After reading Erin Zess’s op-ed Feb. 2, I started thinking about what a conversation about sexual harassment should involve. As my story differs from hers only in the word choices of my harassers, I agree with Zess that we need to start a conversation that raises awareness of the fundamental disrespectful and oppressive nature of sexual harassment. Zess touched on the idea that many well-intentioned men may not be able to see some of the common instances as sexual harassment. It’s just a compliment; we know, we’ve been told.
But what about the other guys? The good guys? The guys who are fully aware that telling a girl on the street that her “pussy looks tight” is extremely offensive? Where do they factor into the conversation? I want to speak to these men because I’ve noticed what I believe is a fundamental disconnect between these men and myself, in that we both understand that these actions are inappropriate, yet these men don’t really understand why I get so upset and so enraged when I am harassed. I want to explain why it’s not that easy to shrug off a moment of sexual harassment by telling myself (or being told), “Al, he was just an asshole. Ignore it.” In this interest, I want to extrapolate on the idea of the “vulnerability in being female that colors these situations.”
This vulnerability, contrary to what most guys seem to think, doesn’t stem from the actual belief that I as a woman will be sexually assaulted. It has nothing to do with the actual percent-likelihood that I will be raped in any given situation of harassment. Given the number of men — well-meaning men that I know, like, and trust — whose responses to sexual harassment are that it’s unlikely to turn into assault, I’ve come to the conclusion that this is why guys think we get upset. Don’t get me wrong — I don’t feel safe when I walk around alone in Madison. Because I’m harassed at least weekly, I’ve started walking with my keys between my knuckles at night in the hope that if I have to hit someone, maybe it will do enough damage to let me get away. However, the actual likelihood that I will be assaulted by any given harasser is not why harassment is disarming, upsetting and enraging. Rather, it’s because sexual harassment is a reminder that sexual assault and rape are always a possibility.
Sexual harassment creates vulnerability because it shakes the foundations of my very identity by reminding me that I am not in control of my body. Underlying everything I’ve done and achieved in my life is the belief that I am a strong woman with total autonomy over my mental and physical being. This autonomy is what enables me to decide what to study, with whom to be friends, whether to play those 90 minutes of soccer and most definitely with whom to share my body. All of my actions are built on this fundamental belief, and I extend this assumption to everyone else; I respect that they have the autonomy to determine their interactions with others.
Sexual harassment engenders vulnerability because it reminds me that this ideal upon which I’ve based my life is just that, an ideal. A strong, independent woman with complete autonomy over her body is a hope, a wish and a dream for the future, but it is not my reality. One inappropriate comment from a guy on the street or another guy in a bar grabbing my ass as I walk by is all it takes for the full construction of my identity as a strong, independent woman to be torn down. When harassment is as ubiquitous as it is in Madison and it becomes a safety imperative to rely on male friends to walk me home at night, these fundamental beliefs in myself are proved to be mere constructs. Sexual harassment reminds me that I am safe and in possession of bodily autonomy only insofar as men decide not to violate it, or if I have another man at my side to defend it for me. Vulnerability is feeling like a tenant in my own body, not the true and undisputed owner, and knowing a guy could void my lease at whim. It takes the next hour, day or week following the harassment to battle the self-consciousness reintroduced by my harassers, to fight the anger provoked by their belittling selfishness and to reconstruct the foundation of strong, independent, autonomous woman that makes me who I am. The vulnerability in being female that colors harassment lies in the fact that one unsolicited comment from a man is all it takes to remind me that he could own my body if he so chose.
In my experience, this feeling of vulnerability is hard to explain to men who have no history of not having bodily autonomy. How could a simple comment make you feel like you don’t own yourself? This is the inherent vulnerability in being female that colors sexual harassment. I wanted to take this opportunity to explain vulnerability as a consequence of sexual harassment without making the good guys feel like I’m attacking people who are already on my side. I know you’re on my side; I simply hope this attempt to explain the feeling of vulnerability and its origins helps all of you good guys empathize further with sexual harassment and realize that, with its deeper implications, this type of harassment might require stronger action than the passive recognition that sexual harassment is wrong.
Allie Myren ([email protected]) is a senior majoring in Political Science and Spanish.
