Original collage by Sophia Miller.
I’ve got something I need to get off my chest. But don’t think I’m going to enjoy this. Because nobody enjoys sharing stories about being sexually assaulted or harassed. This is the most difficult column I’ve ever had to write, but I’m finally ready to tell my story. A couple of stories, really, because – like most women I know – we all seem to have more than one.
Also, there are some people who don’t want me to tell my stories. Not because they want to protect the people that were highly inappropriate with me, but because they love me and want to protect me. Telling these stories, they said, could damage my career. I could be the subject of scrutiny. I could be called a liar.
So…let me get this straight, I remembered thinking the first time I said that I was planning to write this column and someone said not to do it. I was a victim – several times – of some pretty nasty stuff that I did absolutely nothing to bring on, and had no control over. Someone else did something ugly and inappropriate, in some cases they were things that could potentially land a person in jail with a listing on the sex offender registry, yet I’m the one who’s career might be damaged if I mention it aloud.
Well, I’m done with that. I’m done taking all the weight of someone else’s irresponsible actions on my shoulders. I’m also done with people dismissing other women’s claims of sexual abuse because they happened so long ago that it should be water under the bridge. And I’m done with people who want to rip into those who are brave enough to tell their stories of sexual assault, abuse and harassment, questioning their motives, as if there is anything to gain for the victim other than criticism, scrutiny and shame. Your criticism, scrutiny and shame should be directed at the perpetrator, not the victim.
Watching what has transpired in our country over the past few weeks since the Access Hollywood audio recording was released made me realize that while I may have nothing personally to gain by sharing my own stories of sexual assault and harassment, other women do. Because I truly believe that the wheels of sexual equality are ever so slowly moving forward in this country, but it is only because of the parents and educators who are working so hard to teach our sons and daughters to be respectful of others’ sexuality, and it is because voters and lawmakers have taken action to punish those who don’t behave respectfully. We are slowly, slowly smothering out rape culture and misogyny with every new generation. Misogyny is a terminal illness, but a slow moving one, like prostate cancer. But we need to speak up. We need to talk about it; get it out and into the open, or it will continue to be a burden on our own silent shoulders.
Every woman (and some men) I’ve met has a story of sexual abuse, assault or humiliation. These stories need to be heard, they need to be respected, and we – as a nation – need to stop shaming and shifting the blame to the victims.
So here are my experiences. My burdens. These are the stories I’ve been carrying around with me for years and years.
Story #1: The First Time
I was in the music building on a university campus in Missouri. It was a Sunday, and the building was mostly deserted. A sculpture display in a small art gallery caught my eye. The door was locked, but I stood at the glass and looked through the door at a giant tube of Crest toothpaste. A man with blonde hair and a Budweiser ball cap walked out of the restroom, and stood next to me, peering into the gallery. It was just us two, standing side by side. I started to feel extremely uncomfortable, and I thought I caught a glimpse of something in the reflection of the glass that seemed out of place. So I casually turned away, and started to leave.
He called out to me, “Hey, why don’t you touch this?”
I turned around, and the man in the ballcap was holding his penis in his hand.
“Come on,” he said, and smiled. “It won’t bite you.”
The next thing he said to me, casually – even cheerfully – as I panicked and ran out the door and down the steps of the music building was, “Don’t fall now!”
I was 8.
I ran home – well, I was on roller skates – so I skated home as fast as I could and immediately told my dad, who called the campus police. As far as I know, he was never found. But he found me again. Once more, I was roller skating on campus. After the first experience with Budweiser man, I never skated indoors on the smooth marble floor of the music building ever again because I was afraid to be alone. I sat down on a bench to tie the laces of the skates, and a shadow fell over me. I looked up, and there he was. Smiling again. With an armload of college text books. He said “Hello,” and instead of screaming for help, I just jumped up and skated away as fast as I could. As long as I lived in Missouri, I never roller skated again.
Before I tell you story #2, I want to take a moment to ask you to consider something. This man never touched me. I have no doubt that he would have if I hadn’t run away. But does that mean I wasn’t sexually assaulted? What would you call it? It was just words. Just. Words. A phrase you have heard, I’m sure, many times over the past few weeks as even people I love and care about have tried to defend their chosen candidate for POTUS. Just words.
I caught a few minutes of The Daily Show the other day. Host Trevor Noah had a few things to say about the Trump controversy. He said that the problem with the last few die-hard Trump supporters excusing his behavior by calling it ‘locker room banter’ is that “they’re conflating sex talk and sexual assault talk.” Most importantly, Noah said, “There is a big difference between saying dirty words and glorifying non-consensual sexual contact.”
Story #2: The Salesman
My friend and I had dinner at a local establishment. After, we were standing in the bar when a friend on my co-ed softball team waved at me from across the room. I walked over to say hi, and he introduced me to a tall friend of his. He was involved in the automotive business. I said “Hello,” and he said, “You know what I’d like to do? I sure would like to fuck those tits.”
This was his opening line. His exact words.
I was shocked. I didn’t know how to respond. So I just said the first thing that came to mind, which was, “I’d throw this martini in your face, but I paid $12 for it.”
But those were just words, right?
Several months later, the same friend and I were having dinner again, and the same two fellas walked in, and came over to our table. I don’t think the car salesman remembered me. I was probably wearing a poncho. He brought out some photos and started gushing about how he had a brand new baby girl and she was the light of his life.
Because I’d had a long time to think about what I wish I might have said or done differently to better handle the original ugliness, I said to him, “You don’t remember me, do you? I met you before. And here’s what you said to me.” And I told him. The look on his face told me that while he might not have really remembered it that well (he said he must’ve been drunk), he seemed to be kind of remorseful. Maybe its because our two friends were both nodding along with my story. They remembered it, even if he didn’t. Thank goodness for witnesses, in this case. I said, “You’ve got this beautiful baby girl now. How would you like it if someone talked to her like that?”
He didn’t think he’d like it. Not one bit. I remember him saying that. It was right before he put his hand on my thigh. I looked down and said, “Really?!” and removed his hand. He gave me this shrug that was like, can’t blame a guy for trying, right?
Again, except for the hand on my thigh, this was all about words. So does that excuse this guy’s behavior? Are we going to make excuses for him? Speaking of excuses, I’ve got the grandmommy of them all in my next story.
Story #3: Same place, different year
I was in that same crowded bar, talking with a friend, when a stranger walked by and brushed my butt with his hand. Well, it felt more like he cupped my butt cheek as he walked by. I brushed it off; maybe it was an accident. Then he walked by again. And it happened again. This time I knew it was no accident. I made my way to the bar and suggested to one of the employees that the man be removed from the premises; he was groping women.
Then, as I was still standing at the bar, I saw him walking towards me a third time. I removed my butt from the equation by turning to face him, and as he got close to me, I stuck my finger in his face and scolded him like a dog. “No. No. NO. Do NOT touch my ass again.”
He didn’t. Instead, he was all smiles as he reached out with both hands and grabbed my boobs.
That’s when I slapped him. And not even hard. But the smile on his face disappeared, and was replaced with a look that scared the crap out of me. He was livid. How dare I violate his personal space and touch him on the face. He lunged towards me, he may have even been hauling off to hit me, but a friend of his grabbed his arms from behind and pulled him backwards out the door. The friend looked over his shoulder and said, as an excuse for his friend’s behavior, “Sorry about that. His grandmother just died, and he’s in pretty bad shape.”
Let’s just all say it together, shall we? What. The. F. A man’s grandmother dies, and suddenly he’s got free license to run around a city sexually assaulting random women? Did my boobs remind him of Grandma?
Before I tell you my last story, I do want to talk a little bit more about the fallout of the Access Hollywood audiotape leak scandal, which I’ve been calling Trumpgate. What’s happening right now with the victims who are coming forward, laying out incident after incident of grossly inappropriate conduct reminds me of another eerily similar situation that hit the news over the past few years. You might recall it. A celebrity was accused of being highly inappropriate with dozens of women over the course of decades. It was a man – you read that right, a man – who finally had the testicular fortitude to successfully shine the spotlight on this celebrity by calling him out publicly and asking America WHY a man can get away with sexually assaulting women over and over and over again and still win over the hearts of the people simply because he’s a star.
And suddenly another woman came forward. At first, people said the story had no validity because it happened so long ago. That she was a liar trying to defame a beloved celebrity for personal gain. Then more women came forward and told their stories. Dozens of them. And yet some people still think all of these women were lying. That they are somehow trying to gain something by making up stories. And then the celebrity filed a few counter suits against a handful of his accusers, saying they were defaming him.
Well, it’s not my plan to file any criminal charges or lawsuits, or even name names. Perhaps one of the incidents I’ve mentioned will strike a chord in a few memory banks. It’s my sincere hope that they simply realize that their actions and words were wrong, and that they strive to be better humans in the future.
OK. One more story.
Story #4: The Trouble With Boobs
Sometimes my job comes with incredible perks. I had dinner with The Manhattan Transfer. I got to sing onstage with Pink Martini. I had my photo taken with the B-52s. And then there are the times when I have just had to suck it up and take it like…a woman.
I was backstage. Getting ready to introduce a huge star. I’d met him before, once, when I was with my teenage daughter. So when I walked up the stairs and saw him standing there, I said, “Hi. It’s so nice to see you again.”
What did he say back? Here’s a multiple choice quiz to choose the correct answer from:
A: Hello, friend.
B: Hey hey hey!
C: Wow, I think my boobs might be bigger than yours.
Yeah. C. He said that. My first thought was that this aging celebrity might have dementia. So of all the things going on my head at that moment (so many things), I looked down at the generous bosom I inherited from my grandmother and said, “Well, I doubt that.”
It was time to walk out on stage. And because his eyesight is not so good, I had to give him my arm and walk him out there. As I did, he continued to speak to me about my boobs. “No seriously, I think we should have a contest. We can both lift up our shirts and let the audience decide who’s boobs are bigger.”
At this point I am standing in front of 1,000 happy, clapping people who just paid a lot of money to have an audience with this man. I said, “Well here you go.” And I left him there to entertain them, thinking to myself, What. A. Boob.
Sidenote: I think I’m going to try to stop using that term to describe people in a derogatory way. Breasts give life. They nourished my daughter for an entire year after her birth. Boobs should be respected and revered. Instead, they’ve been the subject of so much disrespect.
But that’s not the end of my story. I actually was still very concerned that this man was suffering from something that had left him in a state of diminished capacity. I was worried that the show was going to be a flop. And there wasn’t just one show, he was doing two! I told one of the security guys what had just happened, and I said I was worried that he might have Alzheimer’s. This was the kind of stuff that came out of my grandmother’s mouth during her slow decline from the disease.
But I didn’t see any signs of dementia from him once the show started.
And I had to go back and walk him out again for the second show.
This time he acted like he’d never seen me before. He said, “Hello, how are you?”
I mustered up all the courage I had, as I gave him my arm to walk him out again. I’d been thinking about nothing but this for the past 90 minutes. I said, “Well, to be honest, I’m still trying to get over what you said to me earlier.”
He responded with, “Well maybe we should just keep that between us.”
That was when I realized that this man knew exactly what he had said to me earlier. That he had a full grasp on his behavior and how inappropriate it was. And he was suggesting that I not tell anyone about it. Perhaps this man was living on a different plane of existence where a man can say and do horrible things to women because nobody ever stopped him. Because he was too important. A celebrity. An untouchable. Like a bank that was too big to fail. He lived in a world where he got away with bad behavior for so long that it became normal, every day behavior.
Well, those days are over. At least for that guy. Not that I had anything to do with it. Although I didn’t keep the exchange a secret from my family and friends and colleagues, I never took it any further. I never went public. Because I was trying to be professional. Some people close to me were concerned that if I talked too much about it, or wrote about it, that it might be bad for me. Besides, he never touched me, right? It was just words. And to be honest, while an exchange like that was highly unprofessional and inappropriate, I wouldn’t have classified it as an assault. Harrassment, maybe. But this is the kind of thing I have become used to. To have it be connected to a celebrity made it dinner party conversation for the next several months.
But then the women started to come forward. Women who said they had been touched. Drugged. Raped. And when the denials started coming, even more women came forward. People said these women had no right to wait for decades to tell their stories of being sexually assaulted by a celebrity because they should have come forward when it happened instead of waiting. But if you can imagine how uncomfortable I was with the idea of publicly telling my story of his inappropriate conversation, imagine how they must have felt back in the late 60’s and 70’s. For me, when all the other women came forward and were called liars, I believed that he was absolutely capable of doing the things he was accused of, and that he is fully aware that his behavior is inappropriate. It also showed me that over the course of almost 50 years, he hadn’t suddenly become a better man.
Original collage by Sophia Miller.
If you’re not a woman, or if you’re not a woman who has been the victim of sexual assault, think for a moment how you would feel if you were. Would you stuff it down inside, and never tell anyone in case nobody believed you? Even if your friends and family knew you were telling the truth, would the rest of the world? Or would they think you were just trying to drag someone else’s good reputation through the mud in order to gain money, fame, or just because you wanted to hurt them for no good reason at all?
I don’t know any women who would want to make up a story of sexual humiliation or violation for any reason ever. I’m not saying it doesn’t happen. But women are rarely rewarded for coming forward with these stories. Instead, there are people waiting to deny it. Waiting to call them liars. Waiting to say they brought it on themselves, or that somehow it was all their fault. Waiting to destroy their lives for speaking up.
What I’m getting at is that what happened in this case was that each time a woman came forward with her own story and was called a liar, another woman gathered the courage to come forward with her own story. And another, and another, and another.
As the Trumpgate controversy continues to unfold, it looks like the same thing is happening again. One woman came forward to say that his words weren’t just words. He denied it. And then another woman came forward. And another. And a few more. He has called them all liars, accused them of trying to gain fame, and is threatening lawsuits. I wonder how many women will need to come forward with their own stories before people will finally start to believe them?
Speaking of telling their stories, I would like to commend Kelly Oxford, a writer whose response to Trumpgate was to tweet her first experience with sexual assault, and offer a platform for other women to share theirs as well. In less than 24 hours, more than a million women had come forward, tweeting horrible story after story. A MILLION women. I shared my first experience, and then realized I had so many more.
I’d like to invite you to share your stories here in the comments section. We don’t need to be ashamed. Together, we are stronger. I am sure I will also have my share of Trump supporters who think I’m just trying to drum up votes for Hillary. Believe me, that is not the point of this column. You’re in charge of your own vote. But can we please stop demeaning the women who are brave enough to come forward with their stories of sexual assault? Stop calling them liars and questioning why now? Instead, sit down with your daughters, your wives and your mothers and ask them if they’ve ever been sexually assaulted. And listen to their stories.
It’s not going to be an easy conversation. It’s not going to be pleasant. But these are conversations we need to start having; that we need to not be afraid of having if we are going to achieve women’s equality. These are the things we need to encourage women to feel safe talking about so that we can defeat rape culture, and teach future generations of men to respect women fully by asking for consent instead of reaching out and grabbing what they want.
This is the first time I haven’t included music to go along with my column. It just doesn’t seem fun or even appropriate to go in search of songs about sexual assault. Hope you’ll understand.
