Me Too

This morning, the simple phrase "Me too" began appearing on my Facebook feed. It comes from the statement: "If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted write 'Me too' as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem." 

C.S. Lewis wrote that "Friendship is born at that moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought I was the only one.'". 

Camaraderie. Togetherness, understanding, and empathy. Me too. 

2014

It was subtle. Like it could have been an accident. I think my brain tried to rationalize the situation by saying that, even as it became obvious it was anything but. 

When the bus I needed pulled up to the platform, it was overly crowded. But, I wanted to get home and was used to squeezing onto buses packed to bursting like a sardine tin, so I pressed into the crowd as most Ecuadorians do. No personal space whatsoever is the flip side of only paying 25 cents for public transportation in Quito. 

The bus lurched away from the platform and I held onto the metal pole above my head. Shoulders and elbows pressed against me from all sides. Then, I felt a hand brush against my butt. 

The phantom hand pulled away, then began to stroke. It was so light, so easy for someone to say it wasn't intentional if confronted, but as the fingers pressed more deliberately against my clothes they touched me in a way which felt determinedly practiced. For a moment, I was paralyzed. 

I was wearing a maxi-length skirt made of cotton: it floated instead of clung. It synched at my waist, around a simple black t-shirt, and that was it. Comfortable. Not enticing. You couldn't see the outline of my butt of legs through the long folds of fabric. 

I turned, angling myself away from the hand. I had no way of knowing who the man was. The bus was just too crowded, meaning I also had nowhere to go. In truth, I didn't want to confront him anyway. I just wanted him to get the message: I know what you're doing, now STOP. 

For a couple of seconds, I had relief. Then the hand found me again, touching me more inappropriately than ever; down my thigh, back up, squeezing ... I twisted again, looking, but each time the hand would pull away and the sea of faces surrounding me appeared passive.  Yet in a flash the hand would be back. Finally, as the bus pulled to a stop, I forced my way through the crowds. I flung myself through the door, past people shoving to get on. my heart pounded. Was he following me? Was he watching, smirking or laughing because he had caused me to flee? He had gotten away with it. He had touched me without my permission and all I could do was run. I had frozen, then twisted away, and finally escaped. I looked back. It didn't appear that anyone was following me, but how was I to know? The hand belonged to a forever faceless predator, one who likely found some other woman to silently harass as soon as I left. 

I pulled out my sunglasses with shaking hands, putting them on to hide the tears blurring my vision. Instead of outrage, it was shame more than anything which washed over me in waves. Why had he targeted me? Why couldn't I have done more about it? Why did he have to continue on his way scott-free while I was left feeling violated? 

When I was living in Costa Rica, studying Spanish, a man drove his car slowly beside two of my similarly 'gringa' friends who were walking to and from the school, staring and them with a maniacal grin while openly touching himself. They had looked ahead and continued walking until he finally drove away. One friend gave the man a look of disgust, while the other was traumatized. Already we had to be hyper aware of our surroundings due to the danger of being robbed, and now this? Seeing my friend shaking and crying after the event, I secretly hoped the man would pull up alongside me one time, because I would bet anything he wouldn't be so bold if I approached his window with a balled up fist, or my knife. I've always had hero fantasies, I admit, perhaps unrealistically so, but at least they're hopeful over fearful. I wanted so badly for the man in the car to not get away with it. I wanted the victim to turn the tables on the victimizer. 

Yet of course, it's not that simple. Humanity rarely is. Most harassers and predators experienced some of the same as children or teens. So they grew up to try and make themselves feel powerful and in control by making others feel helpless. It's not an excuse, but it is a cycle, nonetheless. 

The day after the man on the bus felt me up, I had to travel by bus to a ministry site an hour away. Normally when I walk out into the world I feel fairly safe. It only takes one incident to rattle that sense of security. During part of the way back home I was able to be with a friend, and as we sat in a far less crowded bus, she shared with me that she was going to get a tattoo the next day, and asked if I wanted to come with her and watch, or maybe get one of my own? I did. 

I went straight home and drew a paper airplane the size of my thumb nail. The tattoo artist copied my sketch exactly, inking it indelibly to my right shoulder. Whenever someone asks me what the tattoo means, I say, "Freedom, and whimsy."

There have been other times, a slew of other words and looks which have made my heart pound with trepidation or outright fear. But I don't let them bind me. I do my best to be free of them. I will walk out into the world bravely. You are so brave, all of you, whether you write "Me too" on social media, whether you've experienced harassment or assault or simply know someone who has. You are free: yes, you too. That is my hope and prayer. That after we share the terrible things, we can be knitted together in healing and freedom, and say together with voices of strength, "Me too".