What Were You Wearing When You Were Sexually Harassed?

Jezebel had an interesting post up last week that discusses how there’s really no rhyme or reason to why women get sexually harassed. The victim-blaming set might like to point fingers at skanky wardrobes, but when women donning sweatpants, parkas, and stained shirts are still being catcalled, grabbed, or outright assaulted, it kind of demonstrates this behavior isn’t provoked by women’s clothing choices, but rather, by the appallingly high tolerance society has for misogyny. I’ve always cringed at the claim that if only I’d dress more conservatively, then I might not be the target of unwanted attention. First off, I don’t give a damn how other people dress on the street and I certainly don’t think the outfit they chose before they walked out of the house that morning justifies my attempt to intrude on their physical space. And second, as the Jezebel poll indicated, it really doesn’t matter what I wear anyway, because no woman is immune from these types of comments unless she seriously works on cultivating the best possible “bitch face”. (This is a mini-project of mine.)

I’ve had notoriously bad reactions to street harassment in the past. When my 18-year-old self was groped on a bus en route to an internship in Los Angeles one summer, I actually grabbed the guy as he was exiting at my stop and kneed him several times on a major intersection. When I was 21 and living in Beacon Hill, the preferred residential community of Boston’s wealthy senior citizen population, I was informed by some dudes in a BMW at a stop sign that I had “dropped [their] cocks in [my] mouth”. I was horrified that this was happening in a neighborhood that I had formerly considered pristine and also horrified that someone’s grandmother might have overheard since they were practically yelling at my friend and I down a major pedestrian road (Charles Street). So I kicked their car in a knee-jerk reaction. This led to one of them chasing us down the block, threatening to call the cops, and accusing us of being crazy bitches.

Do not get me wrong. I don’t typically attack random dudes; this is restricted for the worst offenders. Usually, I ignore guys, tell them I have a boyfriend, or if it’s a non-lewd compliment, say thank you and move on. Given that I’m pretty relaxed and don’t go around yelling my pretty little head off like some feminist caricature, it usually means that something extremely offensive was said or done in order for me to lose it (as I did in the above mentioned scenarios). But though my friends (and readers) are generally supportive and very “You go, girl!” about it — even if I just totally put my personal safety on the line (a stupid thing I would not recommend) — I never cease to be amazed by the people who are outraged, simply outraged, that I would fight back with a disproportionate response. One time, I blogged about the topic of retaliation against sexual harassment and the only comment I received was the following:

You are SOOOOOOO full of sh!t. This, “non-violence” stance coming from the person who violently kicked a car because she had been catcalled. You’re lucky you didn’t get the crap beat out of you- you certainly deserve it. Still a piece of sh!t after all this time. No maturation.

So apparently, it’s perfectly acceptable to be yelled at, followed, groped, or otherwise pursued despite my growing disinterest, discomfort, and concern for my personal safety, but if I dare retaliate, then I am the Bad Evil Crazy Woman. Do you know why people think that the few girls who do fight back are crazy? Because there are practically none of us and everyone believes that when a chick gets pissed, it’s because of PMS and not, say, systematic harassment. We’re just emotional. There’s nothing political about our personal rage!

Most of the time, I think the fringe groups of second-wave feminism were completely off their rockers. But then I read comments like the one above and think, “Hmm, separatist communes with no dudes and compulsory lady-love? Not such a bad idea, perhaps.”