A Waking Nightmare

I wake up sweating. My restless sleep eventually gives way to consciousness. I’m annoyed before my feet can even touch the ground. My forehead is sweaty, but I’m clutching on to the covers curled into a ball. I let out a sigh so exasperated that my boyfriend stirs next to me. He pats my arm and groggily asks, “what’s wrong?” My frustrated and not yet fully formed thoughts mumbled about being attacked by a man. I leap into the confused details, but it is his turn to sigh. He has heard several different variations of this dream. I’m being chased, being attacked, being violated in some way. He sleepily rolls towards me with his eyes still shut as mine, alert with adrenaline burn into his eyelids. He innocently inquires, “Why do you have so many of these dreams?”

Belvedere Advert, 2012. 

My boyfriend is sweet, caring, and sensitive. He is an ally. He listens as I articulate the ways in which a woman has to walk in this world. He hears me. He believes me. He sympathizes with me. Yet, he has no idea what I am talking about.

He is lacking the context of the world in which I exist. Mine is a world that operates in the underbelly of his. He strokes my back when I tell him about being thrown and locked into a toilet stall by a man who liked the way I dance and wanted to lay claim on me, while an ex-boyfriend unknowingly stood outside the door…

Or about when my colleague grabbed my arm and pushed me onto a chair so that I was suggestively eye-level with his erect penis…

Or when an old high school flame pinned me up against a wall forcing his tongue into my mouth. The room, full of former classmates and friends, silently ignored my pleas.

I was 11 years old when a boy first grabbed my ass. He couldn’t have been older than eight, and I’m sure it was on a dare.  He smacked my butt and ran. Neither of us knew how to deal with the situation, yet we played our societal parts perfectly. I said nothing and he did it again.

Bloomingdale's Advertisement 2015.

Working my way back to my pre-pubescent childhood, he has heard some of the dramatic stories that pepper my life.  He sees them as a collection of unfortunate isolated incidents. He doesn’t see the daily violations that link them into an unending reality. My reality is full of colorful incidents that are too exhausting to tell. The wandering hands and lurking eyes that make my skin crawl as I hug myself a little bit tighter.

Even our allies can’t understand that those incessant small violations build off of each other to create intangible and somewhat unidentifiable fear that lingers in every woman.  The subtle backhanded compliments that are meant to keep me quiet, while men flex their entitlement. The power that they’ve carried for centuries and rooted so deeply in their identity, they can’t see it. The comments that I actively try to immediately repress from my memory, because I have better things to concern myself. Yet, it is always there. It may be dormant for a while; it is always lurking beneath the surface. We can’t escape it.

I have to continuously, and carefully, negotiate my place in this world. I am constantly assessing my situation -- eyeing up the people around me, or calculating how much time I have before the sets, wondering if they will protect me if something happens. The sad truth is that there is not much that I can do if I happen to be on a quiet street and a man comes walking toward me. It might be nothing. It might be an ally. But, it might not. I’ve run into both. This is why I have trouble sleeping. This is my constant reality. There is a pervasiveness of sexual oppression and dominance over women, which bleeds my waking into sleeping consciousness. It is something that I can’t evade. It is my waking nightmare.

1945 Fleet Week.  
Sailor George Mendonsa: "When I saw the nurse, I grabbed her, and I kissed her."Nurse Greta Friedman: "I did not see him approaching, and before I know it, I was in this vice grip!"

In my feminist’s imagination, I sometimes fantasize approaching an unsuspecting man while I am walking with my female crew catcalling him, ‘hey handsome, can I talk to you for a minute?’ ‘Damn boy, lookin’ good!’ His face shocked, while the compliment washes over him before it leaves its mildew of violation all across his body. I wonder how many interactions it would take before he no longer wants the unsolicited attention - before he wants to hide from the world. Feeling vulnerable and on display like an animal at the zoo; their existence is solely for the pleasure of others.

I would like to think we women are better than that. But if history can tell us anything, it is that humans want to dominate others. We try to rise to the top by holding others down. I look at this election season and it more of the same. Somehow, people are shocked by predatory ‘locker room talk’. But if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think women are shocked at all.  I think they live in the same world that I do. We live that reality every day. We feel those words assaulting our bodies, every day. It’s our dirty little secret that we carry heavy in our hearts. It is our waking nightmare that we can’t escape in the light of day.

Femininity is NOT weakness

When Hillary Clinton was running for office, some commented on her fashion, or lack thereof. Hillary dressed in predominantly dark pants suits. She was trying to do everything she could to make America forget that she is a woman. Questions, comments, and queries regarding fashion were never directed to her male competitors.

Showing one’s femininity is considered a weakness that is not suitable for high powered positions. America was distracted by her lack of femininity while at the same time undermining her capability as a strong leader because her womanly proclivities. I understand her dilemma. I dare say that all women experience this double standard. Unfortunately, there are few prominent females that can serve as examples, and they always endure the harshest criticisms.

Respect is earned by working hard, but it’s naïve to think that is the only quality that is noticed. I always feel like I need to be twice as good to gain the respect men receive. Therefore, it seemed to reason, that the way to mitigate this double standard, was to dull the apparent differences between me and my male counterparts. I, just as Hillary Clinton, fell in to the same gender-neutral-clothes-wearing trap.   I used to have a visceral reaction to all things ‘girly’ or pink. It personified all of the things that I was trying to evade. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever owned or wore anything pink until I was in my mid-twenties.

Femininity is, of course, more than just what you wear. Unfortunately, it is often limited to intangible descriptions such as maternal instincts, tender-hearted, soft, etc. The strength in a woman’s power is in its subtleties that are often overlooked and underappreciated. It doesn’t have the same in-your-face aggressiveness which sometimes overpowers the testosterone-filled workplace.  It is more than a just complement to machismo that creates harmony.  But the very nature of its elusive qualities makes it hard to perceive in its own right, let alone appreciate it.

Over the past two years, I’ve had a change of heart of how I identify with femininity. When I look around me, I see girls unconsciously being forced to make the same decision – embrace their femininity or to be taken seriously.  It breaks my heart to see their path being chosen without them understanding its implications.

I choose both.  I no longer try to hide the fact that I’m a woman. (Let’s be serious, I wasn’t fooling anybody and attempting to do so was only harming myself.)  I realized if I don’t make a stand to change how femininity is perceived, then who will? So, I choose to wear pink while boxing; I choose to wear skirts when I’m leading meetings. I choose to let myself be me. Now when I pass girls on the streets, I give them a knowing smile and hope they find their way. There is strength in femininity, and we should feel empowered by that, not ashamed.