Aug 21 2009
Let’s All Vent About Being Victims
Through the course of my life, I, along with many other women, have been assaulted several times.
Six years ago, I was living in State College, PA and attending Penn State when a tattoo artist sexually assaulted me while giving me a tattoo. I was so shocked, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t move. Later I found out that this pervert tattoo artist had done the same thing to many other women that had gotten tattoos there. BUT…he was the best tattoo artist in town and I was warned not to report this because a lot of people would be VERY angry if I did. I did nothing. I told my parents about what happened and my father (now estranged) told me that it was my fault and I was asking for it because I chose to get a tattoo on my chest. I would love to out this bastard tattooist right here and now, but I cannot remember his name or the name of his shop.
Four years ago, I was a server at Pizza Hut on Wurzbach and I-10 in San Antonio, TX. I am giving you the address because I fully expect you to boycott this place. My boss was Kristine Sartain. Kristine, should you ever see her, is a petite-ish woman with blue eyes, VERY long blond hair, bangs, and a big mouth. I witnessed her pulling another female server’s hair and hitting the drivers hard, but in jest (according to her thinking). I am not even listing the numerous times that I experienced and/or witnessed her verbally abusing her employees. One day, I came to work with a fresh tattoo on my arm. I was taking a phone order, when she came over and palm struck me right on the tattoo that she was aware that I had just gotten. Blood seeped through the gauze and pissed off tears welled in my eyes. I was trapped. I could not report this incident because I was fearful of losing my job. My only financial support was myself and 99% of my family were living on the other side of the country. Later, some of the other employees and I got together to have a meeting regarding how we would report this and other incidents to the big wig bosses. Gradually we all backed out because we were afraid of being fired.
About a year and a half ago, at a gas station, in broad daylight. It was a warmer day in Boston. I was pumping gas into my bright yellow, Chevy Cavalier. I was startled when a man approached me from behind, asking me for money. He was a Raggedy Andy of a man, with glazed over eyes, slurred speech and a disheveled head of hair. “I don’t have any money,” I responded, feeling quite guilty that I may have appeared to have money, but was actually in a perpetual state of financial turmoil. I could still sense the man’s presence behind me, as I tried hard to ignore it. I was turned, facing my car, when I felt this man, this stranger, this perpetrator, grab my ass.
You never know how you will react in this situation until it happens to you. My instincts lead me to turn around and hit the man. He let out a grunt and began to stumble on jelly legs across the parking lot. “That man just grabbed my ass!” I yelled, while pointing at him. An ambulance driver, who happened to be getting gas a few pumps over, heard me shouting and offered to call the police. Meanwhile, “the grabber” had made his way into the gas station and had emerged with an armload full of stolen snacks. On his tail was the angry clerk determined to get back the goods. Two, big, clerk hands swooped down and repossessed “the grabber’s” dinner which consisted of Doritos, sodas, and candy bars.
The ambulance driver and his colleague cornered “the grabber” and held watch until the police arrived. Two Boston police cars arrived within 5 minutes of the call. I was anxious for the police to arrive. I was happy to be rid of the man who violated me, but scared that somehow the blame could be redirected towards me. What if the police accused me of dressing too sexy or something completely sexist and ridiculous? No doubt this negative thinking was a misogynistic throwback from my childhood.
The police DID NOT blame me. The “grabber” was under arrest. A police officer encouraged me to press charges and said “No one is allowed to touch you without your permission.”
It turns out that “the grabber” was a level 3 sex offender. This was not a random act of intoxication. This person was seriously mentally ill and had a record as confirmation. He spent six, lonely, sober, months in jail.
Yesterday, I was assaulted. I work for a human service agency. Every morning there is a line of people waiting to get into the building. I recognized a former client of mine and said “Hello” and inquired about his well-being. He hugged me. I do not normally hug my clients, but if a client tries to hug me, I will generally half-assed hug them back because I don’t want to offend them or make them feel more vulnerable than their lives have already caused them to feel. It was then that I noticed that he did not smell of booze, but appeared to be incredibly high with his eyes rolling back into his head and his unsteady gait. He hugged me tighter and I pushed him away. He then leaned in and tried to kiss me and I shoved him away. I immediately reported the incident to security. I could not remember the name of the client. I only knew his face.
Last night, I was speaking with a former supervisor who told me that though she wasn’t blaming me for the incident, I was too friendly and may be giving off the wrong vibes. I was incredibly hurt and insulted. A lot of anxiety was born from her careless words.
I chose to work in human services because I have compassion for my fellow humans. I will not stop being friendly and open with my clients. It is the best way to do my job and it is the only way that I know how. It took lots of reassurance from my co-workers and higher-ups for me to realize that my ex-supervisor was wrong.
When will we all find the strength to stand up??? When will I?
I have no problem with the way that people identify themselves, but I do have a problem with people trying to lump me into a category. I do not identify as butch or femme and I’m not sure if I even would attempt to classify myself this way(if I embodied the stereotypical characteristics of either) because I am bisexual and not a lesbian. I have been called a femme and I’ve been called a “tomboy” by other LGBT peeps. 
Aside from the stereotypes, the butch/femme dichotomy tends to support traditional gender roles. Butch’s do the “man” jobs and femme’s do the “woman” jobs. To each her own, but that’s not for me. Butch/femme labels also indicate (to the straight world) that the male and female characteristics must be present in a relationship. I disagree. Being bisexual, if I wanted to date men, I would. The problem that I have with “butch” and “femme” is not an issue with the gay community, but with the straight community making assumptions about our need for a “male” counterpart. I’ve even had people ask who was the “man” in my current same- sex relationship. That’s hella annoying! Of course there is no “man” or need for one.
When I’m dating men, I will go to great lengths to do traditionally “male” jobs that I hate because I WILL not let a man do these jobs for me. 
Just because I hate them and don’t want to do them does not indicate that I am not capable of completing these tasks. However, I tend to make my current girlfriend do these tasks simply because I do not want to do them.