An open letter to the men in my life…
NOTE: This writing is not ours. We know you are used to hearing positive news from us. But, this anonymous letter was sent to us, and this is a voice who wants to be heard. We think this message is important and this cause is important. We applaud your bravery. We hear you. We believe you. Dear Men,I love you. I see you and value your opinions, and the impact you have on my life. I have always felt like we connect and understand each other. Until recently. I am hurting so much, and am unable to express it to you. I am hurt by your attempts to laugh off the assaults that we are seeing on the news and social media. I am hurt by the way you diminish our concerns for safety and equal treatment. I am hurt that you are able to express these opinions and outrage towards the victims who are speaking out, without regards to who is listening.When I was 5, I was assaulted by a known man. It was reported. The punishment for him was minimal. I felt marked by that throughout my entire adult life. Of course, as a young child I was unable to fully understand what had happened. I do believe that it affected my ability to understand sexuality, especially my own, as I grew. I do not believe that my gender affected this instance, or the struggles that I had from it. Young children of varying ages and genders are affected at the hand of adults.When I was in the second or third grade, a older boy tried to expose his penis to me on the back of the school bus. I remember another older boy blocking my view.“Boys will be boys.”A few years later, I was suspended for a note that was passed to me that was sexually suggestive.“Boys will be boys.”I remember when I first started wearing bras. There was a boy on the school bus that would sit next to me and grope my breast, and try to get a peek down my shirt.“Boys will be boys.”My best friend, or so I thought, was a boy. He was my first kiss. I wasn’t even in to boys yet. I hadn’t yet discovered my sexuality. He forced me to touch his penis. I started to think that was just how things were between boys and girls. I was 13 years old.“Boys will be boys.”In history class, in middle school, I remember a boy who sat next to me. He would announce what color bra I was wearing if he could see the strap.“Boys will be boys.”In high school, I just came to terms with what I was meant to be to the boys in my life, my fellow classmates. Looking back, I suppose I was conditioned to their gropes and mistreatment. I found myself in the company of many young men who I thought were my friends. I didn’t drink, or do drugs. I wasn’t popular. For the most part, I was invisible to the staff of the school.In school we did discuss rape prevention. We were taught to submit so that we wouldn’t be severely injured or killed.I graduated. I left my parents’ home. I was an independent young woman. I had lots of sex, with many men, because that is what I knew what they wanted. I read Cosmo and always thought to how I can best make them want to be my friends.There was one man. I was 18. I went to his hotel room. I knew we were probably going to have sex. I anticipated it. He started to film me. I asked him to stop, but he wouldn’t. It’s what he wanted. He started to become forceful, and it hurt. A lot. I said, “ No. Please stop. It hurts.” He said… and I am crying writing this. He said… “ I want it to hurt. I want you to remember this.”I submitted as I was taught to do. I was bruised and confused. I went to shower. I went to bed. I put it out of my mind.A friend of mine saw the bruises and knew something was up. She said that we needed to report it so that he couldn’t do it again.I reported it. A victim’s advocate told me that I was lying. She said, “It was just rough sex and you couldn’t handle it.” I was 18 years old. I was made to sign a legal document retracting my report, and saying that I had consented. It was one of the hardest days of my life. I shut it out. I must have done something wrong. Maybe she was right. He didn’t know that I felt like he was raping me. I should have done more.At 18, I was taught that No does not mean no. I carried that with me.At 25 years old, again I said, “please stop. No. I don’t want to do this.” But he was drunk. It happened anyways. I was willingly there. I must have consented. No doesn’t mean no. I must be doing something wrong. Boys will be boys. It must be me.Please… men in my life… please ask me why I didn’t report any of that sooner? Please ask me if I ever made false accusations? Please try to rationalize the hurt that I carry with me. Please tell me that these things don’t really happen anymore. That all these women sharing their stories are lying. Whenever you try to debate with me the legitimacy of the #metoo movement, or the high profile cases happening in senate or with celebrities, you are magnifying the pain of every nearly every woman you know.I am sorry that I am not in a place that I can be associated with my struggles publicly. I wish I were brave enough to talk openly about it, and express the severity of what we are seeing in today’s social climate. I just know that I am not strong enough to face those demons, and the questions or accusations that will arise. I wish that I were.Sincerely,Your wife, sister, mother, daughter, friend.
