Thoughts on being the only woman on the bus
Here is my 17-year-old daughter’s explanation as to why she doesn’t take the bus to school anymore.
“There were a couple of guys who gross and handsy, not always in a blatant way and not every day ... but I had guys grab my ass or say sexual things to me or stare at my breasts. They talk about terrible things: girls that had their nudes leaked or sharing what were supposed to be private videos.
“They are awful.”
As a parent, my first instinct is to get involved, to protect my child. Perhaps a word or two with a few of those boys or, at the very least, a conversation with someone at the school about taking action. I’m also inclined to encourage to my daughter to defend herself and to speak up.
My experience as a middleclass white guy informs me that someone will listen if I voice my opinion. That is not my daughter’s experience, particularly in high school.
“Being the only woman on the bus and having to say something to seven guys is really hard. If I say stuff and get on their bad side, it’s going to get worse,” my daughter said. “I didn’t want to make it a big deal. As soon as someone goes to the school or their parents, that girl gets shunned socially.”
We were talking about this in context of Christine Blasey Ford, the woman who came forward to tell her story to the about a sexual assault she experienced in high school, allegedly at the hands of U.S. Supreme Court nominee Brett Kavanaugh. My daughter doesn’t follow the news extensively but Blasey Ford’s testimony was culturally significant enough to penetrate her social media-heavy existence.
“Good for her for standing up, but there’s a reason she didn’t say something in high school; there’s a reason a lot of girls don’t say something in high school,” my daughter said.
“Guys think they can get away with a lot more than they should be able to.”
The attack on Blasey Ford occurred in 1982, and the easiest thing to do is to convince ourselves that so much has changed, that things are better now, that our children are having different experiences. They are not.
The bus is just one example my daughter has. One guy slapped her thigh so hard he left a hand print — every time she wore shorts in the summer. Another told her to “go make me a sandwich,” during a debate in law school class. When she angrily confronted him, she was told by the teacher to calm down.
My daughter is a straight A student and an athlete. She has a job. She is outspoken about her opinions but not an activist (at least not yet). With the exception of a messy room and her annoying habit of leaving empty fast food containers all over my car (sorry, “our” car), she is pretty much as good as it gets when it comes to teenagers. She went to her first protest recently, the student walk out in opposition of Doug Ford’s repeal of the sexual education curriculum. She knows, first hand, how much work needs to be done.
The lesson she has learned, one that we as her parents and we as a community have taught her without saying a word? That she must be constantly vigilant about her safety and, in the terrifying scenario where it all goes wrong, you will not be believed.
For all her strength and courage, Blasey Ford will ultimately be yet another high-profile example.
“There are so many people that tell you that you’re wrong. ‘This thing didn’t happen to you, you made it up, she’s being dramatic, she doesn’t remember,’” my daughter says. “I don’t think it will make a difference, and that’s what makes it so hard to speak up. It’s easier to just not say anything.”
Or not take the bus.