Not long ago, I was walking from the parking lot to my office when an older man in a utility van drove by, stared at me for an unsettling amount of time, and then pulled into the parking lot. My heart raced as I instinctively positioned my car keys between my fingers, a familiar defensive stance I’ve learned to adopt. I was 27 at the time.
A few years back, I found myself at a red light in a bustling college town, my window cracked and doors unlocked. As I waited, I noticed a young man leaving a nearby bar, walking alongside the cars and peering into windows. Instinctively, I locked my doors just as he reached my vehicle and began yanking on the passenger door, demanding to be let in. When the light turned green, I hit the gas, feeling the adrenaline surge. I was only 22.
Almost a decade ago, during a night class in college, I would often walk home in the dark, keys clutched tightly in my hand and my phone ready for emergencies. I knew the locations of the campus “blue lights,” emergency call boxes intended for women in distress.
One evening, a male classmate offered to walk me back to my dorm to borrow some notes. What started as a friendly gesture quickly turned menacing when we entered my room. He didn’t want my notes; he wanted me. He tried to forcefully grip my shoulders and made his intentions clear before I threatened to “kick him in the balls and call the cops.” I was 20 then.
Earlier that year, I attended my first fraternity party, where I was, surprisingly, the most conservatively dressed female there. As I tried to get into the party, the door attendant demanded something in return for entry. My friend, eager to join, kissed him on the cheek, and we were let in. We quickly left upon witnessing multiple female students passed out and others in distress.
Exiting the party, fraternity brothers were frisking women, supposedly to prevent theft. One of them groped me while instructing me to raise my arms. I was 19.
In high school, after a basketball game, I was left out in the cold by my boyfriend for talking to a friend from the opposing team. A male friend offered me a ride home, which turned uncomfortable when he suggested we have sex in his car. I was 17.
Fifteen years ago, as a preteen, I faced constant harassment in class. Boys would snap my bra straps and shame me for my underwear choices. I vividly recall being mocked for wearing “regular” panties and a boy trying to pull them up into a thong. I was just 12.
Now, at 27, I am a wife and a mother of two—one boy and one girl. I carry the immense responsibility of preparing my children for a world where phrases like “boys will be boys” and “girls should just keep quiet” still exist.
You might be reading this thinking I’m merely using this platform to vent about my past. However, these are just the PG-rated incidents I’m willing to share; I never told my parents about them. Your daughter may have similar experiences that she hasn’t confided in you either.
One day, your daughter could come home upset because a boy snapped her bra strap in class. You might wish you had told her it was okay to stand up for herself. Truthfully, she might not share these experiences with you, and she may not understand why such things occur.
I’m also writing this because, like it or not, your sons could potentially become the kind of men who commit sexual assault or harassment. The reality is that your son might find himself in a situation where he crosses boundaries, and it’s your duty to teach him that such behavior is unacceptable, regardless of what he hears from influential figures on television.
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In summary, the responsibility lies with us as parents to educate our children about respect, consent, and the importance of standing up against inappropriate behavior. We must create a safe environment for open conversations about these issues.