Silent No More: Thoughts on the sexual harassment in my life

After the videotape of Donald Trump and Billy Bush surfaced yesterday, Kelly Oxford, a writer in LA, started a tweet storm with the hashtag #NotOkay.  She asked women to share their stories of sexual harassment, writing about their earliest memory of inappropriate behavior against them.  I started thinking about the times I was harassed over the years.  I remember my first experience, since it is seared into my brain because of the shame I felt at the time, but then an avalanche of unwanted and unwelcome sexual advances and comments started flowing through my mind.  I thought I would write them down.

My earliest memory of harassment happened at the end of sixth or seventh grade.  One of our classmates was having a pool party after the last day of school.  My mom sent me to school that day with my new bathing suit (a cute, rainbow two-piece that I loved) and my Garfield beach towel.  We walked over to her house en masse, joking and laughing on the way.  Her pool was above ground with a small deck around it, set back from her house and the patio where the moms sat to chaperone.

We changed and jumped into the water.  It was cold, but we were so excited to be swimming for the first time that summer, that we didn't mind.  We had chicken fights, kids were dunking each other, and  doing cannonballs off the deck.  Some got out to get food; others, like me, stayed in.

I was hanging with a friend when a group of boys came up and surrounded me and started splashing me in the face.  As I tried to splash back, I heard one of them yell, "Grab her!" and two boys grabbed my arms and two grabbed my legs and held me back against the side of the pool.

My immediate fear was that I was going to drown.  Water was splashing over my head and I was gasping for air.  All of a sudden, one of the boys went underwater and grabbed my bathing suit bottoms and pulled them down.  He came up shouting, "I can see her hairy bush!"

The boys holding my arms and legs let go, and all went under the water to get a glimpse of my pubic hair before I had a chance to get my suit bottoms up.  I pulled them up as quickly as I could and got out of the pool and ran to the patio, where the moms, oblivious to what was going on, sat drinking Tab and talking.

I wrapped myself in my beach towel and sat in the sun, ashamed and humiliated.  I felt vulnerable and angry, and I never told a soul.

That was just the beginning.

During the last couple of years at my Catholic grade school, I continually had my uniform skirt pulled up so the boys could get a glance at my underwear.  Once it was on a tour of the museum at the Cathedral of the Assumption downtown where we were learning about our faith before our Confirmation.  Once I was having my period, and blood had leaked onto my underwear.  I told my teacher, and instead of admonishing the boys to keep their hands to themselves, she said maybe I should start wearing shorts under my skirt.  I finally did, but I should not have had to do that.

I was an early bloomer.  I hated my breasts.  I had one shirt that I wore nearly every day that smashed me down enough that I remained flat-chested as long as possible, but it wasn't long at all.  I was very well-endowed for my age.  Boys in my class would hold me down and feel me up or "accidentally" bump into my breasts.  I had boys give me "titty twisters."  I was called "Jugs" and "Tits."  I began to slouch to cover up my figure.  My mom used to get after me all the time to stand up straight and put my shoulders back, but I was afraid if I did that, it would only bring on more "titty twisters," more groping, more condescending language.  I felt humiliated and ashamed of my body.  Still, I never said a word.

Most of high school was spent in an all-girl environment, and I had steady boyfriends for much of the time, so it wasn't too bad.  I did have a date with a guy my senior year who just randomly pulled into a bank parking lot on our first date and started trying to feel me up.  We only went out once.  Another guy got angry with me because I told him to stop trying to touch my breasts.  He said, "Well then why did you agree to go out with me?"

I worked as a cashier at a family grocery store.  Our assistant manager was good friends with the owner and harassed me constantly.  "What size bra do you wear?" "Sharron, bend over and let me see you pick up that pencil" that he had dropped on purpose.  He would come up next to me while I was ringing someone up and stand as close as he could and brush his body against mine. He was about 6'2" and had played football.  I am 5'4".  Imagine how powerless I felt.  As an assistant manager, he was in charge of closing the store, and often I was one of two female cashiers working to close of the day.   He and the other male workers would make crude comments after the doors were locked.  The other female workers and I could do nothing.  Who could we tell?  He was friends with the owner.  We knew if we said anything, the harassment would only get worse.  I finally quit and went to work somewhere else, but I shouldn't have had to do that.  I never told anyone why I left.

I was at my general practitioner's for my annual pelvic exam when I was about 21.  My doctor did the vaginal exam with a nurse present but then came back in before I had a chance to get dressed.  He started flirting with me and asked me out to dinner five minutes after having his fingers inside me doing a Pap smear.  I sat on the exam table in a paper gown, the stirrups still out, no idea what to do.  I told him I had a boyfriend.  I felt gross and violated and still, I never said anything.  Who would I tell?  I didn't know.

I had a favorite high school teacher, who I respected and admired, ask if he could kiss me.

I had a youth minister tell me that if he was 20 years younger, he'd ask me out.

I had a priest tell me that if he'd met me 30 years earlier, he wouldn't be a priest.

I had an army officer tell me that pregnancy looked good on me because it sure made my boobs big.

I've been called a "MILF" by students where I was substitute teaching.

There are more, but you get the picture.

I'm not commenting on Trump.  I am saying that I have been harassed throughout my life, starting when I was 12 years old.  I know I am not alone as evidenced by #NotOkay.  This happens every single day to women all over the world.  I know my experiences are not as bad as some women have had, but they were bad enough over the years to bring me shame and humiliation and to make me embarrassed about my body.  It has taken me a long time to feel good about how I look.

I don't want my daughters or my nieces to ever experience what I did.  I have spoken with my girls about what I went through and told them to speak up.  To say stop.  To tell someone if anything like this ever happens to them.  I have told my son that he is never, ever to do or say anything to demean women, and that if he ever sees it happening, he is to speak up, to stand up against it.

So for all of those years that I remained silent, I will stay silent no more.  It was wrong in 1979.  It was wrong in 1987.  It was wrong in 2005.  It is wrong now, and it needs to stop.