I don't consider my story a survivor story or a me too story. Not because I'm special and not to diminish anyone who is a survivor, but because I'm just coming to terms with my story. A story, that ultimately represents the whole gray area that surrounds sexual violence.
My story begins with the simple act of a haircut.
On Thursday, I decided to cut my hair above my shoulders—the shortest it’s ever been. With voluminous, curly, brown hair, I was always told to “never do anything with it”. My grandpa made me wear a red rose in my hair as a kid “to keep the evil away”. To him and to many, evil is a natural consequence of beauty. Beauty attracts and justifies sin. When I went to the party this weekend I was showing cleavage so “I was asking for it”. But, if I didn’t show cleavage then I wouldn’t “fit in”. Beauty yields evil, but we all must be beautiful.
So I was really worried about cutting my hair because it signified a sort of break from my past. In the shower I momentarily fell in love with how freeing it felt to have short hair and experienced a brief Shawshank Redemption moment of rebirth. But once I got out of the shower, I began to panic. What were people going to think? Why did I care so much? I participated in full surveillance mode, trying to plan how I would act when people made comments about my hair. I caught myself for a moment, becoming aware of that surveillance. Maybe, instead of giving into the societal pressure, I will make the decision for my own about how I feel about my hair. I have control. If I choose how I feel first and am empowered by that, then other people’s opinions are irrelevant. I’m in control.
But I’m not in control. In fact, through the pure power of the hegemony, my false sense of control is what served to oppress me even more.
I went to a family party over the weekend for my cousin’s 21st birthday. Some of my cousin’s friends were there as well—one of which whom I’ve always been intrigued by. Though I have a boyfriend, Jake and I kept making eye contact and nonverbally flirting throughout the party. But I didn’t want to be near him and I didn’t really want to flirt with him either because I am really truly happy with my boyfriend. But, in some ways, it was easier to meet Jake’s persistent gaze rather than ignore it. He kept telling me to get him drinks. As the night moved on, he got closer to me and kept touching and grabbing me whenever I got near. He pulled my hair when he walked by and even stuck his fingers in my mouth one time. I pushed him away, but he kept trying even while I was having conversations with other people. I could only muster the courage to roll my eyes at a family member, saying “He keeps hitting on me.” When my boyfriend finally arrived at the party, I made it super clear to everyone there that this was my boyfriend.
I was happy he was there, I was finally safe. But when he turned his back for a brief moment, Jake grabbed me. He touched me and said “You’re just as bad as me. You’re holding on to him but you can’t stop thinking of me.” I said “that’s not true” and my boyfriend turned around and caught a glimpse of what Jake was doing.
I didn’t need nor want him to defend me, but I also didn’t want him to be mad at me. I tried to play it off nonchalantly, “Don’t worry, he’s been bothering me all night. Harmless.” And I felt both of us stiffen in disbelief. Later on as we talked about it, he told me,
“Maybe it just happened because you were showing a little cleavage. And you were wearing leggings too. Also, that new haircut.”
Anger rose up inside of me as I spit out a plethora of psychology research on rape myths and misogyny, but none of that knowledge was power and I left feeling like it was my fault.
“It’s not our fault.” I said in class today, as flashbacks screamed back at me in objection.
We’re so obsessive with what we wear, not because we are superficial and silly, but because we are constantly bargaining. Slut or slob? Long hair and pretty or short hair and happy? And even through bargaining with the upmost preciseness, we can never win. Because whether I was confident about my haircut, wore clothes that I wanted, or had complete understanding of the hegemonic patriarchy, Jake still felt entitled to my body.
But maybe it won’t always be this way. Maybe we can change the social discourse through one conversation at a time. If we all share our “me too” moments of haircuts, stereotypes, and expectations, maybe we can have true control over the type of women and men we want to be.
So, that was actually my initial journal entry about that day. But, 7 months later, I feel very differently about the whole thing.
As a psych major, I was quick to have a feminist, gender equality perspective on my story. And to an extent I still do, because I do think male dominance was at play, rendering me helpless in a situation that should have been safe. But, on the other hand,
I feel like I did have a lot of choice in the matter. More than I care to admit.
I did flirt with him, and in fact, a year prior I did spend some consensual time with him. Also, I was drinking at the night of the party and not thinking or communicating clearly. It all could have been so different. My feminist, scientific side tells me that I'm blaming myself and that guilt, shame, and regret are all perfectly normal responses. I know I didn't deserve what happened, and I know that so many people go through so much worse, but I can't help replaying all of my choices that night.
I could have had so much more control if I made more protective choices. But choices out of self-defense still don't feel like autonomous choices.
I told my cousin, who knows about the full situation, "Not to be a baby and victimize myself, but I feel like I had to carry most of the load with all of this. I ultimately lost my boyfriend and have to deal with it alone, and he just gets to keep on going." He said,
"You are hurt the most by this. For sure. But yI think you chose guys who were bad for you. You chose Jake. You chose your boyfriend. And two guys in the same room made for a complex triangle."
And he's right, I did choose the wrong guys. I need to find a good one.
