Yes, All Women

My family moved into a new neighborhood when I was 7. I explored the yard, the house, the cul-de-sac outside. I saw a few boys playing in the street and went up to introduce myself. I asked to be included in their game. One of the boys pointed out my dress, a sunflower-yellow and extremely comfortable t-shirt dress that I had spent the day exploring in. The rest erupted in raucous laughter. My cheeks burned bright red. "You can't play with us dressed like that," one of the boys said. "You have to dress more like a boy." I mumbled apologies, and humiliated, returned to the house. For the next 4 years, I wore my dad's shirts tied off with a hair tie and baseball hats with my hair stuffed into them. I refused to dress up, ridiculing dresses and skirts and forcing my mom to buy me dress pants for special occasions. The boys welcomed me into their group, and I spent my days hunting for crawdads, playing Pokemon, and racing bicycles with them. It didn't matter that I was a girl so long as I didn't act or dress like one.



My first year of high school, I took my favorite book to a little fountain in our neighborhood and started to read. It was a gorgeous day, so I had abandoned my flip flops and sat barefoot in the sun. I had been reading a while before I noticed that a boy a little older than me was sitting on a bench across from the fountain, staring at me. I looked up at him, and he didn't break eye contact. I smiled nervously, and tried to return to my reading. When he didn't stop staring, I began to feel uncomfortable. I picked up my book and my sandals and started to head home. The boy immediately jumped up and followed. I began to sweat. I took increasingly crazy detours to my house only to have him follow me at every turn. There was no other explanation: he was following me on purpose. I started to shake from head to toe, wishing I had brought my cell phone. I tried not to look back, resisted breaking into a run because I knew he could outrun me. I went over the limited self-defense strategies I had been taught in my head, preparing myself to use them. He was getting closer. I picked up my speed. "Wait!" he called. "Wait! I'm sorry-I didn't mean to scare you! I just thought you were hot and wanted to talk to you!" I didn't slow down. I didn't turn back. I broke into a run and didn't stop until I reached my house. I didn't notice that I had been crying until my sister asked why my mascara was running down my face.



When I was 15, I was walking down the sidewalk in my neighborhood with my best friend. We were chatting, but abruptly stopped as a man in a construction company truck began honking his horn at us, slowing down to drive beside us. "Hey, you!" he yelled. I ignored him. My friend Mark looked up. "Not you ," the truck driver admonished. "YOU!" I reluctantly looked up at the driver. "I just wanna tell you, sweetheart, you are gorgeous." I felt sick. Frightened. This man had to be in his 40s. I ignored him, turning away and walking more quickly. "I wanna eat you out, baby!" he yelled after me. He laughed, blaring his horn, and sped past us. I felt nauseous. Tears filled my eyes. Neither Mark nor I acknowledged the incident. I returned home and looked at myself in the mirror. I looked critically at my jean shorts and wondered if they were too short. I never wore them again.



The summer I turned 16, my mom brought one of her students with our family to a baseball game. He was a sweet kid, about 12 years old, but a little rambunctious. My mom asked me to take him to the concession stand. He was pretty rude to the people in line, and it was difficult to coral him back to our seats. When the game ended, I was pretty relieved. As we were leaving the park, my mom and other siblings went ahead leaving me and my mom's student to lag towards the back. Without warning, he turned to me, grabbing one of my breasts in his hands and squeezing it viciously. I cried out, and stumbled backwards away from him. There was a vicious glint in his eyes as he laughed, then jogged to catch up with the rest of my family. I never said a word. I convinced myself that he didn't mean to do it.



My first year at college, I sat at a pizza place with one of my friends from orientation camp. He looked me up and down critically, then said "Come on. You've gotta un-button your shirt a little bit. This isn't a church." I looked down at myself, blushing furiously and un-buttoned one of the buttons. "A little more," he insisted. I un-buttoned two more buttons and spent the rest of the night feeling uncomfortable and exposed.



Last month, I was dancing at a bar with a couple of my friends when a guy came up behind me, grabbing my waist and pulling me to him. I turned around and told him I wasn't interested in the politest voice I could manage. "You aren't that pretty anyway! Bitch!" He stormed away, leaving me stunned.



Tonight, I was riding my bike (ill-advisedly without a helmet). Two guys on motorcycles pulled up next to me and started honking their horns and shouting at me. "Hey baby, why aren't you wearing a helmet? Don't you wanna protect that pretty head of yours?" I ignored them. "Come on sweetheart, be friendly!" Finally, their light changed and they rode off, continuing to honk at me as they passed by. I got off my bike and walked it the rest of the way home.