**This is an older piece I wrote in April 2010, but one I stumbled across and decided to add to the zone**
Dear Sir:
It was one of those nights when I would have preferred to drive into DC, but I feared I might not find parking. So, Metro was my best bet. Getting off the train in the city, the station was crowded with the weekday rush. And, the lines through the turnstiles were lengthy. Admittedly, I hurried forward so as to not get slowed by the surging crowd. But, there you were behind me.
I presume you were just admiring the merchandise.
I readily accepted your apology when you jostled me. People were everywhere, cramming into single file lines from the amorphous mass exiting a train. And inevitably someone's bag - or hand? - would bump into my behind. Yes, perhaps that would happen.
Once. But, not two, three, and four times. And did you have to let your hand linger there?
Even so, I dismissed it. You said sorry, the first time at least. And I was hungry, rushing to meet a friend. Yet, you didn't have to give me that pseudo-appreciative up-and-down look as you passed me. You shouldn't have leaned toward me - shouldn't have leered at me. Some of what you said, I missed. Something, perhaps, about how my ass looked in my dress...? Come to think of it, it was a fairly shapeless, knee-length dress. Paired with a long-sleeved black cardigan.
My dress was cute, but I wasn't wearing it for you. I didn't want your attention. I just wanted to be comfortable.
Inside, I steeled myself. I tried to infuse confidence and dignity into my stride. You were ahead of me, stepping onto the broken escalator. We would be walking up to the street. I slowed, hung back. There were so many people, though, and I was propelled forward. You looked back. Back at me.
Did you have to take the escalator steps with lead feet? I couldn't help but come even with you.
When the sun hit the pavement in front of me I turned the opposite direction from you, avoiding your gaze. I didn't care that I needed to walk the other way. Then, you called to me. "Excuse me, ma'am," I heard you say. Instinctively, I looked toward your voice.
Only to be more fully objectified by you.
You kept talking, the violation unceasing. "Yes, I have a man," I responded. I kept stammering. But, in my head, I was screaming: 'Thank you, but I do not care that you see me as fine, beautiful, hot. No, I am not at all interested in how attracted you are to white women or want to hear about this so-called "monster" you wish to share with me.'
I just wanted to slap you. But, I was frightened. Shaken. The words - wonderful when spoken by my partner, family, or friends - were assaulting me. Please, leave me alone.
And, then you admitted it - you had touched my butt on accident at first. You appreciated how "soft" it was. So, you touched it again, and again, and again.
It is MY body. My backside is NOT yours to have, to touch, to grope. I refuse to be made into some stranger's sexual fantasy come to life.
When you finally walked away from me, did you have any idea what you had done? You stole a sense of pride and security from me. But you also took that from women everywhere. I am a strong woman; I will not be so blatantly objectified again. Next time, I will remind you or whomever that I am all women.
When you victimize me, you also do so to your mother, your sister, your girlfriend, your aunt, the little girls in your neighborhood, your grandmother... all of us.
And you hurt men, too, with your hyper-masculine approach to women. But you do not represent them all, even though you sought to assert your dominance over me in that moment. Some men love women, treat them with respect, and appreciate them for more than a soft ass, nice rack, or sexy pair of legs. I am lucky to have many men like that in my life.
I wish I could make you feel as small as you made me feel in those moments when you sought to minimize me with sexually-driven comments. I may not have had the words in that stunned instance. But I do now.
I am powerful, I am free, I am more than my appearance... and I am not remotely interested in you. And with that, you can take your lustful monster and go to hell, jerk.
Disrespectfully yours,
The Girl at the Metro
Dear Sir:
It was one of those nights when I would have preferred to drive into DC, but I feared I might not find parking. So, Metro was my best bet. Getting off the train in the city, the station was crowded with the weekday rush. And, the lines through the turnstiles were lengthy. Admittedly, I hurried forward so as to not get slowed by the surging crowd. But, there you were behind me.
I presume you were just admiring the merchandise.
I readily accepted your apology when you jostled me. People were everywhere, cramming into single file lines from the amorphous mass exiting a train. And inevitably someone's bag - or hand? - would bump into my behind. Yes, perhaps that would happen.
Once. But, not two, three, and four times. And did you have to let your hand linger there?
Even so, I dismissed it. You said sorry, the first time at least. And I was hungry, rushing to meet a friend. Yet, you didn't have to give me that pseudo-appreciative up-and-down look as you passed me. You shouldn't have leaned toward me - shouldn't have leered at me. Some of what you said, I missed. Something, perhaps, about how my ass looked in my dress...? Come to think of it, it was a fairly shapeless, knee-length dress. Paired with a long-sleeved black cardigan.
My dress was cute, but I wasn't wearing it for you. I didn't want your attention. I just wanted to be comfortable.
Inside, I steeled myself. I tried to infuse confidence and dignity into my stride. You were ahead of me, stepping onto the broken escalator. We would be walking up to the street. I slowed, hung back. There were so many people, though, and I was propelled forward. You looked back. Back at me.
Did you have to take the escalator steps with lead feet? I couldn't help but come even with you.
When the sun hit the pavement in front of me I turned the opposite direction from you, avoiding your gaze. I didn't care that I needed to walk the other way. Then, you called to me. "Excuse me, ma'am," I heard you say. Instinctively, I looked toward your voice.
Only to be more fully objectified by you.
You kept talking, the violation unceasing. "Yes, I have a man," I responded. I kept stammering. But, in my head, I was screaming: 'Thank you, but I do not care that you see me as fine, beautiful, hot. No, I am not at all interested in how attracted you are to white women or want to hear about this so-called "monster" you wish to share with me.'
I just wanted to slap you. But, I was frightened. Shaken. The words - wonderful when spoken by my partner, family, or friends - were assaulting me. Please, leave me alone.
And, then you admitted it - you had touched my butt on accident at first. You appreciated how "soft" it was. So, you touched it again, and again, and again.
It is MY body. My backside is NOT yours to have, to touch, to grope. I refuse to be made into some stranger's sexual fantasy come to life.
When you finally walked away from me, did you have any idea what you had done? You stole a sense of pride and security from me. But you also took that from women everywhere. I am a strong woman; I will not be so blatantly objectified again. Next time, I will remind you or whomever that I am all women.
When you victimize me, you also do so to your mother, your sister, your girlfriend, your aunt, the little girls in your neighborhood, your grandmother... all of us.
And you hurt men, too, with your hyper-masculine approach to women. But you do not represent them all, even though you sought to assert your dominance over me in that moment. Some men love women, treat them with respect, and appreciate them for more than a soft ass, nice rack, or sexy pair of legs. I am lucky to have many men like that in my life.
I wish I could make you feel as small as you made me feel in those moments when you sought to minimize me with sexually-driven comments. I may not have had the words in that stunned instance. But I do now.
I am powerful, I am free, I am more than my appearance... and I am not remotely interested in you. And with that, you can take your lustful monster and go to hell, jerk.
Disrespectfully yours,
The Girl at the Metro
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