That’s what a forty-six-year-old white man said to my sixteen-year-old daughter when she told him recently that no, she didn’t want him to hug her. “No thanks,” she said. “I don’t feel like a hug right now.” Any fully functioning adult human would have said to my daughter’s clear response, “Okay sounds great have a good one!” and gone about his day. To a fully functioning adult human old enough to understand, ‘No’ would mean No. But not this creep. “Oh, come on.” he said. “Be Nice.”
My daughter’s heart sped up. She said “I have to go,” and she turned and walked away fast to find me in another room. This was a small, invisible interaction lost in a crowded party, but it is an enormous piece of the larger clusterfuck of the reality known as Rape Culture; a million little stabs that make up, and are indicative of, the slashing knife wound of the absolute bullshit women all over the world endure every minute of our lives. We are supposed to stay quiet, Be Nice and keep men happy at the expense of our own humanity. And sanity.
Be Nice.
Translation: I want to put my arms around your body and I am a man so I am entitled to do this, you are a girl and you need to Be Nice and let me.
Earlier, I watched this same man reach over the back of a sofa to put his hands on a seventy-year-old woman and grab fistfuls of her skin though her clothes to tickle her. She said, Stop. He kept grabbing her. She said No. He kept on. She said Stop again. He still would not. Finally, she spoke his name sharply, said Stop a fourth time, and jerked her body out of his reach. Only then did he drop his hands and laugh. Like the nonsense with my daughter, this crap happened in a busy group of people and conversation, a small, insular moment that took maybe thirty seconds. The woman got up to walk away and so did I, my insides twisted, but I said nothing so to not disrupt the party by daring to speak up for this adult woman who had chosen to keep this man close in her life despite the fact his veins run bright with the color of a thousand Red Flags. I wish I had said something along the lines of Fuck off, you creepy creep! But it is ingrained in me, decades of being taught to Be Nice.
This demeaning, entitled language and behavior will always be justified, forever protected by fellow creepy men and the women who are taught to Be Nice and contribute to our own dehumanization and that of our sisters. Boys Will Be Boys. Why Can’t You Take A Joke. He’s Just Awkward. Every excuse for men to say and do what they want, when they want, to our bodies to our lives, and the apologists will always rush in to make certain the creeps feel comfortable doing it. Our kids who are young teenagers, my daughter, have grown up only ever knowing a black, feminist president and real hope that a woman would lead us next. In just two years since Hillary Clinton won four millon more votes than her white male primary opponent, and three million more votes than her white male general election opponent (but was still robbed of her earned right to lead this nation) my daughter has, along with all of us, been bombarded with the very loud voices of entitled toxic mysoginist old white men.
If it’s not 45’s non-stop sexual assualt and racism, it’s the grating shouts of that elderly white presidential-hopeful senator from Vermont calling teachers “Old bitches” and defending his essays about women getting cancer from not enough orgasms, and how women all have gang rape fantasies, or it’s frat culture personified with the disgusting ramblings of the life-time appointed drunk white male rapist on the Supreme Court, eager to take away women’s human and reproductive rights the second he gets the chance, or it’s creepy guy at a party with his hands all over an older woman and telling my daughter that her not wanting him to hug her is unfair to him, it hurts his precious entitled disgusting ‘feelings’ and she owes him a hug, she needs to let him do what he wants to her body, she needs to Be Nice.
Every. Goddamned. Day. I could lay down and never stop crying.
Except that’s not how this is going to play out. We are done with this garbage. And by we I mean you and me. Our daughters and sons. Let’s Stop. Being. Nice. (To the creeps, I mean.) I am teaching my daughter to ignore the filthy drunk rapist at the confirmation hearings and instead focus on the brave, glorious strong and true testimony of heroine Dr. Christine Blasey-Ford. I am teaching her to listen to her instincts and take care herself and not the feelings of a medicore forty-six year old man. My daughter will not feel powerless. She will not be nice to spare some creep’s fragile ego. She will know she has the right, the obligation, to tell that man, “You are not welcome in my home. You are not owed my proximity, my time, you are not entitled to me in any way, ever.” And I will cheer her honesty and back up her boundaries with the ferocity only a mother can wield - physically if I must. Verbally with joy. Starting with a well-intended Fuck. You. But only if she needs me. She is a tiny yet towering pillar of her own ferocious bravery. Her words are magic.
Words matter. They can be used to by mediocre men to make disgusting language to try and intimidate and threaten so to keep their perceived entitled power. But words are also, and more so, powerful weapons of education and empathy in this war that we are, in this Year of Our Beyoncé 2019 for fuck’s sake, still fighting. Here are a few of my favorite books and authors whose words are shining a blinding light, Agent Scully style, into the face of Creepy-ass Rape Culture. Give these books to the creep in your life who could use some book learnin’. Give them to your friends, your family, to yourself, share them and celebrate women and the men who truly advocate for us. I love you all so much. Now be nice and let me hug you! (Too soon? Fuck that, let’s take Nice back! As in, We are going to Be Nice and give you these books instead of kicking you in the balls if you ever say shit like that to me or my daughter ever again K thnx Byeee!)
