On Why Women Feel Targeted.

I’ve been in deep thought the last couple days. I know what you’re thinking, but I stretched first to avoid injury, so I appreciate the concern but I’m fine.

My best gal pal Jessabean, wrote an eloquent piece on her blog about feminism. The article links to several other blogs and articles specifically on cat calling and if you have the time I highly suggest taking the time to review all the different perspectives.

The question, “am I a feminist,” struck a cord with me. I’m a little surprised women have to ask themselves that question.

But that topic will be covered (probably extensively) another day.

Today I want to talk a little bit about the underlying theme of the aforementioned posts. Sexual assault.

These thoughts of feminism were sparked from an earlier conversation about cat calling, specifically in DC. Now I live in the DC metro area and have, myself, been cat called. Sometimes I think nothing of it, sometimes it irritates the shit out of me, and sometimes it scares the hell out of me. I’ll give you two examples.

The other day I was in Old Town, Alexandria, getting ready to cross the street to meet at friend at Chadwicks, I was waiting for traffic to cross and as a car drove past me, the guy in the passenger seat looked at me and said “muy bonita.” I’m not sure if he knew I even heard him, or that I spoke Spanish, but I gave this incident very little thought. Since his car was moving, I was in a public place surrounded by others and it was daylight, I didn’t feel threatened at all.

On the other hand, one time I was walking toward the metro and walked in front of a row house where several men were sitting on the porch. It was just after 9, it was sorta dark, and it was a quiet street. From the porch one of the guys yelled to me “We need a swing like that on this porch baby!” I kept walking and pretended not to hear him as his friends laughed. I guess the guy wasn’t satisfied because he came down off the porch to follow me yelling “Hey,” at me as if to get my attention. I continued to ignore him. He jogged up to me and put his hand on my shoulder to stop me. It scared the shit out of me. I turned around really quickly and put my hands up defensively. I guess he got the hint because he put his hands up in and backed away from me calling me a “crazy bitch” under his breath.

Now I imagine the women reading this post find my reaction to the guy touching me to be justified, probably a lot of the men too. But there are some out there that would see me as overreacting to a guy trying to get my attention. But the point men often don’t see is that we as women see every cat call incident as a possible threat.

Why do we react to a guy calling out “hey baby” as a threat? The answer is not simple. Female sexuality has been taught to us (us = women) as something we should protect. We are told as little girls that boys only want one thing and that its our responsibility as women to protect our virginity. Now I don’t actually think this is a good thing to teach our daughters, I think sexual empowerment is liberating and helps develop a balanced psyche, yet, I still recognize that some evil men might use my sexuality as a weapon to hurt me.

A woman is raped every 2 minutes. EVERY 2 MINUTES. Now I’m not trying to say men aren’t raped, they are and while only one in 50 female rape victims report the crime it’s estimated that the under-reporting for male victims is even higher. I’m not saying men aren’t victims, but most of the male victims are also children (under 16) and that brings about a whole other topic about pedophilia and child abuse.

We, women, are taught from a very early age that rape is a possibility of our lives. One of my favorite feminist books Cunt! A Declaration of Independence, by Inga Muscio goes into a little detail about this unspoken female awareness of sexual assault. Muscio is a night owl and often writes into the early hours of the morning. She describes in one of her chapters about the relationship she has with a woman in her building. This woman works the graveyard shift is often just getting home around 3:00 am. When Muscio needed to run out to the 24 hour corner market to get supplies for her all night writing sessions she’d call the woman and tell her where she was going and that she’d be back in fifteen minutes. The woman never inquired why Muscio was calling to tell her that piece of information nor did they ever discuss what was to be done if she didn’t call her. She just knew, just like we all do.

I’ve done this myself, especially in college. I would call my roommate (who happens to be unquietheart from the linked blog at the top of this post) when I was leaving something late on campus to let her know I was going to be home soon. I wanted her to know where I was and what time I’d be there in case I was attacked on my route home. This may seem dramatic, but sexual assault happened often on our college campus and while I didn’t live in fear that it would happen to me, there was no shame in taking precautions.

My freshman year we had a peeping tom hit the Village (a group of 8 dorms or so) where I lived. He would peak at girls in the shower. We had been warned, but didn’t think much of it. Then we got the report that he had reached into one of the showers and grabbed a girl on her buttocks. That had me pretty concerned. Then a night sometime later I hear my suitemate scream from OUR bathroom and ran to investigate. She had walked in to find a man standing on a sink looking over into the shower on her roommate. He fell at the sound of my suitemates scream, but escaped before campus police arrived. From that day until the guy was caught we had a buddy system. We dragged a chair into the bathroom and took turns sitting in the chair to keep watch while one of us showered. To this day my gal pals will still sometimes call me to let me know where they are and when they will get there. I never question them and always stay up until I get that “I’m home,” phone call or text message. It’s what women do for each other, it’s the unspoken rule that we all know and never talk about.

Why I’m Proud to fight for GLBT Equality

Note: I’d like to apologize for sucking at life and totally not posting here in well, forever.  I don’t really have an excuse except I’ve been hella busy.  Campaign season is here, and well it’s been kinda crazy.  I’ve been pulling long days and working weekends and really after working 70 hours a week, who wants to take the time to write something prolific and poetic for the world to read.  But none the less, I have returned to talk about a subject very dear to me.  I hope you will too. 

I have been a fag hag (or as I prefer a fruit fly) for all of my adult life and most of my adolescent life.  I’m not sure why Gay men are drawn to me, but I have a theory that I release some kind of pheromone that only gay men can smell.  Or perhaps it’s my very round bottom and sassy attitude that attracts them.  Whatever the reason, I have been involved in gay rights since before I could drive and lobbying lawmakers since before I could vote.  And I really don’t see that ever changing. 

This past weekend was Capital Pride.  I love DC Pride.  The whole weekend is a time of camaraderie and fellowship, celebration and… well… pride.  It’s the one weekend a year when strangers come together to share in something together.  It’s a great weekend and I’m very glad I have been able to participate in it for the last five years or so.  Midweek last week I got a call from a friend I haven’t heard from in a long time.  My old intern partner from our Human Rights Campaign days called me up and said he and his partner would be driving down from New Jersey for the weekend.  I was elated, I hadn’t seen I. in a very long time and I hadn’t seen his partner B.(who lives in Seattle) in pushing four years. 

Friday night, I. and B.  drove down and our friend S. who lives in DC and still works for HRC, came over and the four of us plus my roommates (gay men in a relationship…with each other) sat up until 4 in the morning watching movies, talking about Pride, our glory days as HRC interns, politics, music, boys (for me not them)… you know… one of those wonderful long nights with good friends and good wine that you just don’t want to end. 

I found myself pondering a lot of the same things with them that I did ten years ago and unfortunately, recognizing that not a whole lot has changed.  Hate crimes legislation is still no where to be found, nor is there an ENDA (employment non-discrimination act), don’t ask don’t tell is still kicking, and every time a state legislature or court does the right thing, four other states have a knee jerk reaction to pass constitutional amendments to ban everything including buying dinner for someone of the same sex.  It’s all so very frustrating.    

Saturday night, I went to Freddie’s.  If you live in Northern Virginia, head over there and check it out, think Jimmy Buffet meets drag queens and you’ll have a blast.  There were a lot of us out together.  Friends from college, high school, friends from work and organizations… gay/ straight… lots of people with the same concerns and beliefs, a true hodgepodge of my friends all out to celebrate Pride. 

It was karaoke night, Saturdays always are, and a few of my more gifted friends were taking turns belting their hearts out on the stage.  My friend P.  straight, activist, male (ha, bet you weren’t expecting P. to be a straight guy!)  told me while one of our friends were singing that karaoke at a gay bar is a lot like karaoke at a straight bar, but with talent.  I couldn’t agree more.

So, P. and I were sitting together while another patron sang “Strawberry Wine,” and two men stood up and started slow dancing together, the one that was not leading had this most amazing smile on his face, he was totally in love and it was beautiful.  P. leaned over to me, obviously looking at the same thing I was and said “Do you see that?  He is generally happy.  I don’t think I’ve ever been that happy.”  I nodded my agreement trying to catch the happiness vibe off this couple in front of me.  “Clearly sanctifying that relationship would be bad for our society.”   P. and sarcasm are like two peas in a pod, and his commentary on how demeaning our society is to GLBT people because of whom they love made me terribly sad… again.  As the song closed, the one leading dipped the one following and kissed him chastely and sweetly.  It was like a scene from a movie and their happiness cast this shield of contentment around the bar.  People were smiling and hugging each other close, it was a happy feeling, one I don’t feel too often. 

This couple faces a great deal of adversity.  They live together but in the eyes of the government they are strangers.  If one were to be in the hospital the other would not be able to visit like family members or make medical decisions for them.  They can’t file joint taxes, and they live under the constant fear that they could be fired from their jobs because they love each other. 

Yet, on Saturday night after a long day at the Pride parade, they stood in a little beach bar and slowed danced as someone sang the karaoke version of “Strawberry Wine.”  And they loved each other. 

I don’t know that couple who danced in front of me Saturday night.  I’ve never had dinner at their house or sat in the cubicle next to them.  I don’t know their kids (I was told by another patron that they have two little girls that they adopted from China) and I’ve never bought them a drink to ask about their day. 

Even though I don’t know this couple, I fight for them, as I fight for all of those living as second class citizens.  I do it for all the reasons I’ve listed above, but I really do it for that one perfect moment when two people look at each other with love and contentment and can truly be happy. 

We should all be so lucky.

Happy Pride!