As I write this, #MeToo has been used more than 200,000 times in its first 24 hours on social media.
The term gained momentum after actress Alyssa Milano called on victims of sexual assault or harassment to come forward in a show of solidarity.
At first I believed this didn’t apply to me.
Then I really thought about it… I read other women’s accounts of their own experiences…
I shook my head as I took in Donna Karan’s defence of Harvey Weinstein, stating women who dressed sexily were “asking for it”.
And I tried to understand Mayim Bialik’s piece in the New York Times where she stated “I dress modestly. I don’t act flirtatiously with men as a policy.” What exactly was her message to women by saying that?
So why does #MeToo resonate with me?
Not because I dressed sexily and “asked for it”.
Not because I dressed modestly and didn’t.
Simply because my body developed.
At the age of 12 I grew boobs. And not small ones either. While my friends were sporting A cup trainer bras, I rapidly grew into a B and then a C cup – fairly large for a child’s frame.
At school, the boys brushed past me, sniggering and making comments about my “supple breasts” as they tried to grab a handful.
A particularly lecherous teacher would focus on the more buxom girls in class (there were two or three of us) and pull us onto his knee. We learned to cross our arms over our chests in protection,as he embraced us tightly from behind.
The other girls would slink down in their seats, counting their blessings that they weren’t being targeted. The boys just grinned, mentally high-fiving each other as this poor excuse for a man showed them an example of how to treat the female form – with lustful greed.
I wonder now how many of them have daughters of their own, and how they’d feel if she got similar treatment. But it was the 1980s and it didn’t occur to anyone that this wasn’t right.
Aged 19 I was at the bar of my local pub with workmates when the landlord – a guy I’d known for a while and considered a friend – thought it would be funny to drop my change down my top. As he leaned over the bar, I felt his fingers brush my breast as he pushed the coins down into my bra.
Once they fell through my clothing, onto the floor, I fought back tears and forced a grin as he laughed heartily. After all, not to see the joke would make me appear a bad sport. It was 1992 and sexual harassment wasn’t talked about much.
Not long afterwards a workmate I had dated briefly, but declined to sleep with, got his revenge on a trip to a ten pin bowling alley. He took control of the scoreboard, inputing all our friend’s names until it came to my turn – when he typed out the words BIG BAPS.
Everyone laughed, and again I forced myself to chuckle along, ignoring the lump in my throat and blush of humiliation.
While I know some people will see the funny side of this ridiculous scenario, it was excrutiating for me to spend the rest of the evening seeing the “nickname” he had given me regularly flash up on the screen – causing much hilarity from strangers in the bowling alley, who stared at my chest to see if I deserved such a title.
In his passive aggressive way, this man wanted to teach me a lesson – that by rejecting him sexually I would now have to endure the carnal stares of every male in the vicinity.
The 44-year-old me wouldn’t stand for such intimate ridicule – and would tear a strip off any male who thought he could draw attention to my body for his own comedy.
But I was just 20 and, in truth, still a virgin, unsure of my shape, not confident in my sexuality and certainly unable to stand up for my right to exist in the form God gave me without ridicule or unwanted physical contact.
What some guys don’t understand is that they have the right to admire women, if they so wish.
But anything which makes a woman feel uncomfortable or under attack is sexual harassment.
I’m fortunate not to have had a “Harvey Weinstein” moment in my life. Lucky.
I can’t say that because I dressed a certain way or acted a certain way I avoided it. No woman can.
But so many of us have endured a myriad of smaller incidents where we’ve been shamed for being women. Where men have felt it was their right to leer over us, to grab at us, to draw attention to us and even laugh at our physicality.
There was my wedding day where I stood in my white dress as my cousin’s drunken husband lurched towards me and exclaimed “You’re stacked.”
Even as a bride, with my gown altered so that there was no cleavage showing, I couldn’t be respected and left alone.
And I’m sad to say it’s not just men. I’ve had countless women enjoy ridiculing me for my top-heavy form, out of jealousy or some unknown need to make themselves look good in comparison.
Even so-called friends have thought it was OK to say “But your boobs are HUGE.” That may be a fact – my cup size is now a FF – but what do they think they are accomplishing by saying that to me? How do they think that makes me feel?
I am a shape which I cannot hide. I neither seek to accentuate my chest or cover it up. I dress in what looks good for my figure.
After decades of tears and shame, and wondering if I should have a breast reduction, I have finally got to a place where I think “This is who I am – and f**k you if you don’t like it”.
Like so many women, I’d change a lot about my body if I could. But I’ve accepted that certain things are beyond my control. Like my curves.
How others react to those curves is also beyond my control – but it’s within their control.
So I’m saying #MeToo.
For all the times I have endured sexual harassment. For all the times people have said “it’s just a joke” when drawing attention to my body, or leering at me. For all the ‘accidental’ physical contact and grabbing.
In the hope that people who’ve done this – men and women – might think twice next time.
Because like so many women, I’m just me. Existing in a body that was given to me. Doing the best I can.
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