It’s been nearly two months since the #MeToo movement struck the internet. Two months and many many many sexual assault accusations. So many, that it’s hard to keep up. You can find a handy-dandy list of “Powerful People in Entertainment Who Have Been Accused of Sexual Harassment or Assault” on the Teen Vogue website. And that article was published before another hard-hitter was announced last week, trophy child of NBC, Matt Lauer. In fact, there are lists like this popping up everywhere, including the New York Times, which has a chart with the accusation, the fallout, and the response. These are the times we live in, we need a chart to keep track. But am I surprised? No.
When the monstrosity of a bomb of Harvey Weinstein came out, and then in quick succession Louis CK, Charlie Rose, and many others on the chart, my female coworker said to me, “I can’t believe it; can you believe it?” And my answer? OF COURSE I CAN. Why would it not be true that men in power, men who are famous and have access to flocks of women, use their power to prey on women? Why would men in power choose not to prey on women, when ordinary, run-of-the-mill men do it, and get away with it, every day?
Two months ago, when the #MeToo movement began, I had trouble posting on social media. I didn’t feel it was necessary because of course me too. Because like, DUH, EVERYONE WHO HAS A VAGINA HAS BEEN VIOLATED. My emoji boyfriend, in light of the Al Franken situation asked me recently if anyone has ever “cupped my butt” as women allege Franken did in photos. And my answer is the same: of course. Because I am a female and that is what it means to be a female. So why should I bother posting #MeToo? To enlighten people? Are there really people out there to whom it would be surprising or eye-opening to see that these things happen to women? The answer, I guess, is yes. People seem to be surprised every day there is a new celebrity found to have acted improperly, whether it be inappropriate touching, fondling, rape, etc. And yes, I realize I just used the phrase “rape, etc.” That is the state of the world.
Ultimately, I decided to post one tweet, simply with the hashtag. No Facebook post, no story of my experiences (yes, plural), and no explanation. It felt like glorifying the perpetrator to put any story on the internet. Also, I worried, “what if people don’t think my story ‘counts’ and it isn’t ‘enough’?”
Have bad things happened to me? Sure. Were there “little” things like butt-grabs? Unwanted advances? Unwanted kisses? Yes. Was there also someone who said I “had to say yes because I set a precedent?” Also yes. Were there things that I could have pressed charges for? Yes. Yes to all of the above. There were worse things than the story I’m going to tell, and there were things that were “not as bad.” And I’m sure there will be more. I’m in a relationship now, which insulates me from a lot of the unwanted advances that come along with dating, but I am still a female, and I still leave my house, which means I am still vulnerable to any and all unwanted interactions with the opposite sex.
This story is specifically about my worst first blind date. In my humble opinion, it was one for the books. Which also makes it one for the blog. It’s a personal story, but I’m hoping that people connect to it. At various stages in the story, there were points where I felt uncomfortable. Where I wasn’t sure if a line had been crossed, but I knew I was uncomfortable. We are socialized as women to be easygoing and accommodating. To go with the flow. Sometimes, situations are confusing in the moment with things happening quickly around you, spinning out of control, and you don’t know until years later, looking back, just how wrong it was from the beginning. In the moment, it seems like maybe you said one wrong thing, or maybe if you had just worn a different outfit, or if you had just been firmer, then this wouldn’t have happened and he would have understood. But the reality is, there’s not much you can do in hindsight except tell your story.
Let me set the scene: It’s 2011, I’m a 2L in law school. I have been single for a little more than 2 years, dating here and there, using tinder, OKCupid, the works, but nothing was sticking. I had met a few guys where we had 2-3 month flings (let’s not make them more serious than they were), and after a few months, when it got to the point where they had to probably make it official or break it off, they all ghosted. Or in the rare chivalrous case, they did the fade-away, and not the full-on ghost. Anyway, point is, dating was not really working for me. So one night, after lamenting the single life over a few drinks, my friend told me he wanted to set me up. He told me he had a friend from childhood that he thought was perfect for me. He was tall (check!), into athletics, martial arts specifically, (check!), he lived locally (Long Island… but sort of check!), and he was single (CHECK CHECK CHECK). Clearly my standards were not set too high. But the dating apps were trash, so I said sure, why not?
This wasn’t a totally blind date because my friend knew him, let’s call him Freddy, so my friend promptly texted Freddy and told him to add me on Facebook and sent him my number. Within 5 minutes of me agreeing to a date, we were Facebook friends. For the next week, I spoke with the mystery man. Freddy called me a couple times over the next week to chat. I was impressed. Guys NEVER call. I was lucky at that point in my dating life if a guy replied to one of my texts within 4 hours! Freddy and I chatted on the phone for over an hour. Sure, sometimes I felt like his questions were intrusive, and a bit inappropriate. Why did he need to know what I was wearing? But hey, I was in law school. The answer was “sweatpants and a hoodie” almost every time. Why not let him know what he is in for? The last time we spoke on the phone before meeting in real life, he asked me what color underwear I was wearing. In hindsight, maybe this was a red flag and I should have canceled the date. But in the moment, I was like “black, got to go to sleep, see you tomorrow!”
The day of our date was not special for any reason. At this point I had been on many many first dates. Tinder is great for first dates… 2nd? Not so much. I did not put much thought into my outfit for the date. I wore a casual denim skirt and cute shirt with flip flops, in case Freddy wasn’t as tall as my friend said. He had picked a divey bar on the west side, since he was coming from the Long Island Railroad at Penn Station.
When I got to the bar, he gave me a hug and we sat down and ordered a drink. Right away, he put his hand on my leg. I thought it was a bit forward, but as a female who has been out in the world a few times, I just took his hand and placed it back on his own leg. We continued chatting about random topics, and every once in a while he would slip in an inappropriate question, which I would laugh off. I was thinking, “this guy thinks he is slick, but really, I am slicker!” Plus, obviously I was not wearing the same underwear as the night before, duh. Yes, he asked me that.
Meanwhile, three more times in the next half-hour, his hand magically appeared on my leg, slightly higher than the time before, and three more times I silently placed it back on his own. At one point, his fingers were pretty far up under my skirt but again, I did not say a word, I just took his hand and placed it back on his lap. At thirty-five minutes in, he tried to kiss me. While we were sitting side by side at the bar. Without getting into the mechanics of how difficult it is to kiss while sitting side by side at a bar, I was able to push him away. I was not sure where I gave him the indication that I would be interested in kissing him. Maybe it was the three times I had silently taken his hand off my leg without making a big fuss. Or the fact that I had a sip of the second drink he had gotten for me without asking. Anyway, again, I was thinking, “I am a smart, strong female, and I do not need to get hysterical that a guy tried to kiss me.” So I calmly told Freddy that I dislike public displays of affection, and I would appreciate if he would keep to himself at the bar. I figured this was a good way to combat the wandering hands, as well, which were getting out of control. He did not try to kiss me again, although he whined about it, and his hand did make another appearance on my leg, higher yet, under my skirt this time. I told it was time for me to go.
He knew where I lived, so he told me he would walk me back to Penn Station where my subway was, and where his train was. At this point, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be hanging out with him again, but since he was a friend of a friend, I said sure he could walk me to the train. The second we got outside, he “playfully” pushed me into the wall and said something to the effect of “we aren’t in public anymore, so now I can kiss you.” Then he also stuck his hand up my skirt. I squirmed away, walking faster toward the train. In case you were wondering, it was not playful. Or romantic. Also in case you were wondering, he was taller than me as my friend had promised. Significantly.
Again, in hindsight, maybe I should have taken this opportunity to invent a random errand I had forgotten about. But I was mostly concentrating on getting to the subway. So we continued walking. After what felt like an eternal two blocks, we reached the subway and he went down the stairs into the station with me. On any other occasion, I would have felt this to be a romantic gesture, but I was getting nervous that I would not be able to shake him. When I finally got to the turnstile, he asked me for a hug, and I acquiesced, as all females are taught to do. Little did I know that as I went to pull away, he would pull my skirt up. Completely. 100% showing everything underneath for full view of all MTA customers. I had been relatively reserved until that moment, but I couldn’t contain it anymore. I went off on him, screaming obscenities, pretty much every word that I know. I believe the last words I spoke to him were “are you f*cking kidding me right now!?” And as I turned around and swiped my MetroCard, I heard him say “text me when you get home, ok?”
I did not text him when I got home.
But he texted me! 4 times, in fact. By the time I got out of the subway (this was before we got texts underground), I had 4 messages from him about what a great time he had and how we should do it again sometime.
I felt like I had taken crazy pills. Who had a great time? Certainly not me. How did he have a great time? Did he enjoy hearing me scream the F bomb at him to the entire 34th street train station? I wasn’t too worried about him though, I figured I would just ghost, like guys do.
I called my friend who set us up, and since I am a female who only appeases others, I didn’t even tell him the story. It wasn’t worth it. I told him I didn’t think Freddy and I “clicked” and that we were “looking for different things.”
Me: looking for a caring guy. Freddy: looking for sexual assault. But I didn’t add that part.
I hung up the phone, went into my apartment, unfriended Freddy from Facebook, and answered his 4 text messages by saying I didn’t think it would work out with us as more than friends. Aren’t I so sweet?
I wish I could tell you that was the end of the story. It’s bad enough to end there, right? Unfortunately, it doesn’t.
A week later I received a phone call from a number I didn’t know. I was deep in the thick of applying for 2L summer internships, so I was answering every unknown number with vigor. I picked up, and was told that it was an officer with the Long Island Police Department. I was confused at first, because I didn’t remember applying there. But I kept listening. He asked my name, and he asked if I had recently been on a date with Freddy. Again, I was very confused. What did this have to do with my date? Did he report himself for pulling up my skirt in public? Did some good Samaritan see him put his hand up my skirt at the bar? The police officer went on to say that he was actually sitting with Freddy at the table, and they had questions for me. Again, I was baffled. Did he report me for saying no to getting it on in an alleyway?
Here’s something I didn’t mention before: Freddy is black. It was not relevant to the story before now. But as I continued to listen to the police officer, he told me that Freddy came into the station himself to report that he had received numerous death threats online. The officer said that Freddy received these threats from my friends via email, using the n-word, and telling Freddy that he should die because he went on a date with me and because I was white. Now, Freddy was not the first black man I went on a date with. Freddy would also not be the last black man I would go on a date with. And I certainly would not be friends with people who make death threats to anyone I go on dates with, black or not.
The officer asked me if I had told anyone that I was going on a date with Freddy. I kindly told the officer that yes, as is common practice for women when going to meet a stranger for the first time, I told my roommates and my best friend, none of whom are cyber bullies or racists.
I asked the officer if he had any information on who these threats came from, and if he could identify if they were, indeed my friends, because I was 100% sure that this is not the case and there must be some misunderstanding. He told me that the information was private, and he could not reveal it. I explained that I have a diverse and accepting group of friends, and they are not the type to cyber-bully, nor do I think they would go to those lengths to defend one date I went on. Then I asked him if my name would be on any paperwork because I was in law school and it was important for me to stay out of the court system.
Could I have said, “oh btw… Freddy also tried to finger me in a bar, and then forcibly kiss me in a bar, and then when I said no, he tried to do it in a dark alley, and then when I said no, he lifted my skirt up for all of Penn Station to see”? Yeah, I could have said that, but I didn’t.
I just told the officer that I did not know anyone who would make those kinds of threats. And the officer asked me to call him if I thought of someone who did it, or if “any new information came to light.”
For the next three weeks, I received periodic calls and voicemails from the Long Island Police. Never once did I tell them what really happened. And never once did I magically “remember” that I had a friend who was a racist cyber bully.
After three weeks of calls I never heard from the LIPD again. But I did hear from Freddy.
Two years after my worst first blind date ever, on December 6, 2013, Freddy’s photo popped up in my OKCupid inbox. I was expecting an apology. But no, it was as if we had never met. The message began “Hello, I’m Freddy. How are you doing? I see we have somethings (sic.) in common (tall, you stay in shape…”
I am not making this up. I went back years into my email to quote it exactly, minus the name. How does a person who reports a woman to the police, after assaulting her, look at her dating profile with multiple photos of her, and pretend it did not happen? HOW? I was so baffled, I just ignored it. I pretended it was another one of the many messages on OKCupid from weirdos, and I deleted it.
And that was the end of that. Except it wasn’t. Two years after the OKCupid message, in 2015, he friended me on Facebook. Again, I was baffled, but I just blocked him, since the unfriending back in 2011 clearly didn’t work. Thankfully, I have not heard from him since 2015. However, the friend who introduced us got married 18 months ago, and I wasn’t able to attend the wedding. I later learned that Freddy was one of the groomsmen, and I was relieved that I wasn’t able to go.
6 years later and I cannot put my finger on what part of this whole story hurt me the most. Was it the fact that I felt violated in public? The fact that I wish I had trusted my instincts and canceled the date before it happened? The fact that I wasn’t firmer with my words than just moving his hand? The fact that he pushed me against the wall and put his hand up my skirt and I still walked with him to the subway? The fact that when I called my friend, I didn’t tell him the truth? The fact that when I eventually did tell my friend the truth, he didn’t believe me? The fact that this man who clearly violated me, went on to report me to the police? The fact that he felt it was necessary to pull “the race card” for whatever reason he had? Or the fact that, years later, he pretended it never happened? I really don’t know.
But I’m telling my story anyway. It’s not going to fix anything. I’m not going to call the LIPD and say, “oh yeah FYI 6 years ago a guy made a false claim against me that I did not appreciate and also he tried to fondle me in an alley.”
Maybe I feel like being a bit of Silence Breaker myself. I may not get a Time Magazine cover, but I hope I empower someone out there to act on her instincts, or to say something makes her uncomfortable instead of just repeatedly moving a hand away. Maybe it will empower her to know that even if her hindsight is 20/20 and she looks back and rethinks her actions, realizing there were things she probably could have done differently, it doesn’t mean it was her fault that they happened.
So yeah, #MeToo. #MeToo so many times I can’t count. But this is one of my many stories that deserve a hashtag.
You should not have to be on the defense on a date or on the phone. You should not need to be on the defense in your place of work. But I’m not surprised that we still are. I’m not surprised that my single friends are still vigilant, telling their friends and roommates when and where they are going on their first dates, “just in case.” And I’m not surprised that Al Franken stepped down yesterday from the Senate. No, I’m not surprised. But I hope that soon, this will be the exception and not the rule. And I hope this story empowers at least one more woman to speak out and tell her story.
