Everyday Sexism

How many words do I have? I’m approaching 60, so there’s a fair bit in there, at least, until I became invisible… maybe a benefit of menopause after all. From being propositioned, age 15, by a famous musician in his dressing room (I didn’t reach 4’10” at my tallest, nor did I wear make up, or make any effort to look older, so I don’t think there was any doubt I was underage), to the daily battle of being ‘frigid’ within a 20-year relationship, with a truly kind man (pre-#metoo; perhaps if we’d survived long enough, that may have helped me to explain in a way that would’ve left me feeling that I had a right to say no?). Having just heard about this site, an hour or so before International Women’s Day 2024, I read a little about sexual assault on public transport, which led me to two of my own memories; each of which has an extra part to it, that compounds the initial ‘assault’. In the first, I was in my late teens, on a train, and the man opposite me, I’d guess in his 40s or 50s, decided to wank all the way from London to Birmingham. Being young, and naive, I believed that the best way to manage the situation, was to completely ignore him. To read my book, look out of the window, anything but show any sign whatsoever that I had noticed him, much less understood what he was doing. On my return home, I told my brother what had happened, and was told in return that I was clearly enjoying it; I must have been, or I would’ve got up and moved. My protests and arguments that I believed I was doing the opposite of what he wanted; that I was not showing any fear, or anything at all, not even acknowledging his presence, were belittled and laughed at. For years afterwards, I kept asking myself, was this true? Was there some hidden part of me that wanted to encourage this man to masturbate in front of me? The second event took place a couple of years later, in my early 20s, interrailing in Europe. The train was going from Brindisi to northern Italy. It was one of those old-style trains like the one in the Harry Potter film, with carriages made up of compartments, and finding an empty one, I managed – standing on a seat – to get my rucksack into an overhead rack, and sat down to enjoy the journey. Shortly after the train left, a man came in, and with 7 vacant seats, he sat right next to me, between me and the door. Within moments, his hand was on my knee. I lifted it and removed it. He put it back and I decided it was time to leave. I got up to retrieve my bag from the rack opposite, and he came up behind me, grabbing both of my breasts. Luckily, I was able to reach the bag; I think a strap must have been hanging down, and grabbing it, and using the gravity in my favour, I was able to swing it down onto him, pushing him back into the seat, at which point, I held the bag firmly, and kicked one (or maybe both?) of his shins, maybe 10 or 12 times, as hard as I could manage before leaving the compartment in search of one more favourably multi-occupied. For many years, I would, on occasion, tell this story with a certain pride in my swiftly enacted, and effectively aggressive and defensive actions (remember, I’m not and never was Amazonian in stature). And I always ended it with the same sentence… it was only a couple of years ago, that a friend pointed out to me how shocking – and wrong – that final sentence was; ‘it was my own fault for being in an empty carriage’. I had spent over 30 years, blaming myself, certain in my conviction that I should bear responsibility for what had happened, because I had dared to think, at the tender age of 21, and a few inches short of 5’ tall, that I should be allowed sit, alone, un-harassed in an unoccupied compartment of an Italian train carriage. And in all those years, I had never recognised that despite kicking his shins, I was still colluding with that man’s appalling and vile belief that he had a right violate my body. And nor had anyone else I’d ever told that story to.