#MeFuckingToo
To the Uber driver tonight who thought it was appropriate to tell me I had a great body, to ask me about my curves, to suggest that he and I take a "solo ride" tomorrow, and to ask me about where I was staying, where I was going, and where I live.
You made me uncomfortable. You made me feel unsafe. You made me feel trapped. And you made me feel silenced because you would not listen to me when I said "you are making me uncomfortable.”
Sadly, you are neither the first nor the only one to make me feel this way.
To the boys that told me I couldn't do a job because I am a woman, or that I couldn't do the job well enough because I am a woman.
To the boys who told me that unless I wanted to wear skimpy clothes, there wasn't a place for me in their industry. To the boys who told me that another boy could easily take my job if I “kept complaining” about being sexually harassed, when I asked to be kept safe, because I am a woman.
To the boy who told me he would “lick the sweat off my body” while I worked. And to the other boy who just stood there silently while he said this to me.
To the boys who made bets on who would date me first.
To the boys that holler words and slurs and claim they are compliments.
To the boys that question my intellect because I am a woman. To the boys that assume I slept my way to getting my 3.98 GPA, my bachelor's degree, my three minors, my second language, my scholarships, my awards, and my jobs.
To the boy that followed me down the street in his car that night to tell me how great my ass looked.
To the boy that I trusted, but wouldn’t stop when I said no.
To that boy’s friends who shunned and neglected me when I told them what he did to me.
To the boys that called me a bitch, a cunt, pretentious, stuck-up, arrogant, cocky, and bossy because I am too much of a woman to take their shit.
To the boy that followed me home after I got off the train, and chased me down my alley.
To the boys who hug just a little too long and a little too tight… we know what you’re doing…
To the boys who question me when I talk about football because I am a woman.
To the boys that offer to carry things for me because items that are heavy must be too much for me, because I am a woman.
To the boys that interrupt me when I talk. Because my insights clearly can’t be as divine as theirs. Because my words clearly can’t have more or even equal weight to theirs.
To the boy who called me a bitch when I didn’t smile for him.
To the boy who touched my hair and face at the club and wouldn’t listen when I said to back off.
To the (creepy and old) boy who masturbated to me on the train my freshman year of college.
To the boys who roll their eyes and tune out when they hear the words ‘Me Too,’ ‘feminism,’ or ‘harassment.’
To the boys who would scream provocative and sexual things to me as I walked to the grocery store. In my sweats and a baggy t-shirt – which shouldn’t matter, but it does - to some of you.
To the boys that grab my ass. To the boys that start dancing on me. To the boys that don't respect my space.
To the boy who grabbed my shoulders and shook me at that show.
To the boys who think I shouldn't swear because I'm a woman. Fuck you, I can do whatever I fucking want.
To the boys who have said “it must be that time of the month” to disregard my emotions and feelings.
To the boys that call me beautiful when my shirt is low and my jeans are tight.
To the boys that get mad when I decline a drink because, as a woman, I owe them that courtesy.
To the boys that stare at my tits when I talk. To the boys that stare at my ass when I walk. To the boys that tell me what they'd like to do to me, like that fucking turns me on or something.
To the boys who think I should stick to tradition, because I'm a woman. To the boys who think I should clean, and cook, and bake, and do my hair, and have a slim waist, have a nice desk job, and have a bunch of babies because I am a woman – and that’s what we’re supposed to do.
To the boys who say I'm a dyke because I don’t fawn over them, because I enjoy work, because I like being outside, getting messy, getting dirty, because I played rugby. Surely liking these things mean I can’t be a “traditional woman.”
To the boys that acted like I was the problem because as a woman, I've been conditioned to be hyper aware, to not trust, to wear modest clothing, to keep near to an exit, to be bashful and polite, to keep quiet, to not speak up, to be humble, to not have 'too much confidence,' and to feel thankful when complimented (when asked for or not). To the boys who don’t understand what it’s like to be a woman.
To the boys that let it happen. To the boys who won’t read through my, or anyone else's story. To the boys who refuse to listen.
To the boys who refuse to see that any of this is true. That any of this continues to go on. That any and all of this is a consistent part of my, and many other women's, everyday lives.
To the boys that don’t realize that this isn’t a comprehensive list. Who don’t realize that this is only a list of the shit I could think of off the top of my head in the past 30 minutes – not a list of everything that has happened to me over the past 24 years.
To the boys who don’t say shit to their guy friends who do any of the above to women they know, or women they encounter. Who say degrading things about women behind their back, ‘in the locker room,’ or during a ‘boys day.’ You should be saying some MAJOR shit to ‘ya bois.’
To the boys that need to hear women rehash these painful, rage-invoking moments to maybe realize what's going on. Like we owe you our trauma so you can open your fucking eyes and see what’s going on in the world around you.
To the boys who have never done any of this but sit there idly and watch it happen. You are part of the problem. Don't think for a second that you didn't let this happen to me.
To all these boys:
You make me feel unsafe in a place where I am supposed to be free, and supposed to be brave. You make me feel like I cannot speak up, that my words don’t have value, and that I am not and will never be as ‘smart’ as you. You make me feel frustrated, and caged. You make me want to scream but remind me that I can’t – because that reinforces your notion that I am a “crazy, emotional being who can’t be taken seriously.” You make me feel used. Objectified. Trapped.
So I’d like to remind you that as a woman, as a person - I don’t owe you my body. I don’t owe you my time. I don’t owe you a smile, a fuck, a kiss, or a hug. I don’t have to be polite to you. I don’t have to act flattered by your disgusting remarks or horrible attempts to make me feel special. I am entitled to my feelings, my safety, and my voice. I am allowed to talk back, fight back if I want to – if I have to.
I don’t have to smile at you, or meet you out for drinks. I don’t have to shower you in compliments because you said something cute to me once. I don’t have to think you’re cute just because you think I am. And I shouldn’t get berated for telling you I’m not interested.
I am allowed to remove myself from a situation in which I feel uncomfortable or unsafe. I am allowed to say stop or no whenever I want – whether I am uncomfortable or not. I am allowed to tell you no; and I own the right to have that respected. I own the right to be respected. My body, my words, my choice… all to be respected.
And to the men
who DO say something. To the men who DO step in. To the men that DO call out a boy's bullshit. To the men that DO yell back at the cat-callers. To the men that DO walk me to my car. To the men that DO ask me if I'm okay. To the men that DO take time out of their day to listen to our stories, hear our stories, and ask what they can do to be better. To the men that DO make me feel safe, comfortable, and at-ease. Thank you. Thank you so much - there are not enough of you.