sirens
A thing (small, largely inconsequential) that I do not forget: working in the New York office of my dad's company the summer I was 21. I was a secretary, but I was also an executive's daughter. Other executives would say hi when they saw me, ask after him, whatever. The ones I remember are the ones who said, "your mom must be beautiful, I tell you what. Your dad's not much to look at, but you are so pretty. There must be someone else in the family for you to take after. Thank god you don't look like your dad."
As it happens, I do look like my dad, but that is not the point. The point is: they had assessed me for beauty. They had found me pleasing. They wanted me to know that they'd considered it: whether I was desirable. Whether I was worthy of attention and praise. It wasn't that they wanted to fuck me, exactly. It wasn't that they were ever going to touch me. It wasn't even conscious on their parts, I am sure of it. What girl doesn't want to hear that she's pretty?
What they were doing was putting me in my place. Letting me know that I could not have a job lowly enough, I could not be young and protected by my father's power enough, that they wouldn't look at me and think: want or don't want. That I could be anything I wanted, but the first thing, always, always always always, would be girl. And girl meant pretty or not pretty.
Girl meant a thing they wanted, or didn't.
I was a thing that needed a compliment. It never occurred to them that it might not be appropriate or polite to tell a young woman they found her attractive-- I'm not even sure that's what they thought they were doing. But it unnerved me enough that I remembered it, and I've remembered it long enough now to have figured out why it unnerved me. They were giving me a compliment but they were also sounding a warning bell. I looked like something they wanted, and they weren't afraid to say so. How long would it be until someone got tired of looking, and wanted to see what it would be like to touch?
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Did you want to read another word about sexual harassment today? Probably not. I'm sorry, but not sorry enough not to send this Tinyletter. If you want to read a thing that's about near-death experiences and my persistent fantasy of walking down an empty LA freeway, here's that instead.
As it happens, I do look like my dad, but that is not the point. The point is: they had assessed me for beauty. They had found me pleasing. They wanted me to know that they'd considered it: whether I was desirable. Whether I was worthy of attention and praise. It wasn't that they wanted to fuck me, exactly. It wasn't that they were ever going to touch me. It wasn't even conscious on their parts, I am sure of it. What girl doesn't want to hear that she's pretty?
What they were doing was putting me in my place. Letting me know that I could not have a job lowly enough, I could not be young and protected by my father's power enough, that they wouldn't look at me and think: want or don't want. That I could be anything I wanted, but the first thing, always, always always always, would be girl. And girl meant pretty or not pretty.
Girl meant a thing they wanted, or didn't.
I was a thing that needed a compliment. It never occurred to them that it might not be appropriate or polite to tell a young woman they found her attractive-- I'm not even sure that's what they thought they were doing. But it unnerved me enough that I remembered it, and I've remembered it long enough now to have figured out why it unnerved me. They were giving me a compliment but they were also sounding a warning bell. I looked like something they wanted, and they weren't afraid to say so. How long would it be until someone got tired of looking, and wanted to see what it would be like to touch?
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Did you want to read another word about sexual harassment today? Probably not. I'm sorry, but not sorry enough not to send this Tinyletter. If you want to read a thing that's about near-death experiences and my persistent fantasy of walking down an empty LA freeway, here's that instead.
Replacing my standard plea for $$ for myself with two better options: if you live in LA, volunteer to help out or donate a baked good to Pastries for Progressives, coming up next Sunday, December 3rd. If you don't, donate directly to Doug Jones' Alabama Senate race, or perhaps to the folks who'll be driving Alabama voters to the polls on the 12th.
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