Me, too | A sexual harassment story

This whole Harvey Weinstein/sexual misconduct topic is making my ass itch. When you hear of women being harassed and victimized, it crystallizes situations from your past with a quickness. I may not remember all the details but I remember the feeling of being threatened, the panic, the cold sweat enveloping my lower back and how my legs felt like jelly afterward. I also remember feeling the shame, like it was my fault. As if I deserved it.

Me Too

I was 23 years old and trying to finish my last year in college. I worked at a design merchandising company in between art classes. It was one of those warehouse buildings near downtown L.A, the kind where stray dogs with mange ran the streets in packs beside the food trucks during lunchtime, the kind of place where you had to be buzzed in from the street. I still remember the nasty stench in the distance where the Farmer John factory was located. I was just thankful to have a job so I could pay my car note every month.

Who was I at 23? A sarcastic, irreverent, all-black wearing, slightly obnoxious feminist who smoked a bunch of weed to combat social anxieties. Working at this job introduced me to lots of different people, some nice, some not so nice. Manuel was one of those people. I can’t remember Manuel’s age (he wasn’t old) but I do remember that he had a huge scar on his neck from one side to the other, almost as if someone cut him open and sewed him back together at the neck. He worked in the shipping department and he was short and dark-skinned, his black hair buzzed close to the scalp. He would come to my department to order materials on a daily basis and basically, be a lech.

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I didn’t like how he lowkey perved on every female he encountered, me included. He would make comments about the outfits I wore, my hair, my body. He always asked me personal questions: hey, do you have a boyfriend? Hey, where do you live? Hey, tell me what school you go to — I might want to go and visit you in class. Hey, do guys really like girls with big thighs? He did this all in a teasing manner (I had already told him to stop asking me so many questions) but I did not miss the menacing undertone. Not knowing how to deal with his micro-aggressions toward anyone with a vagina, I turned sour. I began to shut him down with my barbed tongue, poking fun at his intelligence, his dirty, unkept nails, his lowly position in the shipping department.

Turns out I must have insulted him one too many times.

I’ll never forget the day. I was wearing a black wrap dress with black tights and mary janes. I got lots of compliments on it because I never really wore dresses to work. I felt pretty. When my boss sent me to “the vault” — a sealed, windowless room filled with important documents in file cabinets that required a password to enter in — I groaned internally. Truth be told, I hated going in there because it was creepy and isolated. I tried to get in and out of there as fast as I could.

When the heavy door swung shut behind me and I made my way through the file cabinets, I realized I was not alone. I turned to find Manuel standing very close to me, so close I could see his oily skin and his large pores. His eyes were as black as sinkholes. I was startled and this seemed to amuse him. He smiled in a way that showed all of his teeth.

Let’s hear you talk shit now. Let’s see you act like a smart ass now, he said. I could do anything I want to you in here and no one would even hear you scream. 

I don’t even remember what I said or what I did in response. All I know is, his body was pressed up against mine and I could feel his breath on my face. With dread in my stomach, I realized he was absolutely right, he could do anything he wanted to me at that moment. In an instant, his quietly menacing demeanor changed to a joking one and he took a step back.

I’m just fucking with you, he chuckled under his breath, as if that made it all better. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.

The Shame

For years, this story embarrassed me. I felt the shame of it because it could’ve been so much worse and why? All because of my big mouth. But thinking back, it wasn’t because of my “big mouth”. It was because a man continued to harass me to the point where I had to defend myself. In this world, my defense arsenal is my mouth, not my hands. I couldn’t fight the man with fists but my sharp tongue is the next best thing. What he did — harass me, corner me, threaten me — it was wrong. Period. It took me reading account after account of women being harassed and assaulted by men on social media (celebrities and regular shmegular people like you and me) to finally realize that.

Photo by Drew Coffman