Me, too
I first saw it Monday morning, the "me too."
"If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote 'Me too.' as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem."
I'd been trying to avoid Facebook and Twitter, with limited success. I'd logged myself out on all my devices so that when I went to Facebook out of habit, I'd have to think twice, have to take an extra step. The result was that instead of going to the Facebook app I just went to facebook.com on my phone, which I somehow convinced myself wasn't as bad.
"I'm just checking real fast."
"I'm waiting in line, I might as well."
"I just have to check my clients' business page. I might as well see if I have any notifications while I'm on there."
I might as well, I might as well, I might as well.
I've been thinking and reading a lot lately about the addictive nature of Facebook and how it negatively affects our attention span, our productivity, our self esteem and perception of the world. This isn't a new issue, and trying to limit my social media access isn't a new thing for me, but I'm never very successful. It's a procrastination tool, an instant gratification tool, a validation tool—and just like my feelings about my writing, my feelings about social media rock back and forth between "I want people to see me" and "I don't want anyone to see me, ever."
So my first reaction when I saw the "me too" campaign was that it was a gimmicky, attention-seeking Facebook thing. I respected the sentiment behind it but didn't really particularly want to be a part of it. Then I logged off.
But it didn't leave me. I kept thinking about it all that day—and my thoughts were disjointed and contradictory. It was attention-seeking, but it wasn't attention-seeking at all. Nobody wants that kind of attention, the kind where you're a victim. Why was my first reaction that it was attention-seeking? Isn't that what people who don't get sexism, sexual abuse, and sexual harassment say about women who accuse men? That they're just doing it for attention? Was it just that it was a Facebook thing that made me react badly?
And then: Would I be able to say "me too?" Should I say "me too?" Did I have a responsibility to participate? I didn't really want to. I didn't want to stand out. I didn't want to be a victim. But isn't that the point? Those women who are more seriously affected by this, affected in a way that follows them around for the rest of their lives, don't want to be victims and have eyes on them, either. Years from now, do I want to look back on this period in history and know I didn't participate even in this small way?
Next: Did the sexual harassment I'd experienced "count?" Was it bad enough? I started listing in my head:
Eventually it was a friend's post that pushed me over the edge. It was a me too, but she also said "no one wants to do this because it seems attention-seeking. It shouldn't be considered normal." It was so in line with what I'd been thinking that it made me feel like a coward. Of course I should do it. I shouldn't be complicit.
Me, too. What's sad is it took me all day to decide to participate in this, like I had to decide what I'd experienced had been bad enough to "count." But when I realized I could come up with 5 specific examples over the last two years, I realized I'm just used to it—and it shouldn't be normal. It shouldn't be no big deal when somebody flashes you in Starbucks or when people yell at you from cars or when you dread walking certain streets in Cincinnati cause you know you're likely to have someone comment on your butt.
Really, in the end what happened was not that I helped other people become more aware of how widespread this problem is, though maybe it made a couple people pause for a second. What happened is I better understand the issues that keep people from speaking up. If it was this hard for me to post a vague Facebook post of solidarity admitting sexual harassment had happened to me, how impossibly hard would it be to admit it when you're raped or molested? To go to a police station and have a bunch of men ask you questions, to go to a hospital and face the uncomfortable prodding and questioning? Or to face the person who did it, or to face those who wouldn't believe you? And there are lots of people that wouldn't believe you.
"If all the women who have been sexually harassed or assaulted wrote 'Me too.' as a status, we might give people a sense of the magnitude of the problem."
I'd been trying to avoid Facebook and Twitter, with limited success. I'd logged myself out on all my devices so that when I went to Facebook out of habit, I'd have to think twice, have to take an extra step. The result was that instead of going to the Facebook app I just went to facebook.com on my phone, which I somehow convinced myself wasn't as bad.
"I'm just checking real fast."
"I'm waiting in line, I might as well."
"I just have to check my clients' business page. I might as well see if I have any notifications while I'm on there."
I might as well, I might as well, I might as well.
I've been thinking and reading a lot lately about the addictive nature of Facebook and how it negatively affects our attention span, our productivity, our self esteem and perception of the world. This isn't a new issue, and trying to limit my social media access isn't a new thing for me, but I'm never very successful. It's a procrastination tool, an instant gratification tool, a validation tool—and just like my feelings about my writing, my feelings about social media rock back and forth between "I want people to see me" and "I don't want anyone to see me, ever."
So my first reaction when I saw the "me too" campaign was that it was a gimmicky, attention-seeking Facebook thing. I respected the sentiment behind it but didn't really particularly want to be a part of it. Then I logged off.
But it didn't leave me. I kept thinking about it all that day—and my thoughts were disjointed and contradictory. It was attention-seeking, but it wasn't attention-seeking at all. Nobody wants that kind of attention, the kind where you're a victim. Why was my first reaction that it was attention-seeking? Isn't that what people who don't get sexism, sexual abuse, and sexual harassment say about women who accuse men? That they're just doing it for attention? Was it just that it was a Facebook thing that made me react badly?
And then: Would I be able to say "me too?" Should I say "me too?" Did I have a responsibility to participate? I didn't really want to. I didn't want to stand out. I didn't want to be a victim. But isn't that the point? Those women who are more seriously affected by this, affected in a way that follows them around for the rest of their lives, don't want to be victims and have eyes on them, either. Years from now, do I want to look back on this period in history and know I didn't participate even in this small way?
Next: Did the sexual harassment I'd experienced "count?" Was it bad enough? I started listing in my head:
- The man who flashed his balls at Moriya and I at Starbucks and then gazed at us over the edge of his newspaper, like he was daring us to say anything
- The grown man who told me as a teenager, "I bet you're the kind of girl who would make a guy treat her right, get her a nice hotel room."
- The boss who used to wink creepily when he walked past women in the hall
- The man who yelled after me on the streets of Cincinnati: "Damn, girl! Look at it bounce!"
- Or the one who hollered after Amanda and I, "Thank god for yoga pants!"
- Or the one who said, "Hey girl, you want me to straighten out those legs for you?"
- Or the multiple guys who've walked up beside me, saying, "Can I walk awhile with you?" and then when I said no, acted hurt and said, "why not?"
- Or the guys who just yesterday were standing in a herd, staring at me, making me nervous enough that I took the long way around to meet my friend because I didn't want to walk past them
Eventually it was a friend's post that pushed me over the edge. It was a me too, but she also said "no one wants to do this because it seems attention-seeking. It shouldn't be considered normal." It was so in line with what I'd been thinking that it made me feel like a coward. Of course I should do it. I shouldn't be complicit.
And yet once I came to that conclusion, it still took me an hour to figure out what to say.
Me, too. What's sad is it took me all day to decide to participate in this, like I had to decide what I'd experienced had been bad enough to "count." But when I realized I could come up with 5 specific examples over the last two years, I realized I'm just used to it—and it shouldn't be normal. It shouldn't be no big deal when somebody flashes you in Starbucks or when people yell at you from cars or when you dread walking certain streets in Cincinnati cause you know you're likely to have someone comment on your butt.
It's funny how hard that was to post, when really it affects me very little. I wasn't telling of some secret tragedy or events that had haunted me. And perhaps that's why I wasn't sure my experience counted—because these were things I'd talked about with friends, laughed over, rolled my eyes at. They were normal things girls had to face. But that's the thing...they shouldn't be normal things girls have to face. Girls shouldn't have to be okay with feeling uncomfortable or scared, or turned from people into sexual objects for other people's pleasure. You shouldn't have to just toughen up or deal with it.
Posting that Facebook post was a tiny facsimile of what other people face when they have to speak up about what happened to them. But there I was, worried about what people would think. If they would feel sorry for me, or roll their eyes and think I was a whiner, or call me a sensitive snowflake. Michael's mom would see it. My Republican friend in Tennessee. My grandpa. I noted and counted all the likes—and the people who didn't like it. Did they not like it because it made them uncomfortable, or because they thought I was overreacting? Were they judging me? Were they thinking I asked for it? I was quickly snowballing out of control, and there were so many things wrong with my different reactions and feelings to this that I found myself stepping back, as if I were an academic with a clipboard watching myself in the corner, thinking "This is an interesting psychological reaction I'm having to all of this."
Really, in the end what happened was not that I helped other people become more aware of how widespread this problem is, though maybe it made a couple people pause for a second. What happened is I better understand the issues that keep people from speaking up. If it was this hard for me to post a vague Facebook post of solidarity admitting sexual harassment had happened to me, how impossibly hard would it be to admit it when you're raped or molested? To go to a police station and have a bunch of men ask you questions, to go to a hospital and face the uncomfortable prodding and questioning? Or to face the person who did it, or to face those who wouldn't believe you? And there are lots of people that wouldn't believe you.