What do you call someone if they're not a survivor?
So far today, two of my friends have posted with amazing bravery about being survivors of sexual assault. The things they said inspired me to make a post of my own.
I have been alive for 25 years and eight months, and as of today, I have never experienced sexual abuse or assault.
When it comes to my family, I really hit the jackpot in a lot of ways. Among the many, many things my parents did right: I grew up believing that my body was mine and no one else's, on stage or in the dance studio or in a martial arts class or at the bus stop. I grew up believing that I could take pleasure in how I looked and wear what I wanted -- even if they disapproved of it -- because it was my body. Mine.
When I was thirteen, I developed breasts and hips, and I was excited, because I was sexually attractive and I knew it. From seventh grade on, I would get attention from men in cars when I crossed the street in something tight-fitting, and I laughed at the ones who honked and flipped off the ones who said something obscene. The attention didn't threaten me or make me feel unsafe -- I was just expressing my annoyance to the guys who chose to be rude about it.
When I was fifteen, a friend and I were flashed by a man on roller-blades on our way back from 7-11. We were flabbergasted when it happened, and by the time we'd covered the two remaining blocks to my house, we were livid that we hadn't had the presence of mind to chase him down and kick him in the balls a few times. We told my parents what had happened, with great indignation and a lot of laughter, and then we immediately called the cops.
We were fifteen, and we called the cops, because we knew that man was a jerk and that what he had done, however minor and brief, was a crime. We gave a detailed description of his stupid spandex bike pants and his floppy dick. We made fun of him later.
When I was sixteen, a couple of male acquaintances came up to me towards the end of my school's winter formal, and one of them explained that they and their friends had talked it over and decided that I was the best dancer there. The second said, somewhat reverently, "Yeah, you dance like you ought to have a pole in front of you." I laughed and thanked them, and I spent time around this group of guys for a good year afterwards, and not one of them ever tried to lay a hand on me outside of a friendly hug that I initiated.
I love to go dancing, and more often than not I go out by myself. Men and women both will sometimes try to dance with me, but it's extremely rare for anyone to touch me. Without saying a word to them, or even making eye contact, I know how to tell them that my body is my own and they are not invited to touch it tonight.
I've made a couple of sexual decisions in my life that I would consider mistakes, but I have never gotten into bed with someone who made me feel unsafe, and I have always gotten out of someone's bed when I realized I didn't want to be there.
I cannot say which of these things would be different if I had suffered sexual abuse or assault, but I wonder. I have known and befriended and worked with and loved enough people who survived assault and abuse that I cannot take these things for granted. I am lucky, and I know that there is no guarantee this luck will hold. I live with the specter of sexual and physical violence every day, even though I have not experienced it. I know that the odds are that if I am ever victimized, it will be a lover or friend or acquaintance or family member who does it, and not a stranger. Still, because I have anxiety, and because I live in a culture that teaches women to fear assault by strangers, I am hyper-vigilant when I go out alone at night, and I will sometimes restrict what I do because my fear of being alone in a certain area is running strong that day. But I know that it is less likely that I will suffer this kind of assault because I have not suffered it yet, because my ownership of my body and my certainty in the validity of my own boundaries have not been undermined. And I wonder how resilient I would be if it happened -- if I would be as strong as people I know who have lived through this.
I am lucky, and it makes me furious to call myself lucky, because this should not be luck. This should not be a minority experience, this should not even be just the norm. I believe that each person has an inalienable human right to be safe in their own bodies, and to dictate without contradiction what happens to their bodies, and it makes me livid that those rights are so frequently violated in the world we live in. I have worked with teenage survivors of sexual assault and with teenagers convicted of sexual abuse -- and they have often been the same kids. I want for every mother and sister and daughter, every brother and father and son, to possess and own and love their own bodies the same way I have. I want this safety and ownership to be a birthright, one that is never stolen, one that does not need years and decades to be painstakingly reclaimed, one that does not vanish from family networks for generations.
I want you all to be as lucky as I have been. Those of you who were not, please know that I love and respect and admire you every day for the fact that you're still breathing, still standing. Those of you who had the same good fortune I had, please remember that our experiences were not universal, and that they should be. Find any way you can to help change that.
I have been alive for 25 years and eight months, and as of today, I have never experienced sexual abuse or assault.
When it comes to my family, I really hit the jackpot in a lot of ways. Among the many, many things my parents did right: I grew up believing that my body was mine and no one else's, on stage or in the dance studio or in a martial arts class or at the bus stop. I grew up believing that I could take pleasure in how I looked and wear what I wanted -- even if they disapproved of it -- because it was my body. Mine.
When I was thirteen, I developed breasts and hips, and I was excited, because I was sexually attractive and I knew it. From seventh grade on, I would get attention from men in cars when I crossed the street in something tight-fitting, and I laughed at the ones who honked and flipped off the ones who said something obscene. The attention didn't threaten me or make me feel unsafe -- I was just expressing my annoyance to the guys who chose to be rude about it.
When I was fifteen, a friend and I were flashed by a man on roller-blades on our way back from 7-11. We were flabbergasted when it happened, and by the time we'd covered the two remaining blocks to my house, we were livid that we hadn't had the presence of mind to chase him down and kick him in the balls a few times. We told my parents what had happened, with great indignation and a lot of laughter, and then we immediately called the cops.
We were fifteen, and we called the cops, because we knew that man was a jerk and that what he had done, however minor and brief, was a crime. We gave a detailed description of his stupid spandex bike pants and his floppy dick. We made fun of him later.
When I was sixteen, a couple of male acquaintances came up to me towards the end of my school's winter formal, and one of them explained that they and their friends had talked it over and decided that I was the best dancer there. The second said, somewhat reverently, "Yeah, you dance like you ought to have a pole in front of you." I laughed and thanked them, and I spent time around this group of guys for a good year afterwards, and not one of them ever tried to lay a hand on me outside of a friendly hug that I initiated.
I love to go dancing, and more often than not I go out by myself. Men and women both will sometimes try to dance with me, but it's extremely rare for anyone to touch me. Without saying a word to them, or even making eye contact, I know how to tell them that my body is my own and they are not invited to touch it tonight.
I've made a couple of sexual decisions in my life that I would consider mistakes, but I have never gotten into bed with someone who made me feel unsafe, and I have always gotten out of someone's bed when I realized I didn't want to be there.
I cannot say which of these things would be different if I had suffered sexual abuse or assault, but I wonder. I have known and befriended and worked with and loved enough people who survived assault and abuse that I cannot take these things for granted. I am lucky, and I know that there is no guarantee this luck will hold. I live with the specter of sexual and physical violence every day, even though I have not experienced it. I know that the odds are that if I am ever victimized, it will be a lover or friend or acquaintance or family member who does it, and not a stranger. Still, because I have anxiety, and because I live in a culture that teaches women to fear assault by strangers, I am hyper-vigilant when I go out alone at night, and I will sometimes restrict what I do because my fear of being alone in a certain area is running strong that day. But I know that it is less likely that I will suffer this kind of assault because I have not suffered it yet, because my ownership of my body and my certainty in the validity of my own boundaries have not been undermined. And I wonder how resilient I would be if it happened -- if I would be as strong as people I know who have lived through this.
I am lucky, and it makes me furious to call myself lucky, because this should not be luck. This should not be a minority experience, this should not even be just the norm. I believe that each person has an inalienable human right to be safe in their own bodies, and to dictate without contradiction what happens to their bodies, and it makes me livid that those rights are so frequently violated in the world we live in. I have worked with teenage survivors of sexual assault and with teenagers convicted of sexual abuse -- and they have often been the same kids. I want for every mother and sister and daughter, every brother and father and son, to possess and own and love their own bodies the same way I have. I want this safety and ownership to be a birthright, one that is never stolen, one that does not need years and decades to be painstakingly reclaimed, one that does not vanish from family networks for generations.
I want you all to be as lucky as I have been. Those of you who were not, please know that I love and respect and admire you every day for the fact that you're still breathing, still standing. Those of you who had the same good fortune I had, please remember that our experiences were not universal, and that they should be. Find any way you can to help change that.