There are a few things you expect people to grow out of by the time they reach college. We've learned that sex, beer and cigarettes never quite lose their appeal, and stealing road signs is a pastime to last a lifetime, but I have always wished that the practice of demeaning women would go out of style as men come of legal age.
There's a counterpart to this epidemic of disrespect toward the female species: inaction. While in real life no woman derives pleasure from a degrading pick up line or rotten comment, oftentimes without being prepared, we can be caught like deer in headlights, speechlessly humiliated.
For example, not long ago, I was cornered in a residence hall stairwell by a male co-inhabitant. Though my female friend and I had both met this fellow a handful of times, he still could not keep our names straight.
"Sarah, your skin is so soft," the young man cooed as he caressed the side of my face with his fingers, placing his other hand on the wall behind my head. "I wanna be your Prince Charming and take you away from your boyfriend and kiss you all over your body." Verbatim, I swear.
I melted on the spot, not so much from love as from nausea. I could not have been more suave than he to a practical stranger if my life depended on it.
Sure, I may have been thinking, "My name's not Sarah, you tool, it's Katie, and you're disgusting." Yet, what came out of my mouth was more along the lines of, "uhh...I have to go now." I ran away kicking myself for not unleashing the repulsion he had just created in me. I wanted to backtrack and give him a piece of my mind, but the moment was gone.
This episode of weakness proceeded to induce flashbacks to the sixth grade. In 1994, I was a pale, underweight, metal-mouthed, longhaired girl, as normal as any other, until my male classmates decided otherwise.
One of my guilty pleasures was staring blankly at the wall now and again, lower jaw slightly dropped, to contemplate things during class time. This hobby earned me the nickname "Cloud Nine" for the next three years and was effective in silencing me toward the name givers; it was an embarrassing stigma I could not remove.
I was fortunate enough that the title, "Chewbacca Wookie" was already taken by another girl in the sixth grade that was deemed to have too much arm hair. I will admit, I shaved my toes a few times, just to be safe, after the coolest people on the swim team said toe hair was gross. Shamefully, even I would poke fun at Chewy so as to preserve my slightly higher rank on the food chain with the boys who set the standards.
Granted, these boys were using mockery as a method of maintaining their own precarious spots on the social ladder, and I knew this. Unfortunately I never called them on it; I barely uttered a word in fear of causing myself to descend yet another rung.
I ambled quietly along on my private cloud through junior high. I tried not to pay attention to the anorexic comments, because despite the fact I could not break 95 pounds, I ate like a healthy growing horse those days.
I pretended not to hear when a boy on the bus examined my chest and told me I should stop hoping for bigger breasts. I knew I did not deserve this type of treatment, yet somehow it remained unbeknownst to me that I could do something about it.
The toe-shaving melodrama of adolescent tragedy eventually faded to gray when I reached high school enlightenment and discovered no one had the right to say anything degrading about me. However, this discovery did nothing to change the fact that occurrences like mine did and still do happen. Too often, women at the college level are confronted with uncomfortable encounters.
And the perpetrators are learning young. Jogging down the suburban streets of Tonawanda one afternoon, I smiled and said hello to a few children playing with trucks on a front lawn. One little boy looked up and responded with a cordial, "f-k you."
I decided it was in everyone's best interest to run on and keep quiet this time, and hope that someday his parents would teach him not to talk to strangers.
I could not help deriving some amusement from this incident, but it is harder to shrug off the whistles and crude catcalls from pimped-out cars and front porches while I try to exercise in my own neighborhood. And it's not as though I'm jogging in the buff - my workout attire is very appropriate.
There is also the more subtle - yet equally bothersome - practice of acquaintance tickling and pinching. It may seem harmless enough - except it's not. If you aren't someone I hang out with on a Saturday night, you best keep your hands away from my belly.
Clearly these behaviors are not exemplary of every man. I have made several male friends who conduct themselves in a respectful manner toward me and other women, and I am appreciative.
Yet it doesn't appear that all demoralizing attitudes will soon disappear. Maybe people should know better, but apparently some don't.
It is unfortunate that the belief that occurrences such as the aforementioned are in any way acceptable or appropriate becomes implanted in the minds of some young men. However, I find the best move in such situations is to remember that trying to change myself is a lot more plausible than trying to change others.
I have to be outspoken and refuse to allow myself to stand idly by when I've been wrongly insulted. These encounters are formulas for instant embarrassment, but they have no right to be. Regaining composure and showing the other person I can speak my mind without being inappropriate is the best I can do.
The only way I can make up for the Prince Charming incident is to make sure I never run away with my tongue tied again, and instead let any offender know the truth: his actions are inexcusable.
At least I'm starting to improve at practicing what I preach. The last time some guy yelled, "Hey, baby," followed by some choice expletives from the window of his low-riding bass-pumping vehicle, I flipped him off. Maybe next time I'll work up the nerve to chase him down in my cross-country outfit, pound my fist on his tinted glass and say, "Excuse me, but that was inappropriate."
Photo: Courtesy of Laron Fomby
