I’ve given birth to children. Two of them came straight out of my vagina. I needed an episiotomy. Let my husband tell you all about that. He almost fainted.
Is that real enough for you?
You can meet my children. They had to have come from *somewhere.* That’s the most miraculous thing about bringing a child into the world. They were never here and then suddenly they are. I brought a human being into the world, so new and original. No other human being will ever be the ones I created.
Is that real enough for you?
I write and read and garden and crochet. I can show you stories and essays and poems that are only there to show you because I created them. I can take you out to my garden and you can eat things I’ve grown. You can come into my house to read one of the books I enjoy. I’ll even wrap a blanket around you that I made.
Is that real enough for you?
I have friends, too. I know they’re real because I’ve been to their homes and met their families, and they’ve been to mine. We go to concerts and movies and parties together. We’ve consumed food together. I’ve listened to them cry and held their hands when needed. They’re so real I’d give a kidney to any one of them if needed.
Is that real enough for you?
If you think that negative polls are “fake news,” does that mean you think I don’t exist? That we don’t exist?
I did not vote for you. I do not approve of you. I do not approve of anything you have done so far in office.
My friends and I have organized. We’ve made phone calls and written letters and marched and demonstrated and scheduled speakers to come teach us and guide us and help us be better people, even stronger people, in the wake of the harmful things you seem so bent on doing to our country.
Calling me “fake news” will not make me go away.
Calling my friends “fake news” will not make us disappear.
We’re going to get louder and your polls are going to get even more negative.
We will not be dismissed as “fake news” or anything else you come up with to try to make us less real to you.
We are all, each one of us, very, very real.
We are your negative polls.
And no matter what petulant tweets you send out about us . . . we’re not going anywhere.
It doesn’t feel like sexual assault. Not right away. Because I knew those two guys.
I’d seen them almost every single day of my life since we started in Kindergarten together. Here we were in high school. So yeah, I knew them. I called them friends.
At first it feels like flirting. You find yourself in a room alone with them and they’re chatting, just the two of them. You take a seat and sit quietly until they start talking to you. You look up and find their eyes on you and their smirks so familiar.
They tell you how cute you look today and you blush a little and feel embarrassed because neither one of them has ever said something like that to you before.
It starts to feel like teasing when they zero in on the leggings you wore that day. When they start asking what the leggings look like against your ass if they were to lift your shirt and have a look. They wonder aloud to each other if they could see the outline of your pussy if you just lifted your shirt for them.
You think they’re just being jerks now and roll your eyes. They keep engaging you in conversation and you still think it’s all jokes and teasing, even as they start moving. Even as they get closer.
You even giggle when their fingers start pulling at your shirt. Tickling under the hem. The giggle sounds ridiculous to your own ears, that high nervous one you hate, and you hop up to move away. Still thinking they’re being ridiculous and playful.
It still doesn’t feel like sexual assault when you turn and realize you’re in a corner and they’re walking toward you, one on each side. You don’t have the sense yet to feel nervous, because you know these two guys. Have known them since Kindergarten.
You think this is still a game and that the fluttering in your stomach is from having so much attention on you. You’re young and naive and brainwashed enough to think this is just how guys are around girls. They get loud, and show-off, and grab.
A lot.
But the fluttering starts to feel like dread when the two guys don’t stop coming at you. When they walk all the way up to you, one on each side, so you feel sandwiched. When they pull at your shirt and one grabs your wrist and your shirt is up high enough now that your skin feels the breeze coming from the air conditioning vent above your head.
You still don’t think it’s assault, though. That isn’t the word that comes to mind in that moment. No, in that moment, when their hands seem to be everywhere . . . on your side, and brushing the underside of your bra, and on your ass, and then . . . yup . . . grabbing your pussy . . . the word assault doesn’t come to mind.
You wonder if you’d get in trouble for screaming. You wonder where your voice went because the general physical area from which your voice emits feels very dry and all you can manage to get out is an occasional breathy no or stop.
You wonder if you really know these guys at all and if they’ve changed over the years or were always like this and you were never unfortunate enough to be alone with them before now.
Even when you manage to push one away, and they’re laughing at you as you pull your shirt down and the teacher who was stuck on the phone in the office next door walks in, you don’t think assault.
You just quietly take a seat and smooth down your hair. You pick up your viola and start your lesson next to your teacher, all the while your heart hammering because when you glance up at them . . . they’re still smirking.
No, you don’t think assault. But those smirks no longer look friendly. Or even recognizable.
You don’t think assault, but you make sure, for the remainder of your time in high school, that you’re never again alone with either one of them. Especially if they are together.
You must not really believe it assault because you never tell on them. Never admit what happened. You convince yourself it was just flirting. Just boys being boys. They didn’t do any lasting damage, right?
I mean, the worst thing they did was just grab your pussy through your clothes.
—
So here’s the deal . . .
If you’re still defending that sick piece of shit, and still voting for him, and still thinking that his words have no bearing on how he’ll be in office, look around you.
Look at every woman or young girl you know and love.
Go ahead.
Look your mother in the eye. Your daughters. Your best friend. Your wife or girlfriend. Your sister. Your play partner. Your business partner. Your co-worker that you joke is your spouse because she’s the shoulder you lean on at work. Look at your grandmother if you’re lucky enough to still have her around. Your niece. Your cousin. The woman who rings up your groceries.
Even if you yourself are a woman and still defending that douchebag, take a good long look at the women around you.
They’ve been grabbed by the pussy.
It’s happened to at least one of them, if not most. They’ve been touched in a non-consensual way and talked themselves out of the word assault.
Because the guy who did it was a friend, was a co-worker, was kidding, was flirting, etc.
Now tell her why you think this fucking waste of space assbag of a human being should lead our country. Tell her his words don’t matter and won’t affect how he’ll lead or the person he’ll be in office. Tell her it won’t matter that girls and boys around the world will hear the disgusting things he says.
Go ahead. Tell her.
You’ve said it to Muslims, Mexicans, Latinos, African-Americans, immigrants, veterans, the mentally ill, women in general, but you never had to look them in the eye. Those are abstract concepts to you, I’m sure.
Tell HER. Then let me know how you still sleep at night.
allison writes 
