Irreverin
I saw a statistic yesterday that said 83% of girls are sexually harassed in high school. My first thought was: is that all?
I tell you what–100% of girls are sexually harassed in high school. Whether they know it or not, whether they talk about it or not. I’m pretty sure they teach a class on lewd behavior for freshmen boys. It is not a required elective, but there’s a lot of peer pressure to take it.
It might seem extreme to say that ‘all’ girls are harassed in high school, but by harassment I mean: Any touching that is unwanted; any commentary on one’s body or person that feels threatening, intimidating, or demeaning; or any communication that is sexual in nature, from a person with whom you are not wanting to have sexual contact. Especially when that communication is persistent. 
Here’s an example–there are grosser, more upsetting ones, but this is maybe the easiest to capture in a few sentences. My freshman year, there was this guy in my biology class. And every time I walked by his desk–which was often, because of course he sat in the front damn row–he would call me “Body.” Hey Body. What’s up, Body? When are you going to sit on my lap, Body? That might sound harmless, but I was 15. And when I asked why he was calling me that, he said, “Because you’ve got a great body.” “Fine,” I said, “But that’s not my name.” Add to that the fact that I asked him to stop, multiple times a day. He wouldn’t. In fact, the more upset I got, the more he seemed to enjoy it. I ignored, I found alternate routes, I got up in his face. He would. Not. Quit.
I have a clear and vivid memory of slapping him clean across the face once. I’m not sure if I actually did it, or if I just daydreamed it enough times to make it true. A good, firm, decisive whop, like the busty dames in the old movies. I can almost feel it. (Note: I was not a busty dame in high school. I was a dancer. I weighed 95 pounds. I tried on an a-cup bra once, and I swear it laughed at me. “Oh, honey,” it said. “Eat a cheeseburger and get on the pill and call me back in 5 years). So, yeah, to this day, I don’t know if I actually smacked that lascivious grin off his face, or if I just sat there seething. I do know that I seriously hate biology, to this day. All the science things, really. Dude–it all makes sense now. IT’S THIS GUY’S FAULT I’M NOT A SURGEON.
Anyway. That’s how I often remember those instances from high school. Especially the ones that were more physical or intimidating. I remember stomping toes, throwing elbows to ribs, and shoving boys-who-thought-they-were-men into the bright blue lockers. But I think I mostly just tried to walk the other way. Here’s what perplexes me, to this day–I had guy friends. Real ones, and many of them. They were good guys. They were my neighbors, they went to my church, they sang with me in choir; they knew my parents, they came to my dance recitals, they brought my homework when I was sick. Why I could not see the glaring difference between these kinds of guys and the ‘other,’ and discern the radically unacceptable nature of the ‘other,’ I’ll never know. But it just did not seem to matter what I did or said. This just seemed like a part of life I was doomed to accept.
It’s not just high school. Women deal with this behavior from grown-ass men, every day. Often in situations where the man is an authority figure of some kind. But it all starts right here–on the bus, in the locker room, behind the bleachers… It starts in that freshmen elective where boys get a thousand little messages a day that they are entitled to women’s bodies; and girls get a thousand little messages a day that they are powerless against the force of masculine lust. And also, it’s a compliment. Geez, relax.
You’re such a prude.
High school girls–even junior high girls–are in a fish bowl. No, a zoo. Boys act this way, and you can’t exactly up and leave. You are at school. You are a captive audience for the theater of male adolescence and its often unchecked exuberance. So there’s got to be some dialogue and awareness on the part of adults. Teachers, parents, counselors, youth ministers, COACHES. Oh, the power of a football coach to help boys channel that energy for good and not for evil; to change the expectations of what it means to ‘be real men.’
When I was in school, this wasn’t talked about because we didn’t really have words for it. But now we do. It is called rape culture. Not that all boys who grab asses are going to be rapists; but I guarantee you that most rapists started out as ass-grabbers, cat-callers, and leering idiots in biology class.
We have language for it now, which means we have better ways to empower girls and shut down the freshman boys’ elective. But it is also so much more complex… Lord help you if you are non-gender-normative. If you walk a little funny, or dress a little too fancy, or your shoes are a little too butch. May God have mercy on you if you come right out and admit to being gay, or lesbian, or transgender, or some brand of queer. It is not just a zoo out there. It’s a jungle. It always has been, but we are just now starting to teach kids–boys and girls, and adults too, for that matter–how to be in your presence without completely breaking your soul. I hope it’s getting better out there for you. I hope some of our churches are helping that happen.
In the meantime–I’m thankful for all the boys and men, from all stages of my life, who have never grabbed an ass (unless expressly invited); who believe women are whole people and treat them as such; and who affirm my belief that the male of the species are ultimately worth keeping around. I’m trying my best to send my son into the world as one of those allies, and not, you know, one of the others. And lord help the first boy to feel up my daughter (without her permission) in some dark hallway or locker room. Because this Mama Bear has got about 25 years of pent up face-slapping and toe stomping to dispense.
In other news, I am remembering the creep from bio 1, and all the others, who maybe never got the good whooping they had coming. I am hoping today that those guys grew up to be decent husbands, fathers, and human beings. We were, none of us, our best selves in high school.
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