Where Predators Lurk

"And will Thomas protect you?" my sweet friend Ann asked when I told her Thom and I had walked the perimeter of the cemetery next door at dawn. I laughed--not at her concern, certainly, but at the thought of Thomas getting all dog-tough and growly up in some cretin's face. Ann's concern was very real; she has a dear friend who was out alone and was assaulted.

I'm pretty sure Thomas would never be protective in an aggressive way, but I'm always conscious of where I am and my surroundings. Except for the dead, no one's much in the cemetery at 6:30a.m. And if someone were, I'd see him long before he had a chance to get close to us.

The truth is, though, in those moments walking with Thomas in the cemetery or in the quiet of the country, a mile from the road, I am the least on my guard. I've never felt the presence of danger in those times. Because I've only ever been assaulted or harassed in broad daylight in public places.

SeaWorld, for example. On a glorious summer day that had been nothing but fun for me and my children, I stood, both hands holding a kid's hand, in one of those underground tunnels that make you feel like you're inside an aquarium. We were completely focused on watching the beautiful sea creatures. Out of the darkness, a man's figure loomed, pushed past me--and groped my chest. I never saw his face or any features, not even his clothes. If I had, I would have chased him down. But he disappeared into the crowd of people behind me. His attack was strategically planned and perfectly executed. I was powerless to respond. I didn't even report it. My kids never knew it happened.

Then there was the time I'd gone to the emergency room of a county hospital with a severe bladder infection. I was five months pregnant. The doctor--or intern--hell, he could've been the janitor for all I know--who came into the room pulled the hospital gown from my shoulders, leaving me uncovered down to my waist. He proceeded to simply sit and gaze at my chest, finally running his hand along my breasts for no apparent reason, all the while talking matter-of-factly about prenatal care. I reminded him that I was there for a bladder infection. He tossed me a eerily smug smile that I'll never forget and left the room. I was eighteen, an inexperienced, naive teenager who was simply baffled by his behavior. It took a few years for me to realize exactly what had been going on.

Years later, when I'd been diagnosed with malignant melanoma, I sat in an exam room with two doctors and a close male friend. As the "specialist" described the surgery he might have to perform on my leg to fully excise the cancer, he reached over and slid his palm under my hip, cheerfully fondling my right buttock as he explained the procedure. Later my friend would tell me how uncomfortable it had made him. "Oh," I replied, "me, too," and then I slipped back into the trance I'd been in since I'd been told days earlier I might have a life-threatening illness. To my great relief, a second biopsy ruled out melanoma. When I could think clearly, I considered all the things I could have/should have said to the pervy doctor. But by then it was too late.

And let me tell you, arrogant, privileged men in positions of power or authority do this kind of shit all the time. And what do women do? Usually nothing. I have said this before on this blog, and will say it again here: For those who are thinking, "You should have said something," you've clearly never had a similar experience. Those who have know that our initial reaction is usually shock and disbelief. Then we question. ('Wait--did he just run his hand across my chest for no reason?') Honestly, by the time we make sense of it, the moment has passed. Predators know this. They are extremely subtle in what they do. (Consider the accusations against Bill Cosby. Or not so subtle--Consider the accusations against Harvey Weinstein.) That's how they continue to get away with it. And if women complain? It becomes "a misunderstanding." And you only need to hear the droning tone of a law enforcement officer remark, "Well, it's he said/she said" to know that no one is going to pursue the perpetrator.

And don't even get me started on the sexual harassment that occurs in public....

There was the new principal who, when I introduced myself, put his arm around my shoulders and told the student I was with he intended to "fire" me as the school newspaper advisor. When I called him on it in private, his response was, "I didn't grope you, did I?"

Twice I had male colleagues offer "hugs" in the hallway outside my classroom, only to lean in and whisper in my ear about being willing to "help" with any "needs" I might have since I'd been single for so long. Both men were married and, to my knowledge, still are, to the same women. I'd always thought the "I know you have needs" line was a creepy joke until I'd been single awhile. And it didn't take long....

A few months after my divorce, a "brother" from my former church called to encourage me to come back to church, to "stop screwing around" (because my husband had announced that we had separated due to infidelity on my part, which, I assured him, was not true), and that, by the way, if I had "unfulfilled needs" I should seek him out and he would "take care of" me. "I think you know what I mean," he said. My daughter used to babysit for this man and his wife. They're still married, and they're still attending church together.

All in all, I've been lucky. I've never been assaulted or harassed by one of my favorite teachers, as several of my friends have. I've never been injured by a man's assault as other friends--and family members--have been.

My friend Bob has told me that I "maintain an aura of 'Get away from me.'" This may be true; I do feel nowadays as if I'm constantly on my guard. But only when I'm in large crowds or around strangers. When I walk alone out in the hills, I have little fear. Wild creatures are far more predictable than humans.

But Ann, I do promise I will always be careful, and I will always have my wits about me, and I may or may not carry a switchblade in the pocket of my cargo pants.

When Men Behave Badly

Quick background: I live in a mobile home park. (No, not like that--a really nice one with plenty of green space, two swimming pools, a fitness room, a library and a dog park.) A mobile home park is like a small town--a really tiny small town. Fewer than a thousand people live here. If I sneeze in the morning, my neighbor a half mile away will call in the evening and ask if I've been sick. You get the idea.

So this happened:

Last week my neighbor--Man A--allowed me to park my truck in front of his home for a day while my street was being repaved. That evening, he called to tell me his buddy--Man B--had stopped by to tell him this:

'You must be feeling pretty good--ha ha ha--since you spent the morning getting laid--ha ha ha--I saw Kay's truck in front of your house all day.'

Man A found this humorous and laughed as he shared it with me--until I told him "That's not funny" in a tone so flinty you could've started a fire with it. We went on to have a brief discussion on why it's not appropriate for a man who has never met me to talk about me as if I'm a whore.

See, we all know that this is--What did the President call it?--"Guy talk" or "Locker room talk." Giving it a testosterone-spiced name does not give it credence or respectability, and it does not excuse it.

In cases like this, women face the same universal dilemma that they always do when dealing with sexual inappropriateness or harassment: If we speak out against the source, we suddenly become "a bitch" or "psycho" or "the psycho bitch from hell."

But hey, I don't care what Man B thinks of me. He's already demonstrated that he's not a nice man. I've got nothing to lose in confronting him, right?

So I waited.

And tonight, I saw him sitting in his golf cart with his cute little Pomeranian in his lap, talking to another neighbor. So I parked my truck across the street and strolled over. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hi. We've never been formally introduced. I'm [Man A's] friend, Kay Murphy.

Man B: Oh, yeah, I know who you are. I see your truck around....

Me: Mm hmm. I just wanted to let you know that I'm a pretty nice person--

Man B: Oh, yeah, [Man A] says you're a real nice lady--

Me: So I don't really appreciate being talked about as if I'm a whore.

At this point, for a moment or two, the conversation got very loud. Man B used a technique that people sometimes use when they don't want to hear or accept or take responsibility for something you're confronting them with: THEY BEGIN TO TALK VERY LOUDLY. Which is what he did, raising the volume each time I tried to speak until I quite firmly but calmly said, "Please let me finish talking." And with a wave of the hand, he shut up.

Which gave me the opportunity, in a few sentences, to explain that, while he may have been joking with his pal, he had no right to speak about me in such a disrespectful way, especially since he'd never even met me. And that, yes, I realize he might think of it as "guy talk," in the same way our President does, but that doesn't make it any more appropriate.

And that is the point at which he finally said, "Geez, [Man A] and me was just talkin' but now I feel bad about what I said." I took that as an apology--or as close to one as I would get. I stepped forward, reached out my hand to shake his, thanked him, and told him that now when I see him I can wave and say hello "as if we're friends" (which we are certainly not and never ever will be, but still--we live in this tiny community...).

If you're a woman, you're probably cringing and nodding as you read this, because you've had similar experiences. If you're a man--and you haven't had a wife or a mom or a sister describe similar experiences and how men can make us feel like we're pox-ridden alley whores for their own amusement--let me just say that you need to stop and think about the impact of what you're mouthing off about.

As for me, I drove away feeling proud of myself, and definitely stronger as a woman.

What men know versus what women know regarding sexual assault

It’s time I wrote about this. Women, though, tend to keep quiet when such incidences happen to them. That’s one of the things men know.

First, a clarification: I will be speaking in terms of men assaulting women, but I am fully aware that men assault men, women assault women, and yes, it’s possible for a woman to sexually assault a man.

Second, a definition: In tort and criminal law both, an assault is the threat of bodily harm coupled with an apparent, present ability to cause the harm. (So if you were thinking that in order for it to “really” be sexual assault, the guy has to put his hands on the woman, rough her up or hurt her a bit or go further than just groping her, nope. He’s culpable if he as much as breathes down the back of her neck and tells her he wants to ____ her; if she feels the threat of bodily harm and believes he has the ability to carry it out, that constitutes an assault.

This is something most men don’t know. (Yes, they should, but where and how would they learn it? I am only aware of it because of my stint in law school—and that was at the age of thirty-six. Certainly we don’t teach our boys this in public school, but yes, somehow, we should.) Of course, a man can make a play for a woman, flirt with her, talk sexy to her—if she is amenable. But we all should agree that uninvited sexual attention that is not reciprocated is wholly inappropriate—to say nothing of what Donald Trump said it was okay to do.

In fairness to Mr. Trump, if you listen very carefully to the audio of his casual and very unfortunate conversation with Billy Bush, you’ll hear him say these words: “They let you.” If you’re a star, his point was, they let you. Not the amorphous “they” we sometimes speak of. Women. He meant women. Women will let you “grab their pussies” (as Trump so crudely put it) if you’re “a star.”

In a sense, he’s right. This is what men know. Men know that most women don’t tell. Oh, they may go home and call a best friend and vent about the creeper or perv or lech who came onto them or was all over them and how they had to make an excuse to use the bathroom or go call the babysitter in order to get away. But most of the time in those awkward situations—at a party or at work—when a man like Trump shoves a girl against a wall and tries to kiss her, most women will just let it go. And men know this. Most men know—or to be precise, men who engage in this type of behavior—that probably the worst that will happen is a rebuff. No slap in the face, no push back, no going to the press (or the man’s wife). Women, most of the time, don’t.

Why?

Because this is what we know (and what men like Trump know): A man in Trump’s position holds the power. Say, for example, a female journalist is subjected to this behavior and she immediately writes a story and it’s printed the next day. Who will be harmed by her action? A man like Trump? Of course not. All he has to say is that she’s lying, that he would never think of doing such a thing. She has no proof, so he simply has to deny the claim. But what happens to the woman who brought it? She’s called a liar, a whore, someone out to exploit a celebrity for her own gain, someone with an axe to grind. Look at all those women assaulted by another popular celebrity who has been in the news lately. None of them came forward when it happened. Why? Because they knew. Not only would no one believe them, but their own careers could be placed in jeopardy if they said anything.

Men who engage in this behavior know this.

And women know that, most times, it’s pointless to try to do anything about it.

Three times during the years I was teaching men came at me in a manner that was highly inappropriate. Each time it began with the innocent pretense of a hug but immediately became something else. I was a single woman. All three men were married. Two of the three were popular teachers and coaches. I could have reported them. I could have gone to an administrator and documented what happened, placing their marriages and careers in jeopardy. But I didn’t. Because I knew. People—especially women—already looked askance at me for being an independent single woman, a tomboy who preferred the company of men (not for sexual reasons) over women. I knew that nothing would come of my complaint, that the perpetrators would simply deny anything ever happened, that I would be the person pointing my finger at someone—like Donald Trump—who was popular and well-liked and yes, I’m choking on the word, but yes, respected.

Interestingly (though not surprisingly), one of those men was on Facebook just tonight, I noticed, making a harsh comment about Hillary Clinton. Oh, I’m not friends with him on Facebook. But one of my highly respected teacher friends is. And I’m sure she has no idea what kind of man he really is. Or maybe she does….

As we’ve seen, when one woman comes forward, not much—or nothing at all—is done. But when many women come forward, it is sometimes powerful enough to turn the tide of opinion. Sometimes.

And there are times, I must confess, like tonight when I saw that man’s name on my friend’s Facebook page, and I read his snarky comment about Hillary, that I think how easy it would be to write a comment back in reply, there on Facebook where many, many people would see it, a comment that would out him in some way. “Yeah, ____, like that time you grabbed me in the hallway outside my classroom and….” But I don’t. He’d just deny it. I know this. And men like him? They know they’re safe. That’s why the culture of “they let you do anything” continues.