no more silence, only song

#metoo, she said
he said
they said

they do it 4 teh money

all that sweet they-fucked-me money
someone went to town on me
flannel nightgown down on me

…and all i got was this ptsd
and all i got was no family
and all i got was homeless
and hopeless
and shamed and named and still i came and said
#metoo

y didn’t they come out sooner? #lies

but we did
we did since words were words
and no one heard
we shouted into broken mics
we got no likes

we burned our flesh
and hoped the smell
the smell would tell you
might compel you
to our side
i never lied

and artemisia and ms. maya
and a hundred hundred hundred
like a storm unleashed
we thundered
in our songs and books and verse
with the weapon in our purse
we said me
and me and me

but you didn’t see with hands on eyes
and now it’s such a great surprise
you’re shocked, you never knew
till you saw the words #metoo?

another 1 jumping on teh bandwagon

yes, the wagon’s very full
so the horses have to pull
just to gain a little movement
after all this standing still

the songs we play are all the same
a different night
a different name
but harmony
in all the shame
and loss and costs
and silences
cause violence is
a silencer
and silence is like death
all our songs are bated breath

and we haven’t started yet
when we fucking kill regret
when we live, and don’t forget

and the static of the mics
we’re turning on

no more silence, only song

no more silence, only song

no more silence, only song

no more silence, only song

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From #MeToo to #WhatNow? – After You Share Your Story

Hello fellow #MeToo human. It’s been a tough year, right? I mean, after years of dealing with something that seemed pretty hopeless, there’s this light. This organic light created by people like us who have been hurt and fought to be heard and finally said NO MORE SILENCE. It’s…

Well, that’s the thing, it’s SO many things. It’s exhilarating. It’s exhausting. It’s emotionally wrenching. It’s impossible.

It’s a lot like surviving in the first place.

I’m not here to tell you what will work for you, because 1/6th (or more) of the planet has been here and I have no illusions that I know the different factors that make up your life. I’m going to tell you what worked for me. (And if you want to skip all that and just get to a list of resources, click here.)

Me: I’m a person who was abused, assaulted and harassed, both in childhood and as an adult. I told the first person what happened to me more than 20 years ago. I’ve been very open about it since the late 90s and, probably more often than most folks would care for, it’s the focus of this blog.

I did tell people. I did try to make a police report. It didn’t work. I have complex PTSD, which I deal with pretty well, except sometimes when I really don’t. I keep trying to “fix” myself, which I realize is both problematic AND what is expected. I lean more towards depression than anger. I am held together by planning and sticky-tape.

That’s me. That’s not you.

So with all that in mind, here’s what I’ve learned from my 20+ years of saying #MeToo.

It Will Normalize

I say this rather than it will get better, because better is a lie. The body longs for homeostasis. The brain wants you to make sense of things. It takes a lot of time and it’s hard on the system, but there has been, for me, a normalization of the experience. It’s not gone, but it lives deeper. I’ve piled stuff on top of it. I’ve given my brain other experiences to pick from. I’m sure the right meds helped, but honestly, it’s just time. Which is shitty, but worth holding on to. Time doesn’t fix it, but it dilutes it.

Get Help but BE CAREFUL

Get help. You probably hear that one a lot.

But also, be cautious. If you are hurting, it’s easy to jump at anything that promises relief. If you’re not careful, though, it can cost you a lot of money and sometimes make things worse. Anyone who claims they can cure you for a cost is probably lying. There’s no cure for this. It’s not something you can leach out or fix with something you buy in a health food store. We are a big demographic. There’s a lot of money to be made from our desperation to feel well again. Lot’s of folks promise to make it all go away. Before you spend your money – before you tear off a scab and expose your wounds to someone – consider this:

  • Does this approach match who I am as a person?
  • Does this approach cost so much that it puts my well-being in other areas in danger?
  • Is it regulated? Do some research. See what folks are saying.
  • What are the results? Don’t trust their stats. Places like MedLine are set up to offer vetted medical information, so consider searching on there for another POV on the treatment you’re considering.
  • Am I safe? This is a big one. Are you comfortable with the neighbourhood the treatment is in? Are you comfortable with the staff? Are you trusting your alarm bells or silencing them just to get through it? Let those bells ring.
  • Is the person just well-intended or are they well-qualified? This is a big one. Lots of folks want to help but their desire is not the same as qualifications. You are not someone’s project.

All of this is not to say don’t seek help. Over the last 20 years I’ve had some success and some stuff that set me way back, emotionally and financially. Filter from the get-go. I understand wanting to feel anything but what you’re feeling, but the system isn’t in place for a perfect path to help and healing. We have to navigate some really gross waters to get to the other side. Be safe. Be picky.

Be safe (it was worth saying twice.)

I’ve include a list at the bottom of this blog of places that are considered reputable. Some may work for you. Some may not. Feel free to explore them, but trust that part of you that’s telling you “this one isn’t for me.”

People Will Say Shitty Things

People will say you should have said something sooner. They will say you shouldn’t have said anything until there was a trial. They will say you are looking for attention. They will say you should get over it. They will say that you are ruining lives.

They will say it can’t have been that bad. They will say you asked for it. They will say you are lying. They will say it is not fair to make them choose between you and the person who hurt you.

They will ask what you were wearing. They will tell you what you could have done to avoid it. They will tell you what they would have done had it happened to them. They will tell you that your abuser seems like a nice person.

They will tell you it happened so long ago and wonder why it still bothers you. They will tell you that they find your pain inconvenient. They will tell you that you are too intense. They will tell you that you seem fine. They will tell you that you aren’t special. They will tell you that they don’t believe you. They will say “innocent until proven guilty.” They will say “due process.”

They won’t say anything at all. They’ll pretend they didn’t hear. They will give you the look. They will stop calling. They will unfriend you. They will forget to invite you to things.

People will say shitty things.

DON’T TAKE IT IN. I mean, you will. It will hurt. That can’t be helped. But know that we ALL hear these things. We hear them because people are new to not being shitty about this. Write them down and throw them out. Have a bonfire of shitty things people say.

But also, write down all the supportive things people say and carry them with you. Pull them out of your wallet every time someone says something shitty.

I know that these things are like repetitive strain, like water torture. One hurts, a hundred makes you want to die. But seriously, fight this. Repeat truths until you drown them out. Sometimes, because I am a geek, I just say “I am one with the force and the force is with me.” I mean, it’s not perfect, but it works for me. Find what works for you.

And friends of people going through this – call out folks who say shitty things to your friends so they don’t have to. It helps.

Don’t Hurt Yourself

This can mean a lot of things, but first of all, survive. Seriously. It can get that bad. It might get that bad. It did for me. I wish I could say there was a safe place to go, but there isn’t always. Call friends. Call helplines. Make someone help you survive.

Don’t be around people who aren’t determined to help you survive.

For a long time, I carried this comic by a friend around in my wallet and I pulled it out whenever my brain forgot survival was better. Find your talismans. Find your songs. Find your humans. Find a chocolate bar that is worth surviving for and go buy it. Find a movie. Find a smell. Find something. And if you can’t find anything, talk to a doctor. It will probably suck and won’t feel like surviving and the system is a mess, but YOU NEED TOO SURVIVE. That is literally all that matters.

As to the rest of it, remember what I said about normalizing stuff? Well, sometimes our brains try to normalize pain by keeping it going. This can mean self-injury, dangerous decisions, punching things that are harder than our skin.

We all have scars and sometimes it feels good to make them external.

Our brains can take that experience of someone hurting us and decide to pick up where they left off. If they said shitty things to us, we keep up the narrative. If they hurt us, we hurt us. If they made us feel unsafe around sex, we jump into unsafe sex. We can use all kinds of substances to obliterate feeling anything at all.

It’s hard to stop that pain train once it’s in motion. It’s exhausting. It’s not a simple thing to just say “don’t do those things.” For me, it was a lot of trial and error, a lot of mistakes, and a lot of the time, standing in my own way and saying, “nope, not cutting today.” 20 years and it’s still a fight. But I’m still fighting.

Fight that shit.

Again, if it’s too much, I’m posting a bunch of resources at the bottom of this. If they help, use them to survive. If they don’t, find other ways to survive. Please survive.

Find an Outlet

This one is super personal. It’s about finding a way to exorcise the overwhelming nervous system/emotional response that can feel like Schrödinger’s bomb in your body. I like to write. Sometimes I smash things in a semi-controlled way. Then I make art out of the smashy bits. I have a friend who boxes and another who weight-lifts. Neil Gaiman recommends making good art.

If you’re low on cash, it can be hard to find an outlet. After all, axe-throwing costs money. I think that’s why writing was my thing. Paper was cheap. And after you let it out, pamper yourself. Go to a park. Swing on some swings. Get your hands in some dirt. Take a bath. Whatever works for you. Soothe your system.

Let it out safely and treat yourself kindly afterward.

It doesn’t make it go away, but it can go a long way to helping with the last bit – the not hurting yourself bit. It can calm the bomb.

That’s it. That’s what I’ve got. I wish I had more. I wish I could make this anything but a shitstain of an experience. I can’t. You can’t. It’s the fucking worst. I’m sorry you’re hurt and I’m proud of you for dealing. I’m proud of you for surviving. I’m glad I lived to see the #MeToo moment and sad that we need it.

For a bit of help with #WhatNow? here are some resources. Remember, be picky. None of these make it go away, but one of them may help you deal. Be as well as you can.

#MeToo,
Heather

American Psychological Association
Getting help, what you can do, news, etc.

Assaulted Women’s Helpline (Canada)
“The Assaulted Women’s Helpline offers a 24-hour telephone and TTY crisis line to all woman who have experienced abuse.”

Canadian Association of Sexual Assault Centres
We are a Pan Canadian group of sexual assault centres who have come together to implement the legal, social and attitudinal changes necessary to prevent, and ultimately eradicate, rape and sexual assault.”

Edmonton Police (Canada)
“What you can expect when reporting a sexual assault”

FORGE
“FORGE has published four guides specifically to address the needs of transgender and non-binary individuals who have experienced sexual abuse or assault; loved ones of trans survivors; and facilitators of trans support groups.”

Kid’s Help Phone (Canada)
“Remember: sexual assault is not your fault and no one has the right to touch you sexually without your permission. You can call Kids Help Phone 24/7 if you need to talk at 1-800-668-6868.”

MedlinePlus (USA)
A site of vetted medical information with links to other resources.

Men & Healing
“We are one of Canada’s leading agencies in a male-centred approach to psychology and therapy.”

Multicultural Women Against Rape (Toronto, Canada)
“TRCC/MWAR run a variety of peer support groups throughout the year. Groups are available to those who have experienced sexual assault.”

Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC)
The Native Women’s Association of Canada (NWAC) is founded on the collective goal to enhance, promote, and foster the social, economic, cultural and political well-being of First Nations and Métis women within First Nation, Métis and Canadian societies.”

Ontario Human Rights Commission
“Sexual harassment is against the law. The Ontario Human Rights Code Code prohibits sexual harassment in employment (and in services, housing, and other “social areas”).”

RAINN (Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (USA)
“RAINN is the nation’s largest anti-sexual violence organization.”

Toronto Police (Canada)
“A guide for sexual assault survivors.”

Women’s College Hospital Sexual Assault/Domestic Violence Care Centre (Toronto, Canada)
“The Sexual Assault/Domestic Violence Care Centre (SA/DVCC) available 24 hours a day, seven days a week, is a comprehensive service that assists women, men, and trans people who are victims / survivors of sexual assault and domestic / intimate partner violence.”

There are more resources out there. This is a starting place. If you know of any good resources I missed, or any that are useful internationally, please let me know. I’ll add them.

And remember:

SURVIVE.

The President, The Actor, My Father and Me

A little over one year ago, there was an election race in the United States of America. In this race, the nominee for the Republican Party spent more time in the news for his hateful rhetoric than he did for public policy. Most people assumed that there was a comment – some comment – that would sway the public away from him. I live in Toronto and I watched the mayoral stumblings of Rob Ford. I was less certain.

Susanna_and_the_Elders_(1610),_Artemisia_Gentileschi“I moved on her like a bitch.”

“Grab ’em by the pussy. You can do anything.”

“I did try and fuck her. She was married.”

And that was just one conversation. One recorded conversation. One recorded conversation that was proof that a man running for president thought men could do anything to women. Then he was elected – and he was proven right.

The repercussion of his win are hard to explain, but it proved something to victims. It proved that every excuse we’d heard for why justice had not been meted out was a lie. It proved that a recorded confession was not enough. It proved that a dozen people with corroborating stories was not enough. It proved that overt and predatory lechery was not enough.

Nothing is enough.

That was it. That and Cosby and Ghomeshi and every other powerful person who hurts people without consequence. That was the moment we realized exactly how little we mattered. How little our pain mattered.

That realization was paired with a new ability to connect to each other and to count ourselves. When my first abuse happened in the 80s and 90s, there was no connective tissue like the one we have now. Our isolation was both a tool of our abusers and a symptom of our abuse. My father told me not to tell. He said things that I assumed were unique. He said I was special for being mature. He said I should never tell anyone or they would put him in jail. He said he would get me.

It lived in me. It lived there as others, spotting a pre-trained victim, repeated the abuse in new flavours and colours. Saltier tears or louder screams. Different ceilings and darker nights. Churches and workplaces and bus stations. My living room couch and a theatre and a restaurant. In each instance, I collapsed further inward. I wrote about my experience and tried to support others dealing with theirs, but the isolation persisted.

So did the hope.

I hoped that the people who were supposed to have protected me would come around. Sometimes, in a moment of sincere naivety, I even hoped my abuser would come around. He’s dying now, I’ve heard. A part of me still wants to ask him why. A part of me wants him just to admit it.

Artemisia_Gentileschi_-_Mary_Magalene_as_Melancholy_1621-22

Seeing a man win an election who was so overtly cool with sexual assault killed that tender hope. It told me that a huge swath of folks didn’t actually think victims were liars – they just didn’t care. We were unimportant. And that fucking hurt. I cut off the world, the way I was trained. I didn’t read the news. I didn’t call friends. I was okay, alone. I was alone, okay? Friends let me be. Friends reached out. Friends sent me coded messages that may not have been for me.

A year later and a story comes out that an actor attacked a 14 year old kid. I know his story wasn’t the first one, but it’s the one that hit me the hardest. Maybe it was the similarity in ages or the physical similarities between our assailants. Maybe it was because that survivor’s voice, on a CD, kept me going in the group home I ended up in after I told the truth and found myself disposed of.

I don’t know him either. He was just a voice. I don’t believe in heroes. They are always too human in real life. But it shook it all up again. It’s been shaken so much I’m like a Bond martini of anxiety.

There seems to be a movement toward believing people. That’s good. It is. But it also means that survivors have to see a dozen conversations about things they hold in to get through a day. It means that I have to stop myself a hundred times over from explaining, AGAIN, why 96% of survivors who see no justice is more shocking than the 2% possibility of false accusations. It means that I have to do my job and live my life and ignore the panic and the pain in my stomach and the nightmares so bad I bruise my face in my sleep.

So here it is. Conversations I’m tired of having.

I think some people are just crying wolf.
Perhaps. But we live in a place and time where one in six have been mauled by said wolves so maybe we have a fucking problem with wolves and we should listen.

A false accusation can ruin a career.
Even a confession can’t ruin a career (see above re: President.) But let’s also consider the amazing deleted careers of folks who were assaulted when they were first starting out. Let’s consider the people who chose speaking out over their careers. Let’s value the artistic contributions that survivors make, even when they’ve been turned inside out. Let me mourn for those lost and altered voices.

If these folks had spoken out earlier, they might have saved someone else.
*BUZZER* Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. No one gets to judge folks for the way they reacted to assault, unless they chose to hurt others.

Damn – side-tracked again.

That’s why I wanted to include the actor. That’s reason number two why this story hit me so hard. He was, if you believe his brother, also a victim of an abuser. He was hurt. Then he hurt. I know that’s true of my abuser. I know it’s true of more than one of the people who didn’t keep me safe. It’s a huge, messy, fucking loop. Time is not a line.

Susanna_e_i_vecchioni_di_Artemisia_Gentileschi,_Museo_Civico_di_Bassano_del_GrappaThe person who hurt me was the boy who was hurt by a man who was a boy who was hurt by a man who was a boy who was hurt…and on it goes. I am the kid I was and the person I have grown to be. That kid isn’t gone and in my dreams, my abuser/the child he was/the dying man is young and his polyester work pants scratch my skin. And I am soft skinned and thin skinned and I still can feel it now and maybe he can still feel his abuser now.

So there it is, in all its non-linear, time-looping glory. Presidents and paupers, parents and children, actors and survivors and me.

Tending an almost extinguished hope, one breath at a time.

Due Process

I un-followed a Canadian author who helped shape my identity as a human and as a creator. I un-followed her because of a letter she signed. To be clear (because no small statement is ever clear) I did not un-follow her forever. My feed is an ebb and flow of the things I enjoy, the things that give me hope and the things I hope to know. My feed serves me. That’s why it’s mine. I may find, in the near future, that reading her small, instant words feeds me. For now, I’m choking on it. I also did not un-follow her simply because she took a political or personal action I disagree with. She has built up enough good faith as a creator that I see no need to view the world through a lens identical to hers. I un-followed her because it hurt.

Two words she threw out like a casual sprinkling of flavour on a massive meal: Due process.

I am a sexual assault survivor. I am a multiple sexual assault survivor. In almost every case, it was a man who held cross-sections of power attempting to or succeeding at misusing my physical and emotional form because they could.

When I started to realize – well into my teens – that what had happened to me was, indeed, against our presumed social contract, I began the process of seeking my due.

Due process simply means fair treatment in the judicial system. Not only fair treatment for the person who stands accused, but for the person who stands destroyed. Too visceral? Too emotional? Probably.

Here is due process to a person who has been raped, sexually abused or sexually assaulted:

1

Tell someone. This person may be yourself. Often that’s the first person you tell. If you are young, you may tell yourself after a book or a flyer in your school or an episode of Degrassi confirms that the tearing and ripping inside you is not an anomaly, but a reaction. There’s an overt message that you are not alone in numbers, but 1000 subtle messages that you are probably alone regardless. If you are an adult, telling yourself can happen during, or just after or years later. It can happen when you do that math inside your head that says if I scream he will kill me or if I just make it to the end it will be over and she will leave. Math is a process. Math figures out how much more they have to weigh than you to hold you down. Turns out, it’s not that much. It is not fair that this is how you must talk to yourself, but neither is it judicial, so we will pass this step.

2

Tell another someone. Maybe a friend. Maybe using code words. In my case, it was a guidance counselor. She was not the first person I told, but she was the first to break the code. There is a good chance that the person you tell will not believe you. They may try to find a way to show that it was your fault. This is about you, but it’s also not about you. It’s about constructing a safe cocoon of control that says I would not have made those choices so it would not happen to me or I did something similar once and I am not a villain. Sometimes they will believe you, but since they have spent a same lifetime watching dashing men on film win women over by hands-over-ears ignoring their nos and stops and I mean stops, they will wonder if it isn’t just the way things are. This is also not fair. Now that you have told someone, we may be drifting into the judicial. After all, everyone you tell, even your diary or your mother, can be called up later to testify. That’s the process. Maybe it’s better to say nothing at all, and to smile in pictures at picnics, but then, those pictures may also be called to testify. Anyone/thing you tell is likely to come back at you. This blog could come back at me. Every time we speak, we give a piece of ourselves to that process that we cannot take back with honest words. Words are not proof.

3

Tell the police. Go to the police. We use ‘the’ with police because everyone knows what you mean. No need to give qualifiers, adjectives. They are the police. The police with candies at parades and dirty looks when you walk in groups with other people from school. The police who, perhaps, look more like your assailant than you. Here the process comes due. If you have made it to this part in the process, you are one of only 6 out of 100. 94 out of 100 people chose to stop at step 1 or step 2. You sit in a room or curl up in a ball in a room or pretend you are not in a room and try to take something that is bigger than any part of you and break it down small enough that it will fit on a piece of paper that can go in a file in a drawer or on a computer and maybe turn into fair treatment in the judicial system. If this outcome were common, there would be more than 6 of you. It is not common. Numbers show that. Stories show that. Rooms full of women secure that no one is listening show that. Our arms and our medications and our nervous ticks show that.

4

There are two ways this step in the process can go. You may find, like I did, like a fall from a high height that lands you square on your back, that the last step takes all the wind out of you. It is okay if your process ends here. The next step involves lawyers. Lawyers are people who went to school for a very long time to study a system created before most folks could vote or own property or avoid being property. An apple tree can grow a thousand ways, but it’s still an apple tree. Until we plant something new, this is our only apple tree. This apple tree sucks. People will tell you to have faith in it. They may point to new branches that have grown since you were considered a person. They may say that the roots are strong enough to maintain us through change. That is bullshit. Only 1 out of 65 of us will see fruit from this tree and that fruit is often small and full of worms. Have I lost you? Anyone who tells you that you should not have feelings until due process is served is choosing not to see that no matter how nobly an idea may grow, it is only by its fruit that we can truly judge it. There is no fucking fruit.

5

Some people may think that the previous step is the last one in the process, but there is another. This is a step we take when we’ve exhausted one of the previous steps and found that, no matter what the promise of fairness is, the social contract we have signed has crap clauses. It has the clause that wealthy people and famous people and popular people and really any people can still succeed, no matter what they do to us. They can be free. They can be loved. They can be president. It has a clause that says we are to stay very, very silent no matter what happens, unless the tree gives us grand, ripe fruit. They do not point out the very small text that says it rarely does – and then usually when very pretty and convincing humans with pristine pasts and no scars point at very mean looking humans and say, “it was them!” So what do we do? We hold our hand to our mouth and with a theater aside, we whisper our stories in quiet spaces. We write maudlin poetry and carve lyrics on our bellies. We cry when we masturbate and flinch at gentle touches. We sometimes throw the contract out and shout and shout and shout, only to be met, finally, by a two words that I can no longer bear:

Due process.

Existing in the Disaster’s Wake

Content warning: Assault and abuse.

Yesterday I saw my assailant on the subway, for the second time in as many months. Previous to that, it had been years since I’d shared a space with him. I don’t believe in a higher power. I don’t believe in fate. Still, my mind is trying to make order out of the disorder that seeing him twice in so short a time has caused in my body.

Here is where I have landed:

He is real and he is out there, in my city and in my world. He goes home to what was my family. Every day they share a space with him, when, for me, those seconds were repugnant.

I think about this like a small, personal epicenter of a bigger reality: we, as a society, are okay with sexual assault. Our conviction rates are so low as to make the crime tacitly legal. Of the reported 460,000 Canadians assaulted every year, only around 7000 will see a conviction. When convictions do happen, people do more time for stealing a car than sexually assaulting a human. When someone is convicted, it’s often discovered that they had previous complaints that were dismissed by police. Most who speak to police report being unsatisfied with the process. The most common feeling selected by those surveyed? Devastated. It’s a word we use when a disaster destroys a city and leaves it rubble.

And after that devastation, comes the attempt to rebuild. In the case of a disaster, most can assume that the danger has passed. That the hurricane is over. That the wildfire has gone out. No one pities the disaster. No one brings the earthquake in to their home. We don’t fault the city for daring to exist in the disaster’s wake. My disaster walks around my city. He joins Ghomeshi and Cosby and Turner and all the other disasters that are given succor while we rebuild.

I wonder what it would mean if they turned the disaster away. I wonder what it would mean if I did not have to, in my casual daily travels, brace for the storm. I can’t know. I’ll never know. I can just rebuild again, stronger this time – like every time – and hope that what I’ve built survives.

Boys on Bikes

(Trigger Warning: Sexual Assault)

There is a habit we, as a culture, have of reframing experiences via the male perspective. When a she-identified human is assaulted by a he-identified human, we are trained to ask about her past and his future. What did she do to deserve it? What will it take from him is he’s convicted? We’ve seen this played out vividly in the case of convicted rapist Brock Turner. I’ve never met the fellow, but thanks to the tone employed by some media coverage, I’m now aware of the scholarships he’s lost, the times of his most successful swims and how very, very hard it will be for him to enjoy his life after he was convicted of the crime he committed. His future is the window through which we were allowed to watch this story.

We have also been given the story of the two men who interrupted the assault and held convicted rapist Brock Turner until police arrived.

Despite the fact that, again, this means I’m seeing the story from the male perspective, I want to dwell on this for a bit.

When I was a child, I was sexually assaulted. For the most part, it was just the two of us in the room. But once.

Once someone walked in.

There was a moment. It was dark, my memory tells me. It was dark and maybe she didn’t see my nightgown up around my armpits. Maybe her brain hiccuped, swallowed the whole memory. Maybe there was shock. Shock can do that, right? Shock can make you delete the things that frighten you. I remember that she backed out of the room. She backed out and he left and it was never mentioned. It was dark. It was dark. Of course she didn’t see. She didn’t feel the fear radiating off me like heat from a fire. She didn’t ask why he was in my room late at night. It was dark.

Doing nothing is, like the male perspective, often our default. Anyone whose been on a bus when someone starts loudly and verbally attacking a stranger knows what I mean. We see heads drop. Earbuds go in. Books raised higher against the call to interfere. It’s a weird instinct, but it’s one our species clearly has.

So two men on bikes stopped and halted a crime in progress. A crime that, statistics tell us, isn’t treated like a crime. We wink it away. We rarely test rape kits. We rarely press charges. We rarely see convictions. It’s barely treated like a crime at all. But they stopped despite the overwhelming casual message that what was happening wasn’t a real crime.

There was a moment. It was in church. The head pastor – a man who had, once, in a sermon on forgiveness, talked about how he could imagine no worse crime than rape – told me that I needed to forgive the youth leader who had sexually harassed me while offering me a ride home from church. It was about forgiveness. He had repented and now it was on me to let it go. He didn’t feel the shame radiating off me like heat from a fire. He didn’t ask me what I wanted. It was about forgiveness.

So, you see, we are a bystander species. Doing nothing is our default. We strive for homeostasis and our norm is to close our eyes to sexual assault. I sometimes try to suss out why. I come up with a thousand explanations and reasons. In the end, I land back at: It happens because we let it. It happens because we back out of rooms, we offer forgiveness instead of justice, we mourn for the lost future of rapists.

Two men on bikes did not back away.

I’ll hold on to that.

Nowhere: The Places We Are Safe

When I am in public spaces and I have to use the washroom…

I do. I am privileged in that.

I line up behind other people who chose to use the washroom with the skirt person on it and hem and haw, waiting for a stall to be open. When I’m at queer-friendly places, I use whatever bathroom suits my fancy.

When I was a teen, I attended a dance party at Buddies In Bad Times. It was the first time I had used a public, open, gender non-specific bathroom. It was – for me in that moment – a safer space (I don’t use safe space because, as you will see, no space is truly safe.) It was Pride week and there was an air of celebration. This was before Pride had entered the common cultural lexicon. Our celebration was enhanced by our mutual need to be seen, to be safe and to belong. We giggled and danced, waiting our turn. People of all genders, slightly to very tipsy, waited to empty our bladders and get back to the party.

So yeah, I’m queer. I’m bisexual (although I reject the idea of a binary, I’m old enough that this was the only word we had, and I’m attached to it.) I’m cis-appearing, though I don’t feel overly attached to female, as a gender. I’m probably closer to agender or, as a friend once put it, post-gender. I’m a feminist, because I’d have to be deeply detached from my own experience and that of the humans around me not to be. I’ve also been homeless. Because of this, I know what it feels like to need to use a washroom and to be refused. For all of these reasons, I have been following the so-called bathroom debate with keen interest.

First, let me clarify: There should be no debate. It is not on me, you or anyone else to tell someone they cannot pee. Our bodies require it. It is not a choice.

While there is a lengthy blog to be written about the many, many reasons people should be allowed to pee wherever they feel most comfortable, this is not that entry. I am here to talk about one specific outcry that is being used to quash the rights of trans and gender-varied people when it comes to washroom usage: the idea that women and children will not be safe if trans women are allowed in women’s washrooms. The fear they are preying on? Sexual assault. One of the most common crimes with one of the lowest conviction rates. It was my good friend Keiren who suggested we consider how ubiquitous sexual assault is, in contrast to how specific this concern around washrooms is.

Here’s the deal – people of all genders are assaulted in every possible space, because we, as a society, haven’t dealt with the root causes of sexual assault or created an adequate system of redress for when it happens. Washrooms, shared or otherwise, are no more or less safe than any other space we find ourselves in. Keiren suggested we consider a hashtag similar to #whatiwaswearing to discuss our experiences. Because in the end, this bullshit around gendered washrooms is using victims of sexual assault to oppress trans and gender-varied people and that is NOT okay. Sexual assault cannot be stopped by oppressing our trans family, because sexual assault isn’t about a space, it’s about a culture.

So here it is – #WhereIWas

#WhereIWas
In my own bedroom, waiting to be tucked in. It went on for years.

#WhereIWas
In Communications class in high school, while the boys made a game out of touching me from all sides. The teacher laughed.

#WhereIWas
Doing a shared project with a class partner at their place. I escaped by going out on the balcony and shouting for a neighbour.

#WhereIWas
In the stock room of the McDonalds I worked in. A co-worker started mimicking masturbating with a large, soft-plastic container of mustard. He asked me if I liked it, backing me into a corner. I complained. He was promoted. He looked up my address and made sure I knew that he knew where I lived.

#WhereIWas
On the dance floor with my best friend. We had a deal to come between each other when things got dangerous.

#WhereIWas
Getting a ride home from a church youth group with a youth leader.

#WhereIWas
Walking home after a late shift. I was followed and harassed more than once. One time, I was rescued by a compassionate cabbie.

#WhereIWas
In my room. A person stole my sister’s phone book and called all the women in it. He asked me to rub the phone on my legs.

#WhereIWas
In a movie theatre on a first date. When I called him on it, he abandoned me at the mall with no way to get home. Later, he stalked me.

#WhereIWas
In my home, watching TV with a friend.

#WhereIWas
In my cubicle at work, and on work related car trips. He was three times my age and liked to make jokes about being my “daddy.” He constantly commented on my body.

Admittedly, I was a very vulnerable human. I was homeless and in unstable housing as a teenager and I came from an abusive living situation. These factors were certainly considered by some of my assailants. The disrespect the system had for me meant I would not be taken seriously, should I report. I’m aware that I may have more than the average number of experiences. Still, it is of note that the places where assault occurred were varied. No one factor unites them. They were in public and in private, indoors and out, with trusted friends and family and with strangers. To imply that keeping my trans sisters from using the washroom is an effort to keep me safe is laughable. I know that my safety is not the true motivation behind this proposed prejudicial ban. Trans woman are far, far, far more likely to be victims than assailants. They are, like I was, part of a demographic that is not respected by those in authority. Their assaults, like mine, are not taken seriously.

You want to protect me? Teach consent. Involve social workers and victim support services in sexual assault cases. Improve the systems in place to convict and rehabilitate sexual offenders.

Where were we when it happened? Everywhere. What’s a safe space? Nowhere. Don’t use me and people like me to move forward a hateful agenda. Not surprisingly, I have a distaste for being used without my consent.

Please feel free to use the #WhereIWas hashtag to continue this discussion. Segregating bathrooms will not keep us safer. Celebrating consent will.