Karen of Girls Read Comics (And They’re Pissed) shares her experience of attending a feminist con, and of a brief moment in an elevator when she left the safe space of the con. (Backstory; she is attending a costume party dressed as the Black Canary, which is to say, in a black bodysuit, fishnets, and a blonde wig.)
Until, going to the bathrooms on the second floor alone, I stepped into the elevator. It was filled with men who were all taller than me, and not wearing WisCon badges. They looked surprised and pleased as I got in. And I felt uneasy and self-conscious before I had time to think of why.
“Well, hey, now,” one guy murmured. “Hey there.”
“Yeah,” another chuckled.
“Second floor, please,” I said.
“Hey!” someone else said. “What’s going on on that floor?”
“Costume party.”
“Well, can we go?”
They laughed appreciatively. I said “No.” And I got out.
And that was it. They didn’t say anything foul, they certainly didn’t touch me, and it wasn’t even close to harassment by the standards of our society. So why was I shaky and scared and angry afterwards?
Two things:
1) At the costume ball, my clothing – fishnets, black leotard, blonde wig – was coded “superhero”. In the elevator, it was coded “stripper”.
2) Everyone is conditioned to assess women primarily by how sexually attractive and/or available they appear to be. Making that assessment clear is normal. Vocalizing that assessment is normal. Blaming women for others harassing or abusing them based on how attractive they are or what they were wearing at the time is normal.
If you’re gearing up to say something like “But nothing really bad happened!” or “Well, what did you expect?” or “Come on, weren’t you looking for attention?”, or “They were just being nice!”: don’t.
I know that those men almost certainly meant me no harm; they probably thought expressing a wish to follow me to a party was a compliment. It is entirely possible that none of them have ever imagined being in an enclosed space with a group of big strangers eyeing you up and asking if they can come with you could be a frightening experience. Our culture is set up so that they’ve never had to.
This and like incidents have happened to me, like many women, time and time again: strange men telling me to “smile!”; strange men shouting “Show us your tits!” as they drive past; strange men groping my breasts and ass in crowded train carriages.
(Women also buy into the patriarchal imperative to judge women primarily by their physical appearance, and that is also extremely unpleasant. However, as it is far less likely that women will follow such assessment with rape or other violent crime, it is generally much less threatening when a woman says, “You look like a whore.”)
If a woman doesn’t want to be viewed – for some weird reason – as a sex object, her choices are limited. She can be visibly angry or ignore harassment, in which case she is a FRIGID BITCH who can’t take a COMPLIMENT from NICE GUYS. Or she can be pleasant in an attempt to show them she’s actually a human being, in which case she may be ASKING FOR further “compliments” with her MIXED SIGNALS.
Or she can stay at home.
This is a perfect condensation of female experience and of the threat of sexual violence that permeates women’s lives. It’s so ordinary. The only thing extraordinary is that Karen writes about it, and writes well, and understands what it means. What it means, and the experience, is invisible. Like water to fish. Unless we write and talk about it. And of course, if we write and talk about it, we take the same risks; of being called bitches, being subjected to Denial of Service attacks, being told we’re overreacting, being marginalized, dismissed, or attacked more. Those are the conditions of the patriarchy in which we live.
And yet me must speak, and keep speaking, and speak so often that it is the deniers who sound marginal and meaningless.
