*Sorry. I guess LJ ate about half of the post.
This post isn't brought on by anything specific. However, it is something that's been on my mind for a bit. It started to float around my head after reading about the
Open Source Boob Project. This story got to me. But in the entire story, nothing bothered me more than this line,
By the end of the evening, women were coming up to us. "My breasts," they asked shyly, having heard about the project. "Are they... are they good enough to be touched?" And lo, we showed them how beautiful their bodies were without turning it into something tawdry."
because there's a small part of me that feels the same way these women do, that needs some external validation of my appearance.
Then there was the whole DC Madame mess, where the men involved, like Sen. Vitter, were given free passes, but the women were put on the stand and made to testify about how they induced orgasms in their clients. The prosecutor even asked one of the women what she did about the whole sex thing while she was menstruating. All of this for a money laundering case.
And all of this continuously pointing out that even today, women do not own ourselves. When I think about it, it's a lesson people have been trying to teach me since I was five years old.
Kindergarten, riding the bus home a boy wanted me to kiss him. I said no and got pushed to the floor. I never said anything.
When I was in fourth grade, another girl asked me when was I having the baby. Why did she ask me that? Because I had started puberty, and shocker, had developed breasts. By the end of that year I was wearing a D-cup, while most of the other girls weren’t even wearing bras.
The next year I was accused of stuffing my bra by a girl I didn’t even know. I had just moved to that school and she was in the other class section. I tried to talk to an adult, but they ignored it.
In sixth grade I got asked out by someone I kinda liked. Except he had a friend ask me out. He also wanted to know what size bra I wore. I turned him down. But not because I realized he was a douche. I said no because I didn’t believe that anyone would actually want to go out with me. That it was some massive joke. I said no because I didn’t think that I was worthy.
Sixth grade is also the year I think I was raped.
Eighth grade. Mark. Mark was in my science class. Just about everyday I’d get some comment on my body from him. And I said nothing. I pretended that it didn’t bother me, that it was harmless. Finally, I stood up for myself. I told him if he said one more thing that I’d go to the principal and tell him I was being sexually harassed. He never said anything to me again. And yet, one of my greatest regrets is that I didn’t let someone know that it was happening. This now only exists in my memory. I’m sure Mark has forgotten it by now.
Ninth grade, mixed volleyball PE classes. I like volleyball. When we played it in class, I discovered I was marginally proficient. We were in the middle of the unit. Every now and then I would notice a kid in the balcony area watching the games. Latter, I found out he like to look at me because my chest bounced around. The person who told me this made it sound like I should be honored to have gotten this attention. I, instead, felt ashamed.
Eleventh grade. I was walking, somewhere, and there was this mildly sketchy looking guy. As I walked past him, he told me I had a nice rack. I just walked away as quickly as possible.
All of this before I was eighteen, and this isn't even near a complete list. Each one of these incidences serving as a reminder that to many people my body is public domain. And as the years have gone by, I still get the comments on my body from strangers. But I've gotten over the brush with bulimia, and the intense desire to get a nose job, and various other neuroses. Sure, I still wish I was skinny and had the perfect skin, but these struggles don't define me like they have before.
I still get harassed, usually by a random individual. But today, most attempts to marginalize me, whether conscious or not, are based on my intelligence. Most of the time when I come up against this I make some sort of stand. In just about every incident, they still don't believe me. And after awhile it becomes pointless. So I just let them go on. And soon we reach a point where there is some obvious flaw. There's an extra meter in the units, or we have the wrong slope. And I get to point out that yes, the girl was right.
But just the other day I feel into the trap. I was converting milliamps to amps by dividing by a thousand. My partner in the lab came up and asked me what I was doing, I should be multiplying by a thousand. And I believed him. Against all my instincts, I believed the Man Who Knows All even though he was completely wrong. And each time I let this happen, I take a step back. I get angry with myself for letting it happen. And that nagging sense of doubt, of uncertainty, just grows.