[Tall, blonde, neanderthal]: Dude, don’t be such a p*$*y.

[Shorter brunette]: (sulking) fine.

I’ve heard people say it before– in movies, in comics, in the street. Athletes and spectators and barjockeys. Surprisingly enough, men and women. This is the first time, however, that it hit home. This term (whether one sees it as inappropriate or not) for a woman’s genitalia is being used derisively, commonly, to describe cowardice and indecision.

We might turn this around, though, and say that being called a dick is just as bad–arrogant, foolhardy, and insensitive are hardly desirable traits. To this I say that the connotations associated to us is worse (to me) because by these associations, p*$$ies are passive and dicks are aggressive. These are the roles we have to fight against in order to change the general assumption that women are not the actors and main characters of their own narratives.

The new traits associated with womens’ bodies seems a step in the wrong direction. Christian men of the Middle Ages taught that witches could grow teeth (fangs) from their vaginas and likened the genitals of women to the mouth of hell (Shakespeare, also, made use of this metaphor). It’s almost fitting that I’m touching upon this topic so close to Halloween!

But I find myself more bothered by the former association by the latter. When did someone determine that my vagina is cowardly or subservient? And, more importantly, how did this assumption spread? If we are to be seen as equal, as strong and not targets for aggression of any kind, then this needs to change.

To each their own preference, but I’d prefer to be looked at as armed to the teeth, as in old, than fearful or timid.

And yet, I am afraid of doing what I am asking others to do– I have written about my recent success against an assault on my property, but I have hesitated on writing about my experience as a teen. This is not a part of my life that I visit often or readily. After  deliberating on it, however, I’ve decided that it’s important to add my own stories as well. I hope that this may be useful to others.

When I was in high school, I began seeing a boy three years older than I was. I looked up to him because he came from a good family, lived in the nice part of town, and was on the water polo team. I was stocky, geeky, and came from the humblest part of town. When he decided I was good enough, I was amazed and agreed to go out with him.

It began with mean jokes. About my lack of a waist, or thick glasses, or the fact that my parents couldn’t take everyone out to dinner the way his could. The more time passed, the more I felt the difference between us and the worse I felt about myself. And oddly the luckier I felt about being his girlfriend at the same time.

But I came from a very devout family, and when it came to anything beyond kissing I absolutely would not do it. At first, he didn’t press– he said he understood I needed to wait–but by the fifth month he was getting aggressive. I began dread spending too much time alone with him, so much so that I tried spending more and more of our time together in groups or with family. I felt safest then.

He asked me out one Saturday night, to go to his house and have dinner with his parents. I was given permission by my family and put on my best Sunday skirt. When he came to pick me up, he was smiling and nice. He said hello to my father before driving me to his house. I felt like things would be ok, up until he opened the door and saw that the lights were off. His parents were out to dinner, and it would be just the two of us.

I don’t totally remember how I ended up upstairs. He wanted to show me his aquarium, which was in his room, and I don’t know how I had agreed. But once we were up there, he began kissing me. His hand went under my shirt,and I held very still. I remember not feeling ‘there’ completely. I kept thinking about the fish, swimming peacefully behind him. He pulled me closer to the bed, and feeling the skirt raised and the back of my knees making contact with the bedspread woke me up.

He asked me to hold still, that if I loved him I’d hold still. His hands were holding my thighs. At that point I knew what was going to happen, and I started to cry. I said no, and he asked me to get into it, to not be afraid. When I tried getting up, he pressed onto me. I felt suffocated by his weight and my crying. I needed air and distance, and that’s what kept me struggling against his inappropriate touching. I hated it, it felt disgusting to have his hands on me at all. I wriggled, and at one point, I heaved hard and got him off of me long enough to get up and reach the door handle; he grabbed me by my waist at that point and tried dragging me back in, but I held fast to the handle with both hands and the combined force took it off its hinges.

He stopped then, and began talking about what his parents would say about it. He forgot about me for a moment, just pushed me back while he took a look. It was enough time for me to find a weapon–something sharp like a letter opener–from his desk. I put it to my wrist and told him to take me home now or else there would be a lot more to explain to his parents. I did not even buckle up in the car, and did not drop the thing until he had parked and I was one foot out of the car already.

It took a few years before I recovered. I felt ashamed and dirty, and at the same time kept wondering if I’d made too big a deal about it. It wasn’t until I started to talk to other women that I was able to accept what it was–attempted rape– and that I am a survivor. What happened wasn’t right or fair (it will never be right or fair), but I survived and this makes me both fortunate and strong.

When I was a teenager I got the creeps from a guy in a grocery store parking lot. I was 16 and my mom asked me to pick up some milk after school.

I had tennis but right after I went. When I closed the car door I sawa guy dressed in camo pants coming towards me. I thought he just going to ask for change and so I put a dollar in my hand, but he kept following me toward the store after. He asked if I lived alone and where I lived and it made me really scared. So I lied and said I lived with my husband and didn’t he have to go home?

He told me his girlfriend had cheated and kicked him out and that’s why he was asking for help. It was sad but I didn’t want to get too close. He kept asking personal stuff and even asked where my husband was. I told him I needed to rush in because I had to get stuff for dinner right away and he grabbed my hand a little hard. I knew he wanted to scare me into something, so I said “I just need a little milk and stuff for my kid. I’ll be right out in five minutes and we can keep talking then.” He let go of me then and tried to smile at me. That made me feel more scared so I ran into the store and then told one of the baggers (a guy) about what happened when I was at checkout, and he walked out with me. When the other guy came up to approach me again the bagger stopped him to ask him if he was asking for money out in the lot. It gave me time to walk calmly to my car and drive off.

If you would have a story you’d like to share with our community, please visit our project page, In Her Words for more info and/or leave a comment.

“The first wealth is health.” – Ralph Waldo Emerson

As a blog dedicated to women survivors, I want to take a moment to celebrate the fight against breast cancer. October is breast cancer awareness month and I would like to honor those fighting and standing up to the disease.

Women and men walk for the cure, we donate for the cure, and we fight our hardest to survive cancer. To me, this is an assault of women’s health that needs community involvement– to support, to raise money, and to cherish life. We are all impacted by breast cancer, directly and through our friends and family and community. As such it is important to honor fighters and survivors of breast cancer through continues involvement and support.

Breast Cancer Awareness Ribbon

Trust?

A friend came across an incredibly intelligent and honest blog post by Phaedra Starling and posted at Shapely Prose. This friend–also a friend of the blog– sent it along as a brilliant validation of what we both know, that women feel very aware of how very aware they must be. But men generally aren’t.

Starling explains the issue perfectly in her post, Schrödinger’s Rapist. She poses the question to would be lovers eloquently– how is a woman to know you’re safe? Because you tell her?

Trust has become a precious commodity, and held even more dear by women. Such a treasure isn’t doled out just because someone says they’re honest– few assailants will ever be so polite as to try to give any sort of fair warning. And so, in the end it comes down to actions. What a person does, and what they ask from you, becomes the factor that trust is based on.

So would-be lovers and friends and acquaintances, take a moment to understand what women have to deal with and appreciate that trust just that much more once it’s given.

“We believe that women use success stories and their knowledge of other women’s strategies to create new defenses in unknown situations.” – Gail Groves

As a teenager, I was assaulted. I am still afraid of being assaulted. I am afraid of confrontation and of pain and this makes me wary of others; for years, it used to make me wary of myself. This fear, I believe, has become almost natural to women– we feel we must go out in groups, or must be walked to our cars if it’s dark– and there is safety logic behind it. But it troubled me, as I began living alone. The fear restricted my movement and I began to feel anxious at all times; to cope, I began working on self-defense training and martial arts, and read literature specifically on personal safety. I made a decision to try to deal with my fears–at least get them in check– by trying to have answers for the ‘what if’ that might never come again.

Last October I was seeing a very nice guy. We’d been dating for a few months; he was sensitive and respectful and he loved that I was a strong woman. His eyes never glazed over when I talked about martial arts or feminism, and he got into these conversations as well. It was really fun.

The only problem was that he lived in a bigger city an hour away. Since we liked each other a lot, though, we agreed to alternate dates between my city and his and keep seeing each other. One Sunday in October, I agreed to meet up with him at the pier and do touristy things together the whole afternoon.

Unfortunately, during this time I wasn’t familiar with the area. I was relying on a portable GPS to guide my car and to make matters worse, it was impossible to find parking anywhere near the pier. I ended up parking blocks away from anything.

In order to find my way back to the pier, I took the GPS out of my car and began walking with it in hand. As I was wandering a block or so later I felt eyes on me, like warm water splashing on my back. I turned and saw only one man on the street behind. He was behind me, walking normally, but he was definitely looking at me.

Without a second look I jammed the GPS into my bag and kept walking. I continued, and finally heard footsteps catching up behind me. I looked ahead desperately for people or a busy business to duck into, but it was a Sunday and there was no one to be had. As I looked ahead to the street light, that’s when I felt the tug at my purse.

I thank god for all of the martial arts drilling, because something snapped– and that something was a resounding hell no. In that moment I grounded myself into a reverse stance, faced him, and punched his hand off of my purse.

He wasn’t expecting it, clearly, because it bought me enough time to cross the street and glare at him. He looked at me, I looked at him, fairly amazed at what I’d done. He must’ve thought better of it because he walked away. After a few minutes, so did I; slinging the purse over my shoulder, I went to keep my date.

For a few days afterward I felt a little nervous and jittery inside, but there was something else. I was proud I’d surprised him; in a moment I had taken the energy from his attack and directed it right back at him.  I’m still proud of the way I responded that day.