The man, The woman, The #MeToo

If there’s a time, or rather topic, that I don’t really know how to start writing about, this might be on top of the list.

I didn’t even know what title to use, because “sexual harassment”, “sexual abuse”, “sexual misbehavior”, “sexual  violence” were all terms that crossed my mind, but at the same time none of those words really fit into what I want to say, and all terms fit too.

Then I’ve ended up with a title that reminds me of a novel of a Cuban author that I have not read, by the way, called El Hombre, La Hembra y El Hambre. In Spanish, the sound and flow of that title is really awesome, so I thought, what the heck…

I live in NYC. I would need to be in a coma to not be aware that all around me the issue of problematic sexual interactions –and I appreciate the freaking irony of having to use such a cranky terminology because I don’t really know how to land this in a simple concept- is omnipresent. From whispered corporate stories of lawsuits to Donald Trump’s grab-them-by-the-pussy, this is something very hard to escape and it’s marking relationships with friends, family, coworkers.

And even to these days, I struggle with the narrative, the framing, the interpretation of all, because on the one hand I have beloved men in my family and I would be terrified if something was said about them. And false accusations from confused victims have happened before, and will happen again, because this will never be an easy straightforward issue to deal with.

I will, for example, cringe when I hear the word “rape”, or “violation”, used to loosely. I don’t believe every action has the same weight. A regretted night, a bad night, cannot be the same as what happened to a girl in my hometown when she was 15… She was coming from a party at 11pm, to comply with her parents’ curfew, when she was followed by three men. The men grabbed her, threaten her with knives, made her walk like a prisoner for blocks and when they found a dark alley they raped her, mercilessly. That girl was left for dead. She had been beaten and bitten; they bit her nipples and spat the skin. The tale of that girl haunted me for all the time I was a teenager. I guess her image is what I picture in my mind when people use that word, because it was the first time I remember to have heard of rape.

I also argued with female friends, mostly European women, when I saw them flirting too hard with no real intention of sex or romance, just for the fun of it and the desire to be looked at, or admired. A hundred times I begged them not to behave that way when dealing with Latino men, especially Cuban, because I knew the codes of relating to each other, men and women, were different, and I could see problems forming like clouds in the horizon. And once it happened. It was in a New Year Eve holiday when I’m part of a group meeting on some spot in the Alps and a male friend from Cuba meets a female friend from Germany, and I see the collision from a mile away. She flirted with him, even though she had a boyfriend that had not been able to join her. I told her many times to cut it because it would lead to a misunderstanding. But she was as beautiful as attention demanding, and one thing leads to another and once he was drunk, and she was drunk… and they’re in a forest walking a relatively steep hill, he makes a move, she rejects, he insists, she pushes him away… the end of the story is that they fell by accident and she twisted a wrist and he scratched himself, and was ashamed for the rest of the time there.

And I have to say, that time, I sided with him. I still do.

But the other day I checked Facebook and I see the raw emotion of a friend, telling a story, her story, of one more abuse. She is walking her way back home, 9am, minding her own business, when a guy coming out of nowhere grabs her, hugs her, touches her, and then walks away. And she tells how she felt crippled, abused, victimized, attacked, and all the common alarms start sounding –”was I dressed provocatively? Should I have taken a taxi home? Did I stare without noticing? What did I DO WRONG? WHY DID THIS HAPPEN TO ME?

And she knows the answer. She did nothing wrong. Nothing can justify what happened to her. And the most paranoid woman in the world will not think is dangerous to walk at 9am for a couple of blocks in her neighborhood… on your way home… at 9am… As she said, she has the right to fucking walk the streets. But she also said, that guy did what he did because he could, he was able to. He was stronger, therefore more powerful. And it was sheer power what he abused.

I felt once like my friend. Years ago I was walking at 6pm coming back from the university. I’m two blocks away from home when a young guy, a young teenager maybe, is walking towards me and when he passes by my side he hits me. With his hand full open, and with the force that comes from the speed of his walking and the opposing force of the speed of my walking in the other direction, he slaps my chest, right in the middle, between the breasts.

I stopped, gasping, breathless from the pain, the surprise, the anger, the frustration, the impotence… It all comes back to power. Always. I looked back; he is just turning the corner to disappear from my sight.

I didn’t know that boy. I had never seen him before, I don’t think I ever found him again.

But I have the memory of him, forever.

And later through the years, abuse or humiliation don’t need to be as aggressive. There was a drunkard Korean lawyer in a party suddenly grabbing my hips like I guess he does with his escorts back in Korea. I don’t think such moron can hold on to a proper girlfriend. His female colleague virtually had to pull him away from me while I could not believe what was happening. I started laughing in a sort of nervous breakdown, afraid of creating a scene and losing my job.

Or the other time when I tech guy I’ve known from work for more than a year, married, with kids, pater familia, gets totally drunk and grabs my arm wanting to pull me towards him “inviting” me to go out with him. And it is again a woman coworker of him that have to intervene and mediate, because that time I didn’t get nervous as much as angry and I was very determined to report him and create a huge scene.

But these or probably others that I don’t remember are only the cusp of the problem. Abuse of power against women takes much more nuanced forms. It was the time that I wanted to end with a boyfriend and he closed the door in front of me with way too much intensity, begging me to reconsider. But we were alone, and he was so strong. I said Yes I will, We will talk more But I have to go to class… I never allowed myself to be alone next to him again.

Or even in more indirect ways, anodyne ways, like in the form of salaries and promotions. A successful female friend originally from the Indian Subcontinent told me once, White Men go first in salaries, then White Women, then minority men, then minority women.

I am a woman, I am the daughter of a woman and I am friends with women, and I strongly believe that it is rare the woman who doesn’t have a horror story hidden at least in a very dark corner of her memory. If she’s lucky enough, because there are others with fresh, recent wounds caused by abuse.

A male friend, the other day, in a middle of a discussion about Kavanaugh, said that no matter the result it would be awful. Because the accuser was clearly truthful but how could we make our minds without evidence. How could a man react in front of an accusation that he knew was false, but had no way to prove otherwise. I didn’t say anything then. But later I thought… the best way of not getting accused of abuse by a woman, is not to abuse a woman.