COPN Volume 8: To Grab or Not To Grab
Personal post. Rather than preach, I’ll tell you a story.
When I was in middle school, some douchebag grabbed my butt.
I’d thought the experience long filed away into the “do not open because it no longer matters” cabinet of my brain, but recent national conversation and events keep dragging this particular dust bunny out to air.
At thirteen, I was not attractive. Adults inclined to parenthood and respectability no doubt would point out that “no thirteen-year-old is,” but to the middle-schoolian mind, that is not the case. The pre-cursor social structure that will define high school is well into gearing up in that final year between childhood and the torment of full blown adolescence. Yes, you’re young enough to still play Barbie, but you’re also old enough to note that with her blonde Rapunzel locks, pink lipped rictus grin, and rainbow of high heels, Barbie is a lot prettier than you, and the popular girls resemble her better than you ever will. This case is especially true when at thirteen you’ve just left a conservative and highly religious environment that equated frumpy with chaste and chaste with holy; therefore, you, as a well-behaved religious prepubescent, have resigned yourself to never feeling very pretty. The odds of your sinning go down that way, but you still feel rather crappy about yourself all while feel guilty for doing so.
But then, I got new clothes for my birthday. Having relented some of the more absurd standards of behavior to which we’d formerly been accustomed, my parents conjured an outfit that, when I look back on it, was hardly noteworthy in the scheme of fashion, but after years of turtlenecks and 90’s Mom jeans, seemed the epitome of style and modernity to my sheltered little mind. A white t-shirt with embroidered flowers along the collar coupled with black pants that actually fit the nascent figure I’d later fill out. I remember feeling pretty. I remember my twin sister got new clothes too, and that her pants were slightly tighter. I remember feeling a breath of envious of that but still looking forward to going to school and not feeling like the dowdy outsider in the corner. I wouldn’t ascend the social ladder in a single leap with this outfit, but I’d certainly blend in enough that, maybe, the teasing would abate for a day.
Monday morning came. I practically swaggered in those doors I felt so good about myself. Abashed compliments had been rolling in on the school bus. “You actually look nice!” “Wow! I like your top!” “I didn’t know you could afford nice clothes!” I was stoked by the time I reached my locker and was filing my book-bag away.
While my back was turned and my hands were full, the douchebag grabbed my butt. I burst into tears.
Plenty of readers will think this an overreaction. Had I a known any coping mechanisms for unwanted advances, or had I a personality that would have been flattered by attention, then that might be true. Even writing this now, I feel a bit silly. But at the time, I was mortified and crushed. I naively assumed “boys” would not start acting like “men” until at least junior year of high school, and then they’d do so only if a girl “invited” that behavior. Naturally, therefore, to have spent all of thirty minutes in a “cute” outfit and find myself the target of some anonymous male’s whim had me in self-loathing mode instantly. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have been happy. I shouldn’t have felt good about myself. I had let myself backslide, and now I was paying for it.
The result of my tears, interestingly, was that the female teachers of my eighth grade year went on the war-path, combing the hallways for the culprits and even making me stand at the head of the lunch line while they pointed out suspects. Having only seen the back of the guy's head as he walked off snickering, I just looked at my feet and sniveled without confirming any of the teachers’ theories. What dim impression I have of the male teachers’ reactions included a sheepish sort of foot shuffling and weary irritation I took to be aimed at me, as if I’d caused unnecessary fuss. I don’t remember if I told my parents. If I did, I watered down the story because I felt so ashamed.
Now, as I read the plethora of stories about women who’ve faced sexual harassment and are now speaking out about such unwanted attention, I keep rehashing that middle school incident in my mind. Yes, I was a sheltered kid. Yes, it was middle school. No, I don’t know the motives of the butt grabber. No, my incident doesn’t equate to other women’s worse experiences. But a few common factors stand out. First, the instant righteous indignation on the part of my female teachers. They were angry at the boy who’d grabbed me, not angry at me. And it wasn’t one female teacher who got upset; it was all of them. I instantly blamed myself, but none of the adult women did. Something in the incident touched a raw nerve. I can’t say what for sure, but part of me thinks it was that this was happening in a middle school with young kids, and already someone was being touched without her consent, and some guy had decided it would be fun, funny, or desirable to do so. Whatever the reason, I was grateful for those women’s solidarity, even if at the time I believed it was misplaced. Second, my instant humiliation. Much of it was due to being utterly unprepared for the incident, but I never once thought the anonymous boy had done anything wrong. I put the blame squarely on myself for wearing clothes that were to my mind, “attractive.” These days as a rather lazy, single woman, I tend to think of clothes as an obligation, but in some contexts, I do enjoy making myself attractive. But now, I’d only blame myself for inappropriate behavior on a man’s part if I knew I’d actively decided to seek or encourage it. The fact that as a small child I was so instantly humiliated and self-flagellating disturbs me. Third, what about the boy? What message did he get from the fallout of the situation? My teachers made it into such a hullaballoo the entire eighth grade class was aware of it, and the lunch line line-up was, I’m know, an indignity for the rest of the innocent guys. So, what did the butt-grabber learn? Did he feel guilty? Did he learn he’d better not get caught because authority figures go batty? Or did he find the whole thing ridiculous and consider girls who react the way I did whiners and prudes? Did he mention the incident to his dad and did said dad tell him next time make sure the girl wants you to do so before you go grabbing her, or did he tell him to blow the incident off? Did the kid grow up into a habitual ass grabber, or a guy who’s respectful of women’s boundaries? Something in between? I have no way of knowing.
Ultimately, my experience is just one on the minor end of countless, but it is still a facet in a culture that, for the moment, seems to be, if not changing, actually pausing to look at the prevalence of certain modes of behavior. I think it's important to know one's audience before taking the leap of touching anyone, be that touch a hug or sexual advance. And while I think it’s important to be sure our society has thoughtful nuanced conversation about this issue instead of leaping to extremes, I also know that no matter the intention or gender of the advancer, if the person on the other side of an advance ends up feeling the way I did at thirteen or, God forbid, worse, that advance was wrong.
Thank you for reading,
B
