanding I let him in. I said nothing. I stared at the doorknob. I stared until his footsteps returned to the group of drunk friends. I pushed the desk in the room up against the door as safety. I climbed back into bed, staring at the ceiling until the halls went quiet, my mind dozing off as daylight crept into the room. 

When I woke up, I texted Lisa, asking her to come to my room. She was there shortly thereafter. I told her everything. Having fallen asleep drunk, she didn't hear anything that transpired; however, she assured me she and Lizzie would talk to Steve about what happened. While he was nowhere to be found that day, I told them I didn't feel safe there, and they agreed. I was heading back to my school that day, anyway, so we went out to breakfast, and I left shortly thereafter.

That evening, Lisa told me they had a hard conversation with Steve about what happened. He claimed he didn't remember any of it. Division among them reached a boiling point--because of this matter and others--and they soon severed ties, both as friends and as roommates. 

I look back at that night as a time where I felt helpless. Were something like that to happen to me today, I surely would act differently, knowing I'm stronger now both physically and mentally. I wish present me could go back and kick Steve's ass and lambast those people for doing nothing. Thing is, I'm sure they never again thought about that whimpering girl in her underwear.

Jeans

When I was 18, I worked at Home Depot. Yep, orange apron and all. There was a locker room where you placed your personal effects before your shift. 

One morning, I approached my locker, bending over to pick up something off the ground. I could feel eyes on me. I turned around and an older man that worked in the carpeting department (let's call him Carpet Don) stood in the doorway staring at me--well, at my butt. I was more reserved back then, and girls are taught to be polite and kind, even in the face of indecency. I asked if he needed something. "No," Carpet Don said, "not when you wear a nice pair of jeans like that." He continued to stare, smirking, holding his position in the doorway. I squeezed past him, pacing toward my register to start my shift.

I later told my supervisor, Nathan, what happened. He insisted I inform HR with haste, going so far as to  offer to go with me if I wanted; and if I was scared, he would report it on my behalf. (Leaders: take note on how to support those under you). 

A formal complaint was put forth and HR let me know that Carpet Don (I really can't remember his name, nor does it matter) was reprimanded and disciplined. HR told me to let them know if anything like this ever happens again. As much as I disliked my job at Home Depot, I commend the company's urgency in addressing the harassment.

I don’t remember if Carpet Don was later fired or quit. In the weeks and months he remained employed, whenever we crossed paths, he gave me this look of disdain which spoke "you did this to me." I would feel that so many more times in my life--that feeling victims are meant to feel by there attackers: this is my fault.

Chased

This memory is bit hazy. 

When I was about 16 years old, I walked to the street where my car was parked to visit my dad. There was an SUV parked about 100 feet behind my car with an older man wearing sunglasses inside. I didn’t think much of it and proceeded to get in my car. 

• I drove toward the entrance of the neighborhood, noticing the SUV was behind me. 
• As I took a left, he took a left; as I took a right on the first main road, he took a right on the first main road. 
• He followed so closely that I decided to take a right into a McDonald’s. So did he. 
• I began to feel suspicious and promptly exited back to the main road. So did he. 
• I then took the next right and then a left into the larger neighborhood my dad's home was in. So did he.
• At this point, there was no doubt he was following me, and I started to pick up the dangerous speeds upwards of 50 mph in the neighborhood. So did he.
• He kept up behind me. I kept driving faster and taking random turns. So did he. 
• I remember sweating. I remember knowing there was an alley behind a strip mall near my dad's house. I picked up speed again and quickly parked in between two cars. 
• I slouched in the seat looking toward the alley. The SUV slowly crawled by. It stopped. I slouched even lower. 
• I remember my heart racing, my hands scrambling for my phone. I called my dad and let him know what was going on. 
• A couple minutes later, I saw my Dad running toward my car. I got out and demanded we go inside his home. I told him everything.
• I didn't get the plate numbers, so there was nothing to report of substance. My dad scolded me for not knowing to go straight to the police department. I retorted saying I NOW knew and would do that if it happened in the future. 

It didn't. I don't know what that man's intent was: to scare me, to kidnap me, to joyride. I also don't know if I ever saw him again. Through my foggy memories, I can still see his face behind the windshield.

My Life (So Far) Under His Shadow

This is a series of stories I've wanted to tell for sometime now. While I prefer to write stories that make people laugh, there are few moments of levity in these. My focus will be the treatment I received by certain men in my life including previous workplaces and one specific relationship that I only remember as convincingly sweet until it became poisonous. As I was told so many times in my younger years--and even in many of my writing classes--I will try not to be emotional and stick to the facts. 

In my teens and 20s (and perhaps a li'l now, too), I wanted to be treated normally. My hobbies, my words, my actions, my ambitions--often because I am a woman were these things judged differently. There was a time, no longer, that I thought "if I were just born a boy, things would be better...easier for me." And it's true.

I don't know what the schedule will be or how many I will tell at a time. I do know that I have a lot to tell, and although I hate staring at the past, perhaps this history lesson in bullying, harassment, belittling...perhaps it's worth telling to help put an end to this sort of treatment. I will change details as to not specifically identify individuals or workplaces; however, perhaps one individual who was particularly malicious doesn't deserve to be shielded by anonymity.

The scary thing about posting these stories is thinking how they will make ME look bad. I suppose that is normal. In most of these instances, I'm the unwilling participant. I don't want these stories to be part of my life, but they were.

P.S. There are many, many good men in my life, past and present. And there are bad women, too, of course.