One of THOSE Women
It was about 9:30 at night as I walked through the college, my arms full of books. En route from my basement classroom to the fourth-floor office, I passed through the nearly empty front entrance, up the half-flight of stairs, past the empty security office, and stopped when someone said "excuse me, may I ask you something?"
The college is a labyrinth, so I figured the questioner probably wanted to know where to find a men's room, or something, and said "Sure."
My questioner, a tall, pretty, exceptionally well-groomed young man asked me "If a guy thinks a girl is pretty, should he tell her so?"
Oh. Heh. Cute. Also, neat! It's been a while since random strangers told me I was cute.
And this random stranger was tall, with spiky black hair, excellent bones, and wide, brown eyes ringed with a not-excessive amount of black eyeliner.
I considered the question. "It depends, on his motivation, I guess. If he's expecting the compliment to lead to anything, he should probably keep it to himself. If he just wants the girl in question to know, I don't see what harm can come from telling her."
"He has no expectations or hidden agendas."
"Well, in that case, if he is honestly not expecting any outcome, I suspect he might justifiably mention it, yes."
"Okay, thanks!" He turned to walk away.
I closed my mouth, mocked myself for a silly, vain person, and turned on my way.
He turned back, "No! Seriously! Hi! Do you want to go for a drink?"
I didn't. After a long day, and a good-but-not-great class, I wanted to get rid of my armload of example books and go home. But he was comely (oh so comely), and had a great smile, so I stayed and flirted for a bit. He wanted to know what class I was coming from. I told him "editing." He thought that was "cool, cool." How was the prof? No, I wasn't really the instructor? No! How old was I? Too old for him. No! How old was he? 23. So, when was I going out with him, he wanted to know.
"I'm not. We're flirting, and it's very pleasant, but this is it."
"Why"
"I have an extremely busy social calendar."
"No, seriously," staring at me with black-lined eyes. Oh, this boy knew he was damn' near devastating. "When are we going out?" I got the sense that he didn't hear "no" very often.
"We're not. Honestly, you seem very pleasant, but I'm very busy and I don't have time for dating new people."
And of course he wanted to know about what that meant. Did I have a boyfriend? Yes. Was he cool? (I hate questions like this. They're all wonderful people, my boyfriends, but none of us is precisely overendowed with cool, in the knowing where the cool kids hang out sense) Yes, I thought my boyfriend was cool (or something. Well, the Gentleman is a good dancer, and doesn't care about fashion, and the Voice has a wonderful sense of sarcasm, and the Redhead has great glasses. Those are all hallmarks of cool, right?). Somehow I wound up mentioning that I had more than one boyfriend. (Why did I mention that? I remember wondering, as it came out of my mouth, what I could possibly be hoping to accomplish, saying that. Did I feel myself off balance, and want to put him off balance too? Did I want to demonstrate my cool unconventionalness-I may be 33, I may be an instructor, I may be too old and responsible to go out for drinks with random pretty students who try to pick me up in the nearly empty halls after class, but I'm cool enough to have a Lifestyle-to create an image of an interesting older woman? Was I still flirting and trying to impress this person? I really can't tell you). Of course he wanted to know about that.
"So, seriously, when can I see you?" he asked again, somehow managing to still be charming. But I was tired of this game. My books were heavy. Lunch had been long hours ago. I wanted to go home.
"Seriously? You can't. Look, this has been a lovely encounter, but I'm not interested."
Still smiling, charmingly, he asked me "So what if I just slam you up against that wall there?"
I stopped smiling.
"Okay," I said, keeping my voice very level and very clear. "This has just stopped being fun or interesting, and that bit about the wall is never funny. You're going away now."
"What?" he said.
"Offers to assault a woman are never funny. It's called harrassment, and it stops right now. We're done." I looked right at him, and did not raise my voice. "You're leaving now."
"Oh, so you're one of those women," he said.
"Yes," I said, "I very likely am. Goodnight, Justin. Better luck with your next attempt at flirtation. Lay off the rape jokes, next time."
I turned my back, and walked towards the stairs, keeping my head high and my steps confident and measured, and listening very carefully for anything that didn't sound like someone turning and leaving. Turned the corner, and looked back. Couldn't see him. Opened the door to the stairway, and ran up the stairs, all three flights, books and all, until I got to the office with its nice, locked door. Had my keys ready. Opened the door. Went in, and closed it behind me, thankful that it locked itself. Turned on the light. Put my books away. Stood, until I was calm enough to leave. Looked at the phone and contemplated phoning security or the campus safewalk services. Decided that he had probably left, was probably not a rapist, and that I was damned if I was going to let any entitled child, however pretty, make me afraid.
And went downstairs by a different route. Because fearless is one thing, and stupid is quite another.
Didn't see him in the entryway. Didn't see him outside the college. Never saw him again.
On the way home, I again cursed myself for a vain, silly fool. I had lead him on. I had flirted, unconscionably. And look at the way I was dressed! How could I possibly expect anyone to take me seriously in a low-cut, short dress that showed my attributes? Really, I had brought the entire encounter on myself. I should know better. Of course the offer to assault me had been uncalled for, but I shouldn't have flirted with the kid. I'm older. I'm a teacher. It was my own damn' fault.
This lasted about two minutes, before my feminist-self threw a glass of ice water over the head of my self-flagellating self. Because no matter how cute my dress was, I hadn't asked to be noticed. No matter how egregiously I flirted, I hadn't asked to be threatened. As far I as I had known, we were enjoying a moment's flirtation.
I do wonder why he thought I'd be charmed by an offer to be raped. I do wonder how he could possibly have thought that would be a good line. I do wonder what he meant by one of those women? Women who don't like rape? Women who think that flirting is just flirting, and demands no more than that from either party? Women who are offended by unsolicited offers of physical violence? The Voice suggested that perhaps, after that encounter, my would-be rapist-suitor went home to his roommate, who was, perhaps playing Wii and said "Thanks a lot, dude! That line about the wall? Totally doesn't work!"
I do wonder if he learned anything from the encounter.
I know I did:
I was reminded that until they've been threatened, people don't always understand how a "harmless joke" can turn a neutral space into a dangerous one.
I learned that my feminist consciousness and I still have some negotiating to do. That I can blame the not-quite-a-victim with the best (or worst) of them. I don't need anyone else to do it for me.
I learned that there really are people-otherwise very charming people-who think that rape jokes are funny and harmless.
I learned that yes, I am one of those women. And I'm just fine with that.
The college is a labyrinth, so I figured the questioner probably wanted to know where to find a men's room, or something, and said "Sure."
My questioner, a tall, pretty, exceptionally well-groomed young man asked me "If a guy thinks a girl is pretty, should he tell her so?"
Oh. Heh. Cute. Also, neat! It's been a while since random strangers told me I was cute.
And this random stranger was tall, with spiky black hair, excellent bones, and wide, brown eyes ringed with a not-excessive amount of black eyeliner.
I considered the question. "It depends, on his motivation, I guess. If he's expecting the compliment to lead to anything, he should probably keep it to himself. If he just wants the girl in question to know, I don't see what harm can come from telling her."
"He has no expectations or hidden agendas."
"Well, in that case, if he is honestly not expecting any outcome, I suspect he might justifiably mention it, yes."
"Okay, thanks!" He turned to walk away.
I closed my mouth, mocked myself for a silly, vain person, and turned on my way.
He turned back, "No! Seriously! Hi! Do you want to go for a drink?"
I didn't. After a long day, and a good-but-not-great class, I wanted to get rid of my armload of example books and go home. But he was comely (oh so comely), and had a great smile, so I stayed and flirted for a bit. He wanted to know what class I was coming from. I told him "editing." He thought that was "cool, cool." How was the prof? No, I wasn't really the instructor? No! How old was I? Too old for him. No! How old was he? 23. So, when was I going out with him, he wanted to know.
"I'm not. We're flirting, and it's very pleasant, but this is it."
"Why"
"I have an extremely busy social calendar."
"No, seriously," staring at me with black-lined eyes. Oh, this boy knew he was damn' near devastating. "When are we going out?" I got the sense that he didn't hear "no" very often.
"We're not. Honestly, you seem very pleasant, but I'm very busy and I don't have time for dating new people."
And of course he wanted to know about what that meant. Did I have a boyfriend? Yes. Was he cool? (I hate questions like this. They're all wonderful people, my boyfriends, but none of us is precisely overendowed with cool, in the knowing where the cool kids hang out sense) Yes, I thought my boyfriend was cool (or something. Well, the Gentleman is a good dancer, and doesn't care about fashion, and the Voice has a wonderful sense of sarcasm, and the Redhead has great glasses. Those are all hallmarks of cool, right?). Somehow I wound up mentioning that I had more than one boyfriend. (Why did I mention that? I remember wondering, as it came out of my mouth, what I could possibly be hoping to accomplish, saying that. Did I feel myself off balance, and want to put him off balance too? Did I want to demonstrate my cool unconventionalness-I may be 33, I may be an instructor, I may be too old and responsible to go out for drinks with random pretty students who try to pick me up in the nearly empty halls after class, but I'm cool enough to have a Lifestyle-to create an image of an interesting older woman? Was I still flirting and trying to impress this person? I really can't tell you). Of course he wanted to know about that.
"So, seriously, when can I see you?" he asked again, somehow managing to still be charming. But I was tired of this game. My books were heavy. Lunch had been long hours ago. I wanted to go home.
"Seriously? You can't. Look, this has been a lovely encounter, but I'm not interested."
Still smiling, charmingly, he asked me "So what if I just slam you up against that wall there?"
I stopped smiling.
"Okay," I said, keeping my voice very level and very clear. "This has just stopped being fun or interesting, and that bit about the wall is never funny. You're going away now."
"What?" he said.
"Offers to assault a woman are never funny. It's called harrassment, and it stops right now. We're done." I looked right at him, and did not raise my voice. "You're leaving now."
"Oh, so you're one of those women," he said.
"Yes," I said, "I very likely am. Goodnight, Justin. Better luck with your next attempt at flirtation. Lay off the rape jokes, next time."
I turned my back, and walked towards the stairs, keeping my head high and my steps confident and measured, and listening very carefully for anything that didn't sound like someone turning and leaving. Turned the corner, and looked back. Couldn't see him. Opened the door to the stairway, and ran up the stairs, all three flights, books and all, until I got to the office with its nice, locked door. Had my keys ready. Opened the door. Went in, and closed it behind me, thankful that it locked itself. Turned on the light. Put my books away. Stood, until I was calm enough to leave. Looked at the phone and contemplated phoning security or the campus safewalk services. Decided that he had probably left, was probably not a rapist, and that I was damned if I was going to let any entitled child, however pretty, make me afraid.
And went downstairs by a different route. Because fearless is one thing, and stupid is quite another.
Didn't see him in the entryway. Didn't see him outside the college. Never saw him again.
On the way home, I again cursed myself for a vain, silly fool. I had lead him on. I had flirted, unconscionably. And look at the way I was dressed! How could I possibly expect anyone to take me seriously in a low-cut, short dress that showed my attributes? Really, I had brought the entire encounter on myself. I should know better. Of course the offer to assault me had been uncalled for, but I shouldn't have flirted with the kid. I'm older. I'm a teacher. It was my own damn' fault.
This lasted about two minutes, before my feminist-self threw a glass of ice water over the head of my self-flagellating self. Because no matter how cute my dress was, I hadn't asked to be noticed. No matter how egregiously I flirted, I hadn't asked to be threatened. As far I as I had known, we were enjoying a moment's flirtation.
I do wonder why he thought I'd be charmed by an offer to be raped. I do wonder how he could possibly have thought that would be a good line. I do wonder what he meant by one of those women? Women who don't like rape? Women who think that flirting is just flirting, and demands no more than that from either party? Women who are offended by unsolicited offers of physical violence? The Voice suggested that perhaps, after that encounter, my would-be rapist-suitor went home to his roommate, who was, perhaps playing Wii and said "Thanks a lot, dude! That line about the wall? Totally doesn't work!"
I do wonder if he learned anything from the encounter.
I know I did:
I was reminded that until they've been threatened, people don't always understand how a "harmless joke" can turn a neutral space into a dangerous one.
I learned that my feminist consciousness and I still have some negotiating to do. That I can blame the not-quite-a-victim with the best (or worst) of them. I don't need anyone else to do it for me.
I learned that there really are people-otherwise very charming people-who think that rape jokes are funny and harmless.
I learned that yes, I am one of those women. And I'm just fine with that.