To Every Man Who...

To every man who ever approached me when I didn’t want to be approached;

To every man who ever touched me without asking first;

To every man who ever shouted at me as I walked or ran or fled down the street;

To the first boy who ever called me a bitch;

To the stranger who stopped his car and took a picture of me through the open window when I was a teenager;

To the youth who grabbed my arm on my evening walk by Aker Brygge;

To the man who aimed his crotch at me on the bus so that it bumped me regularly, despite my well-positioned crochet hook;

To the older teacher who thought it was okay to wrap his arms around me from behind so that my neck pulsed in the crook of his elbow;

To the guy who came up beside me late one night on the Yarkon and slowed when I slowed and ran when I ran and only left when I whirled around in the opposite direction;

To the creepy colleague who walked into the principal’s office this week, saw me there alone editing a document, and said, “why, you look so pretty today, my principal”;

To the fellow poet who “bumped into me” at a poetry slam Wednesday night and then, apologizing, angled his body so that mine was squished into a corner and his leg against mine;

Congratulations. You now have a president who is a role model for your actions.

Congratulations. You are mainstream.

Congratulations. You are worming your way into my nightmares.

But:

To the first boy who ever called me a bitch: my best friend told me she was glad I was a bitch, it meant I was smarter than you (I was) and got things done (I did) and people listen to me (they do), and since then, I have never cared about being called a bitch.

To the stranger who stopped his car and took a picture of me through the open window: You started me thinking about rights and articulating to myself that others could not own an image of me without my permission—I advanced philosophically and morally because of you. 

To the youth who grabbed my arm on my evening walk by Aker Brygge: When I glared at you with all the fury I possess and you dropped my elbow like it was burning, I walked away with a feeling of power, and to this day am unafraid of walking alone at night.

To the older teacher who thought it was okay to wrap his arms around me from behind: You’ve been fired. I’m still here. And I’ve been promoted.

To the man who aimed his crotch at me on the bus so that it bumped me regularly: My boyfriend switched seats with me and refused to let me suffer, reminding me that men who view me as an object are not contagious.

To the guy who came up beside me late one night on the Yarkon and slowed when I slowed and ran when I ran and only left when I whirled around in the opposite direction: I am faster than you. I am stronger than you.

To the creepy colleague who walked into the principal’s office this week, saw me there alone editing a document, and said, “why, you look so pretty today, my principal”: I am not pretty. I refuse to be pretty.  You will see just how ugly I can be.

To the fellow poet who “bumped into me” at a poetry slam Wednesday night and then, apologizing, angled his body so that mine was squished into a corner and his leg against mine: I beat you in the poetry slam. I will beat you in every area, always.

My experiences are highly privileged. I have never been attacked by someone I could not fight off, never had to deal with more than casual sexism or, at the most, being touched by a stranger through my clothes. I have the blessing of nothing more than a residue of nightmares that pulse up again because a pussy-grabber was elected president. Many women don’t have the luxury of dismissing these sorts of moments in their lives, like I can.

My experiences made me stronger. They made me into the person I am today, a woman who travels alone abroad, who scores scholarships and grants, who competes and wins, who advances in the career she loves. If each moment made me tougher, more capable and resilient and powerful, then I wonder what four years of Trumped America will do to the women of America.

I find myself echoing Seth Meyers: Somewhere in America, someone’s daughter is our future first female president. And after four years of Trumped America, you men who grabbed and chased and pushed and hugged and bitched and bumped… you’d better be very, very afraid. Because we won’t be.