Sexual Harassment Changed Me But Didn’t Break Me
Or the day I stopped smiling at men
I remember very vividly the first time a man sexually harassed me. I was the tender age of 18, working as a dishwasher the summer before heading off to college, just trying to make some money to keep gas in my car. I actually really enjoyed my job as I didn’t have to deal with people. My little dish-washing station was off to itself, and all I had to do was keep the white plates white.
The guys in the kitchen were what you would expect, a little rough around the edges, but good-hearted. They treated me well, and I made sure that their knives, spoons, and pans stayed clean. Then one day a new guy showed up, and that was when my nightmare began. I will spare you the details of the things he said to me, or how I broke down in tears during a lunch break because I just couldn’t take it anymore. It all came to a head one day when this man walked into my little dish-washing bubble and tried to touch me from behind. I grabbed the biggest knife in the sink, turned around, and told him if he ever came near me again I would cut off both of his testicles. He walked away cursing, not sure if I was really capable of making good on that promise.
Soon after I reported it all to the restaurant manager, unsure of what would happen but knowing I couldn’t take it anymore. In kitchen hierarchy, a cook is certainly more important than a lowly dishwasher, but to my surprise they let the guy go and kept me on.
I finished out the summer and headed off to college with some lessons that I have yet to be able to shake. What I learned in that kitchen was that my body was a danger to me. I wished my breasts were smaller, my hips slimmer, my butt less noticeable. I was more than happy to cover my shape in baggy shirts and men’s pants if it meant I wouldn’t draw attention. I learned that making eye contact with men was an invitation, so when I walked around campus or around my neighborhood, I kept my eyes to the ground or on a tree or a building or anywhere but on people.
I stopped smiling at men because that was by far the most dangerous thing of all to do. How could they take a smile as anything other than an open door? To this day people comment on how serious I am. While I had male friends in school, I took on the role of a mother figure, completely tucking away any vestiges of the femininity that had caused me so much trauma in that hot sweaty kitchen. But even despite the armor that I built up over the years, it didn’t stop the cat calling. It didn’t stop the harassment.
At some point I would learn that the men who made me want to curl in on myself weren’t really looking at me. Instead they were looking to create a skewed power dynamic that would allow them a sense of control. And in a world that had taken away so much of these men’s perceived power, they needed that control and were happy to take it from what they saw as an easy target. And over the years I’ve seen harassment become normalized.
What I learned in that kitchen was that my body was a danger to me. I wished my breasts were smaller, my hips slimmer, my butt less noticeable.
We still look to the victim for explanations as to why the harassment occurred. And it doesn’t really matter what a woman says, does, or wears. If she is sober, she should have known better. If she is drunk, she should have known better. If she is walking down the street, she shouldn’t have been on the street. If she is at work, then she was probably wearing something unprofessional. If she is at home, maybe she forgot to lock the door. If she is traveling, then she probably went somewhere that was dangerous.
I can’t say that one thing or another caused me to throw up my hands and just be me. Maybe it was reading Alice Walker and bell hooks. Maybe it was watching documentaries like Who Does She Think She Is. Maybe it was traveling abroad and becoming relatively invisible because no one was checking for a short curvy black girl with a backpack. Maybe it was getting older and finally getting comfortable with my body and myself. Or maybe it was meeting and knowing men who loved my body and my mind.
I still get cat called, and as recently as last month I had to report a man at my job for following me and harassing me, but this time I did it without tears. But the trauma of these moments still linger just beneath the skin. I still find it hard to smile or make eye contact with men I encounter as I go throughout my day to day of going to work or shopping or having a meal in a nice restaurant. However, it isn’t impossible. And more importantly, I know I have a choice. I know that I can offer as much or as little as I like in an encounter. I alone have that control. Harassment will always be around, and society will always find a rationalization for it, but I don’t give my power away to it anymore.
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