Me Too: My Story
If you’ve been on social media recently, you have probably seen headlines and read articles of Harvey Weinstein and the women he sexually assaulted. You have probably noticed that a trending phrase has appeared on your feed more than a few times, too.
The “Me too” statement came out from a community who began to identify with what celebrities such as Gwyneth Paltrow and Angelina Jolie (and numerous others) had experienced in the presence of Weinstein. This sparked such a commotion that people soon realized that this wasn’t just a Hollywood problem, but that it was a female problem—no matter your occupation.
Then, a couple of male celebrities (Terry Crews and James Van Der Beek) took to Twitter to describe their experiences as victims of sexual assault by high-level executives in show business. This brought to light that this was not necessarily a Hollywood problem nor a female problem, but a problem that anyone, anywhere could face.
Lately, it’s been the women who have been heroic enough to step forward and keystroke the words “Me too” in their status updates. The phrase has recurred numerously on my newsfeeds. I’ve even been saddened to see personal friends of mine who have posted this.
In my mind, they have been strong women who are assertive and seem like the “don’t take no bull” kind of people. But then I remember that Evil doesn’t care about how much grit, power, or gumption one has; It will lurk in the shadows, waiting for the opportune time to come out after us.
Evil emerged from the shadows and came for me when I was around 10 or 11 years old.
My family and I had just had Taco Bell (don’t the worst stories start with those words, “I had just had Taco Bell…”) and we were on our way to the shopping mall, a conglomerate of stores we visited every other weekend. My aunt and uncle had been out with us and came along to the mall, too.
My mom and my aunt, shopping buddies, hit the stores while my uncle initiated the non-shopper pastime: finding a bench and people-watching until it was time to leave. Normally, my dad would be with him but he was with my brother who had probably wanted to go into a toy store.
While everyone tends to their retail (and non-retail) desires, I feel the familiar sensation that most of us all feel after consuming copious amounts of Taco Bell.
I tell my uncle that I’m heading to the restroom and will be back, walking with urgency to the bathroom I know of in one of the stores Mom likes to shop at most.
Entering the restroom, I quickly find a stall. There are probably 5-6 stalls in this restroom and most are occupied, save one. Thank God!
While I’m in the stall doing my business, I look at the paneling of the stall. Most of it is phallus graffiti along with the peppering of curse words written in broad-tip Sharpie. But then, I look and see there are two or three holes in the paneling big enough to fit three or four fingers through, but not big enough to get a fist through. If someone were standing in the stall, the holes would measure up to where a man’s waistline usually is.
All while I’m observing this (I’d never used this bathroom to poop in all of my times coming here), I glance out of the corner of my eye where one of the holes is and see an eye looking back at me! Getting really tense, I look away, feeling awkward and ghastly. Then, a hand emerges underneath the paneling of the stall and makes a beckoning gesture.
I don’t see it, but I can certainly tell this man is also masturbating.
He makes the beckoning gesture at least two more times before I get up and leave. I have no idea what to do. I’m 10 or 11 years old. I don’t scream out in a public restroom where my closest relative is on the second floor while I’m on the first. It’s awkward. This whole situation is awkward. I don’t feel safe at all.
I quickly get up, wipe, and leave, not having finished doing my business. I run out from the restroom and go to the next restroom I remember located in the mall because Taco Bell is still ravaging me. The one I find is a one-person stall and small. No one is in there. Perfect.
I quickly do my business and leave, going to find my uncle who’s waiting for my aunt and mom to be done shopping. I proceed to tell him what happened, too afraid to tell my own mom and dad because, again in my mind, it’s awkward. I don’t know what I’m feeling other than very backwards and disgusted.
Later that night, Mom comes in to talk with me in my bedroom and tells me that my uncle had told her and Dad about what I had explained to him. She had said that my uncle only wished I’d told him sooner so that “he could have went in the bathroom and beat the crap out of the guy.” (Pretty sure my mom didn’t know she was using a pun at the time…)
Ever since that moment that I’ve carried quietly inside me for nearly 20 years, I’ve never felt comfortable going into a public restroom. Ever. Public restrooms aren’t the most comfortable places to begin with but my sense of uncomfortableness is acute and I won’t go in to defecate unless it’s an absolutely “have-to” situation.
Though it’s probably not as harrowing as what most women deal with on a regular basis, I share that story to say, “Me too.” I share that to bring Evil to light and expose the foul tendrils that have coiled around my mental/social health. I share that story because I have to believe that there are other men out there who have experienced unwanted sexual advances in some form of fashion and need to know that it’s okay to talk about it.
Normally, I write words of encouragement or advice, but I don’t want to offer any words of encouragement or advice. I think we all process things differently and we have a certain level of street-smarts to know not to put ourselves in certain kinds of situations. This is not the time for that. Just typing out “Me too” has a cathartic release.
I do, however, want to issue a challenge.
The next time you find yourself in a subway car, in a crowded street, in the grocery market and you see someone victimizing someone else, take a deep breath and call them out on it. If you’re with a friend, tell them to back you up before you take action. If you’re alone and witness unwanted sexual tendencies on a deserted street or down a back road, call the police. Report it. Say something! The way that Evil wins is by feeding off those who don’t use their voices for good.
And we can’t let Evil win any longer.
