Is this for real?

Dear America,

I can’t sleep anymore.

I’m too busy thinking about the man at the market who came up to me, close enough to whisper in my ear, “You have a fat ass, and I like it.”

I’m thinking about the stranger in the park who drunkenly proposed marriage several times while maintaining a death grip on my arm.

I’m thinking about the time I walked out to my car with a coworker, and as we were saying goodbye, he put his arm around my neck, pulled me close, and squeezed. I realized, then, that we were alone in the parking garage—closed off from the sight of anyone who might be walking by on the street outside. And he could do anything he wanted.

So I did what many women before and after me have done and will do. I made some non-aggressive, playful comment to diffuse the situation, pulled away from him, and went home. Because, after all, this is a person I have to see tomorrow. This is a person I have to work with.

I’m thinking about the temp job I had in college with the supervisor who would hand me a paper in such a way that he could run his fingers slowly over mine. I remember the feel of his gaze over my whole body as he said good morning. And I remember how he cornered me between two large filing cabinets, gave me a meaningful look, and licked his arm. (Was that supposed to be sexy???)

I told him I felt sick and had to go home. I called my temp agency and refused to go back. A couple of days later, the president of that company called me personally to apologize. Even at the time, I was surprised to get this response, surprised to be taken seriously. But mine was not the first complaint a woman had made—and certainly not the most serious. …And yet, this supervisor still worked there.

I’m thinking about the time I helped serve Thanksgiving dinner to the homeless at my church in the University District. I was making friendly small talk with a man, who then asked me (in less than polite terms) to meet him in the men’s bathroom for sex.

I said no.

“You’re a very negative person,” he said.

“Sometimes the most positive thing you can do for yourself is say no,” I responded, and then I walked away. I felt sick, unsafe. I told my girlfriend the story, but no one else. I didn’t want to make a scene or have him kicked out.

I’m thinking about the guy who wouldn’t take “not interested” as an answer. I remember how he rang my doorbell every day for a month (maybe more) and how I would duck down so he wouldn’t see me if he looked in the windows—he always looked in the windows. I remember how other people would look at me funny and say, “He’s kind of cute. Why don’t you want to?” Because he’s crazy, I’d say. Because I saw him out on the street directing an unhinged, rage-filled diatribe at the meter maid who was putting a ticket on his illegally parked car. Because something about him sets off an internal red flag. Because when I don’t answer my door, he rings all my neighbors’ doorbells to ask if they’ve seen me, if they know where I am. Because it’s my right to say no.

I’m thinking of the hundreds of catcalls and obscene comments I’ve heard from the time I was about thirteen on and how commonplace—even tame—my experiences are among my female friends.

I’m thinking how each incident left a nasty, oily residue in my thoughts and feelings about myself for days at a time and how lucky I’ve been that none of these situations went any further. I’m thinking how one in four American women experience sexual assault.

I’m thinking how even though my two X chromosomes are a mark against me, I’m still white, reasonably well off, and fairly sheltered. And I wonder what it would be like if I weren’t.

I’m thinking how I’ve shielded many of the men in my life from knowing these things. They would be beyond livid but powerless to change it. Women I know have done the same. But maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe we shouldn’t have.

Because now, I’m thinking how a man who embodies every dirty, disgusting thing I have ever seen or heard or experienced (and every dirty, disgusting thing I’ve been privileged not to experience) just got elected president. And I’m thinking how the most qualified person in several generations of politicians did not.

I’m thinking how angry, sad, and scared I feel, and I don’t know when this will feel any better.

I thought America was better than this.

I’m thinking I was wrong.

Sincerely,

RJ

Scratch that.

Sincerely,

Rebecca Jean