What We Go Through: anecdotes about everyday trauma caused by casual misogyny

What We Go Through: anecdotes about everyday trauma caused by casual misogyny

A zine by FOOT-TO-FACE

© Julianne Ess 2017

Dear Reader: There are just a few notes on things I hope you’ll keep in mind, some information you might need so you can take care of yourself, and some acknowledgments bef ore you turn the page: All of the following content is 100% true.

The names of those who have played a part in perpetuating misogyny , sexism, and rape culture in the following stories have not been changed. Regardless of their intent, people’s actions have an effect, and sometimes the effect is harmful and permanent. I believe that it is important to be accountable for one’s actions and how they may affect others. These are my attackers and my abusers and every day I am a survivor. We are survivors.

The specific incidents included here have taken place in Winnipeg, Toronto, Glasgow, London, and Ghent between 1998 and 2017; between the ages 8 and 27. They’re not necessarily told in chronological order. There are still many more which I’ve either remembered or experienced since my last print run that I’d still like to add to future editions. This project will probably never let me finish it.

It is important to note that this is an account of my experiences as a cisgender able-bodied white woman. All women do not necessarily experience rape culture and misogynistic violence in the same ways that I do. I urge you to seek out and hold space for their stories as well.

This zine is a revised and extended edition of the original issue that I first published in 2014.

CONTENT WARNING: rape culture; mention of suicide and grief; descriptive accounts of sexual harrassment, gaslighting, mansplaining, physical aggression and violence, bro culture (sexism, homophobia), complex-PTSD, anxiety, passive suicidal ideation, and panic attacks.

Thank you to my patrons for your Patreon support that’s afforded me the time and resources to make this a real thing.

And thank you: Thembi, Mom, April, Didier, and Alex for holding space for me while all this stuff happened, while I processed it, while I wrote about it, and while you read it.

The first time I can remember being sexually harassed was at school when I was 9. A boy in the class--TJ--wouldn’t stop calling me “honey.” Yes, I told him to stop! But he just liked me, be nice. He chased me trying to tickle me, and when he did, I laughed but I didn’t like it. I told a teacher, she told me to stop laughing and stop encouraging him. She gave me a look and ignored me after that., like I should learn a lesson. (Yes. She.) Could I get some support?

Back-up? What did I do wrong here? Could I go back in time and change something? A classmate told me that the boy was telling people that he wanted me to suck his wiener. I had never heard of a blow-job before. I felt embarrassed and exposed and gross. I went to school every day knowing that something would happen.

One day, when I was older, about 20, my uncle was talking about a time when he was being bullied in school and the bully finally left him alone when he gave him a few good punches in the schoolyard. So, he always told his sons they should just do the same if they ever had any problems with bullies. All the silly anti-bullying movements going on these days, it’s just a part of being a kid for god’s sake! I asked what he suggested one do when you’re being sexually harassed by a bully, because that’s what happened to me, and I felt helpless and isn’t hitting wrong? The dinner table was silent. I poured myself a glass of wine and waited until someone broke the silence by suggesting we all play Yahtzee after dinner, wouldn’t that be fun?

Back then, I eventually broke down in tears one day when I got home from school and told my mom, who called it exactly what it was. “That’s sexual harassment!” She was livid. She told my principal and my teachers, who then gave TJ a series of detentions or something. I’m glad my mom took me seriously. She has her stories, too. * Maybe that’s not the earliest. When I was eight years old, in grade 3, a boy named Scott kept hitting me with a ruler. It hurt and I wanted him to stop and I firmly told him so, but he continued. After several times I told my teacher, and she spoke to him out in the hall. She had him apologize to me. “Sorry for hitting you with the ruler,” he said through his teeth, looking at the ground. He went back into the classroom and my teacher explained to me that sometimes, even though it might not seem to make sense right now, boys will hit girls because they like them and they don’t know how to tell them. I think she was trying to help me not feel bad about being hit. Obviously I was very confused. So… This is about his feelings and how he doesn’t know what to do with them? And , let me guess, I should take it as a compliment? * My first job was working as a cashier at a grocery store when I was seventeen. I wore a uniform, with an apron. Eventually I would experience how people could project whatever they like onto you and your uniform, and it was expected that you would go along with their stupid jokes. Assumptions, comments, questions, suggestions came out of nowhere, always catching me off-guard. One man cackled with a dude co-worker of mine at the idea of me being covered in Coca-Cola, how sticky I would be. “Would you like a hand out with your

groceries?” I asked another man. He responded, “You wanna give me a hand, little girl?” My voice would disappear and only reappear when I vented about it later with fellow co-workers or to my family at dinner. “Don’t let it bother you. Don’t let those people rile you up.” “Did you tell your manager?” “Welcome to customer service. All part of the job.” “Welcome to the real world.” Next time, I’ll have this comeback. Next time I’ll refuse service, right there! Even if there’s a line-up of people waiting! Because I know there will be a next time. Wait, now let’s not overreact, no need to be so dramatic. Try to just let it go! * At another job, a few years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I successfully out-weirded the weirdest creepy customer. I feel victorious! Triumphant! Success! I win! I’m comfortable again at my place of work! He apologised to my dude co-worker for not paying attention at the till, because I (“the beautiful lady,” he said) was distracting him, as I went about my tasks, stocking some produce. I blurted loudly, and suddenly, and impulsively, “Right because we’re witches, casting spells, rendering you irresponsible for your own behaviour! Like back when they used to burn us!” This, of course, was followed by an awkward silence. I even felt a little embarrassed that this seemingly came out of nowhere, but I stayed firm, refusing to show any hint of self-doubt or light-heartedness, or giving any further explanation. Let it hang for a sec.

Let him feel awkward for a moment. It’s not like he’d ever done me the courtesy of not making me uncomfortable, asking me sneaky personal questions, saying he assumed I would be married and then acting surprised that I wasn’t, as though that were the ultimate compliment and a go-ahead for further interaction. Anyway, he barely said two words to or in reference to me after that. Somehow I’ve managed to use those awkward silences to assert a barrier, to protect myself, in case I let my guard down. * “So, how’s your first week back at school been?”

Whoa. One of my boyfriend’s friends, Jon, is engaging me in conversation! This is nice!

“Pretty good! I’m really excited about the classes I’m taking this year.”

He leans forward on the table. “Oh yeah, what kind of classes are you taking?”

Wow, I’m starting to feel actually quite welcome, even at ease. This guy seems alright.

“Social Psychology in Sociological Perspective; German History and Culture; Indian Art and Architecture; and Surrealism, which is an art history course; and—“ “Pff, chick courses! Those are all chick courses!” Jon leans back in his chair, shifting in his seat, smirking smugly.

“—and Intro to Women’s Studies,” I finish, with a ‘fuck you’ lodged in my throat.

“Typical chick courses!”

I guess I’ve failed to impress.

“So, what are you studying?” I ask him.

“Zoology,” he says assertively.

“Wow, typical guy course! Typ-ic-al guy course!” I throw my hands in the air dramatically and roll my eyes, attempting to mock him reciprocally.

Somehow it just doesn’t have the same effect. * “Matt, you’re coming out and playing Risk!”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I have to work tomorrow, so…”

“So what! Come on, man. Hey guys, Matt’s in! Matt, you’re in!”

“We’ll see.” Matt’s just not the most spontaneous guy, that’s all.

“Dude! ‘Kay…The only good reason for not coming out is: that.” I see that Richard, sitting directly across from me, is pointing at...me. I stare at him, holding my shoulders back, and my mind races and goes blank at the same time. “Vagoo,” he continues, talking to Matt. “Vagina.”

“I am not ‘that’,” I hear myself publicly declare.

It slowly dawns on Richard that I’ve said something to him and he looks me in the eye for the first time since I met him.

“What?” he says, as though he misheard me. He appears surprised, shocked, amazed even that I am indeed capable of speaking.

“I am not ‘that’,” I repeat, enunciating more.

He’s speechless and confused, completely thrown off. “What do you mean?”

My mind is still racing but it’s still blank at the same time. My heart is beating loudly in my chest and I can feel my legs shaking. I continue to glare back.

“You’re not supposed to objectify her, you fuckin’ faggot!” The other guys laugh and I can’t quite tell whether they’re standing up for me or not. Matt says nothing. I tell myself that it’s because he doesn’t want to speak for me and knows I can defend myself. * I decided to spend New Year’s Eve with a few of my close friends, and my boyfriend went to a party hosted by one of our mutual friends. In an attempt at self-care, I was trying to spend less time around his friends, who had started to get their kicks from riling me up any time I called them out on their casual misogyny, homophobia, and racism. I was getting better at choosing my words and moments more carefully, and had found myself in a few confrontations, particularly with one guy named Doug, who told jokes about women with huge boobs making amazing sandwiches and also tried to convince me that suicide was for wimps who don’t want to deal with their problems. (“That’s bullshit,” I said, taking a sip of my drink. I was the only person at the kitchen table to contradict him. “I guess there are some things one should keep to themselves in mixed company,” he retorted. “I’m leaving now.” And I walked away to have (what I only now realise was) an anxiety attack in another room, repeating “I am not mixed company” over and over to myself in my head.)

After the clock struck midnight and my NYE celebration with my friends came to an end, I decided I wanted to meet Matt at Adam’s party. He was already pretty drunk when I got there, along with the rest of the guests. After mingling with some of my/our friends there, Doug approached me in the great room. He wanted to talk to me about something I’d said recently that was really sticking with him.

A week or so before, he was driving me and my boyfriend and one or two other guy friends of theirs somewhere, and they were talking about Katie. Katie was in their circle of friends and also someone I’d considered one of my best friends since we were in grade 6 together.

They were laughing about a recent night when Doug had been so drunk at Katie’s birthday party, he passed out in her bed and she didn’t kick him out, even though she was the birthday girl, wow, can you believe that.

“That’s because Katie’s a push-over,” Matt said.

“And I’m okay with that!” replied Doug.

A pause. “That. Speaks. Volumes.” I said, still gazing out the window. Nobody responded and after a moment someone changed the topic to the soundtrack of the new Transformers movie.

Doug told me that he’d been thinking about this a lot and had been doing some self-reflection. I had a hard time following everything he was saying because my entire body was stiff and I was beyond disinterested in giving him my attention, but I tried to hide all of this and to appear relaxed and confident. Matt came over and stood between us, putting his arm around me, and I clenched the back of his t-shirt in my hand to communicate the level of my discomfort. He just squeezed my shoulder affectionately. Doug continued and I realized he was talking ‘at’ me, not ‘to’ me. I attempted to contribute to the conversation a bit, to reassert, but he would cut me off every time, or invalidate whatever I said.

“I tell ya, I’ve been through a lot of shit in my life.”

“I’m sorry to hear tha—“ “I don’t want your sympathy.”

“Right, I get what your saying. Because sometimes—“ “Let me finish.” He was at least a foot taller than me, and made himself bigger and broader, speaking downward at me.

I started to feel attacked. And stranded. How was I going to get myself out of this? I looked around the room, trying to make eye contact with someone on the outside. I locked eyes with four different people: Ken, JD, Mike, and Katie. They observed us for a moment, gave me a half-hearted sympathetic smile or a raised eyebrow, and then went back to their own conversations. “I’m trapped,” I tried to tell them with my eyes. Ignored. Abandoned. Invisible.

Unimportant.

Doug talked about how he didn’t want to be an asshole and didn’t want his friends to see him as one. He said that he knew I had a bullshit meter like Judge Joe Brown. I didn’t know who that was but when I tried to verbally accept what I presumed could be a compliment, he said “Don’t interrupt me.”

“Now, I know you don’t like me. We obviously don’t share the same opinions on things.

Maybe you don’t even want to talk to me ever again.”

“Mm-hmm.” I hate him. I’m so angry.

“But maybe you’ll meet me in a year and I’ll be a totally different person, right? Who knows.

Or maybe, maybe you’ll meet me in year and you won’t want me to talk to you ever again—“ “Actually, yeah, that’d be great. That’d be great if you just don’t talk to me ever again.” I was tired of holding back for this guy and it came across in my voice.

Doug’s expression changed from dumbfounded to monstrous rage. I was sure he was going to punch me. He made himself tower over me and shouted, pointing his finger and bearing

his teeth, “FFFUCK YOU!” Matt gently guided me to take a few steps backwards and held his hands in front of Doug’s shoulders.

“FUCK YOU! YOU ARE A BITCH!” The kitchen and living room was completely silent. I crossed my arms and stood still.

“Doug! Doug!” Matt tried to get his attention.

‘I’M FUCKING DONE WITH HER! AND I’M DONE WITH YOU.” Doug walked into the next room. I think need to go home now.

I looked at Katie, Jessica, and Ashton, in conversation at the end of the kitchen table. Ashton, Matt’s best friend, looked really surprised and was smirking, mouthing “what the fuck?” I walked directly to them, and tried to immediately process my shock.

“Are you okay?” Jessica asked.

“That was really awful,” I said. “I have to go home now.”

“No, you don’t have to leave!” said Katie. I don’t? Okay, yeah, maybe I don’t.

“Yeah, don’t worry about it! It’s just Doug,” Ashton shrugged. “Fuck that guy. He’s an idiot.”

I looked toward the front door and saw Doug walk out with his coat on, giving one last glare in my direction.

I stayed for the rest of the party and no one said anything to me about what happened, not even an allusion.

The next night, Matt asked me to recount the entire incident because he couldn’t really remember, since he was quite drunk. My voice and whole body shook as I told him what happened.

“I’m sure Doug didn’t want to actually punch you,” he reassured me.

“Yes. He did.” My voice was suddenly steady.

“Doug would never do that.”

I stop and look Matt directly in the eye and he goes silent and I enunciate every word, without breaking his gaze. “I know when someone wants to hit me. And he wanted to hit me. And the only thing that stopped him from hitting me was the fact that I’m a girl. If I were a guy, he would have punched me.”

Fast-forward three years and Katie and Doug have moved in together. Fast-forward three more and they’re expecting a son. * Matt and I dated for a good while, couple of years. We broke up when I realized I didn’t want to or have to put up with this life anymore.

Soon after our break-up, someone on the periphery of his circle of friends named Robin and I wanted to be together. I loved him so much. But he was hesitant about us dating publicly-Because of what their circle of friends would think of him.

He was very concerned about doing the “honorable thing” without crossing the line, and not letting anyone down, or betraying anyone, or at least causing discomfort or pain to as few people as possible, in the interest of “the greater good.” What would everyone say if he were to date Matt’s ex-girlfriend?

...Right.

I am not “Matt’s ex-girlfriend.”

I am Julianne. I am me.

And I will date whomever I like. You idiot.. * “You’re so great. Before I met [my current girlfriend], I was going to try and kiss you.”

“If I hadn’t met [my current girlfriend], you and I totally would have been married by now.”

Well. Don’t I feel special.

They seem to think this is cute. They seem to think they’re telling me they like me. They seem to think this is gonna make me feel good. But what they really want is my validation and my attention and my energy. For themselves. With no intention of giving me much in return except for this...flirtation? And I ought to be flattered. But it’s just so meaningless.

It echoes things my mom has said that the guys at work have said to her. She rolls her eyes.

She’s been a single mother and one of the only women in her workplace since I can remember. Their fantasies offer her nothing.

“Oh, by the way, I did mean that thing I said the other night when I was drunk, about wanting to kiss you before I met my girlfriend. I don’t want you to think that I was just saying that because I was drinking. I really meant it.” * A customer ordered a coffee from me. This was at a grassroots co-op, definitely one of my favourite jobs. This customer was a regular. He usually made conversation solely with my male co-workers, often about religion in some aspect or another, recommending books and talks, asking one of them about his multi-faith tattoo, interpreting it as a direct invitation for inquiry. My co-workers said he made them feel quite awkward, but would usually just nod along until he left or avoided him otherwise.

He said he’d never seen me before and asked me if I was new. No, I’ve been working here for over one year, I said. He asked my name and I replied with a polite smile and started to pour the espresso. He said that I should be careful about telling men my name because men usually prefer blondes. “Riiiight!…” my voice trailed off and I stared at this person, bewildered, shook my head, put his coffee in front of him, and immediately took my break.

I am not a hair colour. You cannot reduce me to a hair colour. Women are not a separate

species and I/we certainly do not need your unfounded and unfuckingsolicited advice about keeping ourselves safe from men not unlike yourself. Especially if you’re going to perpetuate some kind of appearance rivalry between us, between our fucking hair colours. I am not competing for your holy attention. And I refuse to be afraid to introduce myself because I am here whether you happen to notice or acknowledge it or not. * My mom told me that when I was little, my dad would always tell me I was a beautiful girl when he told me he loved me. My mom tried to balance it out by telling me I was a smart girl when she told me she loved me. * A customer watched me carry the heavy sandwich board inside the store, and she said, gesturing to my male co-worker, busy and out of sight in the kitchen, “That should be HIS job.”

“Sorry?” I said.

“Well, that’s heavy. HE should do that for you.”

In response I half-heartedly flexed my arm muscles at her and said, “I can do it. They hired me for a reason.”

THEY HIRED ME AND I’M DOING THE JOB, “DESPITE” NOT BEING A BIG STRONG MAN OR EVEN A STRAPPING YOUNG LAD. GET OUT OF MY STORE. By the way, this was a business founded and owned by a woman, and the majority of the employees were women. Guess who created this job. Guess who created the list of tasks. Do you really think that they would put a task on the list that they weren’t fully capable of doing themselves? Sometimes I want to just die. * Lady co-worker: “People actually think that the guys run the cafe, [raises one hand, palm down, indicating level 1] and the girls are just here to help out sometimes [raises the other hand below the first one, indicating level 2].”

Boss: “Well, I’ll tell ya, the girls were a lot easier to train! The guys had us a little worried when they were first starting out. [Shaking head, rolling eyes] But you guys were ready to work in, like, no time!”

Me: “Well, girls have been having to prove they’re as competent and adequate in every aspect as the guys their entire lives, so…surprise.”

(This was met with a mixture of pensive and blank looks and half-hearted nods. Surprise.)

* FAQs: “Hey so you identify as a feminist, right?”

“Yes.” “So what are your thoughts on men holding open doors for women? Does it offend you when men do that?”

Sigh. “No. But I find it ridiculous that they differentiate holding a door open for a woman specifically, rather than for just any person in particular, out of general politeness. Some men seem to think that this is what makes them a good man, holding doors open for women.

‘Ladies first.’ Or, I love it when they say ‘It’s how I was raised. I can’t help it.’”

“Yeah, I mean, I just hold the door open for everyone. It’s just polite.”

“Right. What really gets me though is when I hold a door open for a man, and he gets totally uncomfortable and has no fucking clue about what he’s supposed to do now and acts as though I’m somehow criticising him or mocking him or calling him out on being rude for not doing the “chivalrous” thing. Actually, I went on a first date with someone once, which started off just like that and then I ended up ranting about how I wish chivalry were dead before we even got into the restaurant and then throughout dinner he tried to convince me that sexual harassment was actually flattering.”

“Wait, so--what did you do when you held the door open, how did you do it?” “…Um. I opened the door like this. Smiled and said, ‘After you. [Gesturing toward the doorway]’” “...Oh. What about when a man pays, how do you feel about that?”

Sigh. I’m tired. I’m so tired. * Living abroad, and now without a job, it seems. No steady income at all.

Because I made it clear to my boss that I was not interested in dating him or sleeping with him or entertaining his innuendos, or whatever else he had in mind. The only way I’m “powerless” in this situation though--luckily--is legally, because this was under the table. Fuck you, asshole.

This happened. This happened to me in 2013 like it was another regular everyday shrug-it-off bothersome interaction. More sexism, misogyny, and objectification from an ego-nursing, power-tripping, woman-hating man.

Yet, I feel lucky that I am in the position that I am, that I could and can handle this, that I don’t need this job, that I have other options. That I don’t have children. That I have the support of friends I can rely on, here and abroad. That I have the passport that I do. But it’s still infuriating.

“I’m not on display. I’m here to work.”

It’s infuriating, but, in a way, I almost feel powerful because I’m standing tall. Even though this is just another drop in the ocean, having been a recipient of sexist remarks and behaviour for years. Since I started working? Since I started school? Since I was born? Really, it’s just another anecdote to add to the pile. More “proof ” in case someone doesn’t believe me.

* “What’s your name?”

“Julianne.”

“Oh that’s a nice name.”

“Thank you.”

“You been working here long?”

“A few months now, yeah.”

“You like it?”

“Yeah, I really do. My co-workers are great. Customers are great. I live right around the corner.”

“Yeah, it’s a nice place, I’ve been coming here for years.”

“Here’s your coffee for ya.”

“Wonderful. Thanks, babe.” * A customer walks in and scans the cafe.

“All the guys have the day off today?” “[blank stare]...This is just *my* day on.” “[laughs, cause I’m hilarious apparently] You can do the work of two of them, eh?” “...[pours coffee] $2.25, please.”

YEAH, FOR IT TO MAKE SENSE TO SEE ME HERE WORKING, I HAVE TO BE ABLE TO DO TWICE THE WORK TWICE AS WELL AS ONE MAN IN THE SAME POSITION. THAT IS WHAT YOU JUST SAID TO ME. YES IT IS. (The rest of the day today was fabulous and lovely. But I get one of these interactions about once a day lately.) * “Hi there, what can I get for you?”

“How’s your day going?”

“Oh, great. It’s been a really nice day. And yours?”

“Pretty well, thank you. Could I have an Americano for here?”

“Sure.”

“So are you the new Taylor?”

“Mm nope!…”

“But the guy who was here before you, Taylor was his name, right?”

“Yep, Taylor left about six or seven months ago…I’m Julianne.”

I serve him his coffee and he tells me a funny story about when Taylor used to work there.

We end the interaction and I carry on with the next customers in line. The guy lingers by the end of the bar.

“So what did you do before here?”

My gut tells me to give him little information. On the other hand, sometimes it’s nice to have someone ask you what your deal is. “I was living in Scotland. And before that I was working in Winnipeg, that’s where I’m from, but that’s another story.”

“I wouldn’t mind hearing it.”

So I tell him the quick story of moving away from my hometown, living in Belgium for a few months, living in Scotland for a few months, and then running out of money and time on my tourist visas, and moving to Toronto, and he listens. My gut also tells me to not be too short with him. I’m trying to figure out how to come across here, how to carry myself. He doesn’t smile much. He seems to have gotten along with my ex-co-worker though. My mind can’t decide if he’s friendly or a potential threat.

He starts to tell me about himself. He’s a teacher that doesn’t want to be a teacher anymore.

He can’t take the grade sevens screaming every day. He’s a French teacher and, well, nobody likes French class. He speaks French really well; you’d probably guess he’s from France, since that’s where he learned to speak it. He’s also in a pipe band, he plays the bagpipes.

“Cool.” I don’t have much to say. I’ve decided to listen to my gut, and I go to serve some other customers. As I wash dishes, he continues to linger nearby, drinking his coffee.

“What are you doing after your shift?”

“Uhhhh…” My brain freezes. Damnit. No. The answer is no.

“And don’t say ‘crashing.’” Or, how about, don’t tell me what to say.

“Well, I’ll probably be going to bed when I’m done because I’m tired and I don’t get off until 11:30.” “…Have you ever been to the Only Café?”

“Yeah, I have. It’s a nice place.” “…They have $5 pints on Sundays.” “…Cool.” I go to serve another customer. By the time I’m finished, I’m relieved that the guy is gone, but there’s a small piece of paper folded up on the counter.

‘Good to meet you J,’ the note reads. ‘Liam 416-888-1234, The Only Café, Great drinks, always good conversation and good company.’

I’m annoyed. This is my place of work. Do not corner me.

I show my friend and co-worker Alex. Alex shakes his head and rolls his eyes and says he knew it, as soon as the guy asked me how my day was, he was a creep. He picks up a pen and spells out my full name on the note. I exhale and laugh and throw it out. Alex wasn’t perfect, but he was a good man and in that moment I felt safe again. * Facebook status update: “9:45am: Called a feminazi ‘in jest’ by a customer. In response to my explanation about why the phrase “That’s okay, you’re cute” makes me super uncomfortable, he said “It’s too early for this.”” [11 likes] Facebook comments:

- Yikes!

- Grrr - Ugh - Then maybe it’s too early for him to be opening his fucking mouth, holy geez. [7 likes] - Oh noooooo - Early as in early 20th century? [2 likes] - does he only have set hours when he is accountable? I guess from a positive angle he was giving you feedback about the timing of feedback to him, but more likely it is from his place of privilege that he can make that statement. [2 likes] - Using the words Nazi is just never kosher, I practice in a neighbourhood that saw mass transports by the Nazis to Auschwitz…I jest about a lot of things, but not this. This man is clearly devoid of manners!

- You rock your you-ness and let the rest fall away. That’s all.

- Why you gotta friendzone like that, womannnnn? [2 likes] - Yeah, but was he hot? [1 like] - Also: wooooowwwwwww.

- It would have been more ladylike of you to ask him when would be a more convenient time and then reschedule according to his preference. It’s the least you could have done before being offended. Silly ladies, always just thinking of themselves and never considering how them being offended makes others feel. [4 likes] - [My own comment:] You guys!- I mentioned it to my manager and my manager fuckin LISTENED (whaaat!) –and he had my back the next time this guy came in looking to push my buttons for his own amusement. “You harassing my staff ?” IT WAS AMAZING. [9 likes] - Yesssss for supportive managers. That’s great. :) - Good to hear.

(I stayed at that job for three years.) * Standing in line on my own for a nightclub in Ghent, waiting to meet friends inside. Two men are standing behind me, speaking German, a language I studied and have a good handle on. I gather that they are cousins, and one is visiting the other from Germany, the other a resident of Ghent. I hear them leering at women passing by and complaining about how slow the line is moving. I text my friend inside to tell him that it might be a little while, but I’m here. I’d call, but then I’d be speaking English for everyone to hear and I’ll be assumed a tourist, or an American, or someone will give me unsolicited assistance or ask me further questions about myself or take the opportunity to say things about me in a language I might not understand. I mean, I don’t want to live life closed off by paranoia and fear, but this is how I travel “smart” as a solo young woman.

Word on the street at home in Canada is that wearing a Canadian flag patch or pin is a brilliant travel tip, because people out there in the world love Canadians and they will be more likely to lend you a hand. You won’t see any maple leafs on me, exposed for the world to see.

But remember, the ability to blend in with the crowd and appear “local” according to most of the locals in Belgium, Germany, the UK, etc. is only possible if you’re a white person.

“Work has been so stressful. So much bullshit. Anyway, I’m done talking about work, I don’t want to think about it anymore. I just want to have fun tonight, relax. Dance. Drink. And. Fuck.”

My stomach flips as he says the last word, because he leaned in and said it into my ear. I realize now that he’s assumed I can’t understand German, and that he saw me texting my friend in English. I decide not to move or react, and to just ignore him. I wished I could become invisible or disappear into the cobblestone, now that I know I’ve been noticed by someone dangerous. Goddammit.

How much of my legs are showing under this coat? Should I have skipped the red lipstick?

Is it too late to rub it off ? Serves me right, I knew it. The heels? What was my posture saying?

Did I put on perfume? Wait--You’ve done nothing wrong, I tell myself. Just breathe, you’re fine, stay calm. I start watching the people in front of me, gauging whether or not they seem like a safe group, whether they’d absorb me into their group and understand if I had to ask for help. Maybe I should let my friend inside know. Well, wait, what good would that do?

Especially if the guy behind me were to read it. That could do me more harm than good. My friend speaks Dutch, but I don’t know enough Dutch to get the point across. And—okay, wait, let’s just chill out. I got this, I tell myself. But I still kind of wish I had worn flat shoes now.

“Are they, uh, letting people inside?” the man asks me in accented English.

Called it. Try to be nice, don’t give away that you’re repulsed.

“I think so, yeah. Only a couple people at a time.” I nod.

“It’s so cold!”

I nod and face forward again.

“Where are you from?”

“Canada.”

“Canada! It’s cold like this in Canada too.”

“Yes. Colder where I’m from.”

“Yes, all the snow. I have some relatives in Canada somewhere, but I don’t know them really.

We are from Germany.”

I nod. I think of asking which city they’re from, but I stop myself because I don’t care and I want the conversation to end sooner than later, but I don’t turn away too quickly in case it comes off as rude or hostile. If they decide I’m a bitch, I could be finished.

“You are travelling here?”

I don’t know what I should say. Truth isn’t always the best. The least amount of and most vague information seems to be the best right now. Yes, I’m travelling and am therefore perfectly vulnerable because I don’t have many local connections here and could get lost and need directions and to be treated to a beer to celebrate and you can project your idea of an easy backpacker looking to get laid by an exotic foreigner, but maybe that’d be a less

interesting story to tell. Saying ‘no, I just moved here’ could lead to unending curiosity and interrogation. ‘So what do you do? Where do you live? Why did you move here?’ and so on.

Either way. I just pick one.

“I live here.”

“So you speak Dutch? French?”

“No but I speak German, so that makes it easier to learn Dutch.”

“Ah…Canada…” He’s thinking of something to say about it, and I hate the look on his face as he puffs on his cigarette. “Am Arsch der Welt, Canada…”

“Mm. Thanks.” My tone is sarcastic and I allow myself to sound a bit offended. I would translate “Am Arsch der Welt” to something like “Way the fuck in the middle of nowhere.” It’s not exactly offensive, but for me, it’s not nowhere, it’s where I’m from.

“No no no! It means just—“ “No, I know what it means. I speak German, I understand.” I choose not to speak in German, in case he switches to German and I don’t catch everything he says, which would reveal my language level. Less information.

“It means, like, very far from everything, and no one knows anything about it.” He shakes his head and rolls his eyes to express the hyperbole. “Like Australia!”

“Right.” I nod and turn forward. I’m so done entertaining this guy. But I’m hyper-aware now as I wish for the line to move faster. How much longer until I can just disappear to go have fun dancing with friends, far away from these guys? The line bumps ahead and people start to squish closer towards the door and smoke from the guy’s cigarette floats around my face. I’m stiff and I hope neither of them squish against me.

I suddenly feel something deliberately but lightly press against my shoulder, but I don’t move, I choose to ignore it. It was his cigarette. He just burned his cigarette into my leather jacket.

No, maybe I imagined it. I slowly turn to look backwards, and as I do the German guy quickly looks towards the back of the line as though he’s searching for a familiar face. I didn’t imagine it. I turn forward again, wait a minute, and then casually brush my hand over my shoulder to see if I can feel a hole. He hasn’t left his mark on me. * I go to an electronic music festival with my friends a couple summers ago in Belgium. We dance in the sun on the beach to a whole bunch of different DJs, and I ‘m even pulled up on stage to dance with Hercules and Love Affair, my all-time favourite nu-disco heroes. “My essence is my offence,” they sing. As it grows dark, the beach lights up with party lights and we join the crowd in front of one of the larger stages. I love being surrounded by people moving together to the same beat. I look up at the stars as I sway, taking in where I was in the world in that moment, feeling small and full and bright.

The crowd shifts around a bit, and a large very drunk man starts to move towards my friends and me. He stands beside me, moaning loudly to the music, and grabs my hand and waves it around in an attempt to make me dance bigger than I am. I pull my hand free, and shake my head. I prefer to dance freestyle on my own, and hate being jerked around like that.

He stops and I see him sneer at me out of the corner of my eye. “Pfui-pfui-pfui-pfui-pfui!” he says, leaning his face close to mine. I’ve heard this word used as something that you say

to scold children when they’ve done something rude and icky, like eat something off the ground or pick their noses. It’s also basically just an exclamation of contempt. I ignore this guy’s antics, roll my eyes a bit, and try to direct my attention to the main stage, while still remaining in fight-or-flight mode. That’s when he punches the outside of his fist into my hip.

“DON’T! TOUCH! ME!” I shout, turning toward him suddenly, standing on my toes to make myself as tall as possible, and I point my finger into his face, causing him to cower and back up. He raises his palms in a ‘hands-off ’ gesture and his eyes widen, looking at me like I’m a crazy-bitch. People around us turn to look and I continue to glare at him until he backs away. His friends stare after me, copying his wide-eyed sneer expression.

I tell my friends what just happened. “What the fuck! Are you okay?” Yes, it hurt, but I’m fine. I feel proud of myself for shifting into fight-mode so effectively, but I’m also shaken from being struck. We start to find our rhythm again when I notice the same man circling closer to our group and seems like he’s making his way to me again.

“Stay away from me!” I project my voice again, pointing at him. My friends all look at him and he stops in his tracks, giving me that wide-eyed-what-a-crazy-bitch look again, and turns away. A moment later I see he’s found a different woman to swing around. For the rest of the evening, I can dance only so freely, ready to shift into fight-mode again at any second. * Sitting near the front of the coffee shop is that guy who tried to chat me up at my place of work and left a note with his name and number on it (addressed to only my initial, rather than my full name). His back is towards me. When I first noticed him, I instantly wished I had a hood or strange pair of glasses to throw on, to seem less recognizable. I want to go up to the front for another cup of tea, but I don’t want him to notice me and ask me how I am. I choose not to move. Wait, is that him? Worth the risk?... No it’s not. Not worth the risk, that is. Then again, maybe it’s be harder for him to recognize me since I’m not standing behind a counter. Maybe that makes me less approachable, less corner-able. In this case I could only hope, and it would also explain why that shit seems to happen at work so much, and not as often when I’m just walking around minding my own business. Oh wait, that’s not true at all. * I’m walking along the sidewalk one sunny day, listening to my music, after a productive and pleasant afternoon when suddenly a car slows beside me, its right window rolled down and the driver is leaning over the passenger seat, still driving, while barking and snarling and panting at the girl walking in front of me, who looks about thirteen years old.

We both look at him and look at each other. I roll my eyes, and she looks very confused and horrified.

The car comes to a stoplight, the driver carries on barking like a dog and laughing, howling, and the pedestrian light says not to walk. So we stand there and try to ignore him. I

find myself walk to the side closer to the street, between the girl and the car. I want to protect her and tell her something so she doesn’t feel small and gross, but I don’t know what.

“Some people are just…special,” I say, shaking my head. It’s not exactly helpful or substantive wisdom or anything like that, but, while it’s better to ignore the barking idiot, you can’t pretend what’s happening isn’t happening.

The girl half-smiles, fists clenched around her backpack, and I wonder if I’ve been helpful at all. The light finally turns green and the car drives off, the driver still panting with his tongue hanging out, letting out another howl. The two of us continue on our ways, trying to forget the interruption. * When I was working at an office on the military base, I reported a co-worker for harassing me, for asking me invasive questions about my family even after I gave her clear indications that I did not want to discuss my personal life with her. It was making me feel really anxious at work whenever she was around. When I went to an administrator to inquire about whom I should talk to about reporting harassment, without giving her details about my specific situation, the administrator assumed I was being sexually harassed by one of the male military members. She appeared surprised, and even relieved when I said that wasn’t the case.

“Oh! Okay, that’s good then. In that case…”

“I know, right! Yay…” * I made a zine called “Obj.” It’s a comic of a little cube and a different speech-bubble on each page. “Can I just say…”, “”Um…hello?!” says the cube. “I am not on display!” “You’re right, I should really stop drawing attention to myself,” it says on another page. Three of the pages show a different dude cartoon character on each one, interrupting the little box, shouting in big loud bold words, “IRRELEVANT!”, “SHUSH! I HAVE A PENIS. YOU ARE LACKING ONE. SHUSH.”, and “FUCK YOU! YOU ARE A BITCH!” (Sound familiar?) On the back cover sits the cube and the speech bubble reads, “Well, that was rather dehumanizing.”

I have given out many copies of this to friends and people I’ve met around the world over the past few years.

One guy read it and asked me what inspired me to make this.

I stared and searched for an answer to what I thought was a rather redundant question in the first place. “Erm…just, like…life.”

“Wow. Emo,” he laughed. * I get a new job working evenings at a cafe as one of the staff members leaves.

“Are you the new Taylor?” the regular evening customers repeatedly ask.

Six months later, a different staff member leaves, and I take over his usual morning shifts.

“Are you the new Gary?”

“No. I’m Julianne,” I assert. Over and over. * Dude says to you “You know, I wish I could do this every day. Hand my dirty dishes to a pretty girl who washes them for me HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!” Your boss chuckles along, standing on the other side of you. You are surrounded, and your hands are still in the dishwater.

“Awh I’m just kidding. I do have a dishwasher at home.”

You say...? a) Ryan, do you even know my name? b) Yeah man, I LOVE being objectified, ESPECIALLY at my place of work. Thanks for reducing me to a household item. c) That’s not even the first time someone’s said that to me in my lifetime, before I even worked here. d) Is that your idea of hitting on me? e) Am I supposed to take that as a compliment then? f) Ryan, do you know what misogyny is? g) Eat shit. h) Getthefuckawaynow. i) You think you’re such a fucking hot-shot, don’t you? j) WASHYOUROWNFUCKINGDISHESYOUFUCKINGMANFUCK k) Make a *grossgrossgross* face, shake your head, and say “I don’t think that’s funny.

Nope. I really don’t think that’s funny.” Continue shaking your head, avoid any further eye contact, dry your hands, and walk away to find something to restock until he disappears, and then ask to go on break (because your entire body is shaking, your heart is pounding, and you need to catch your breath).

And then you can spend the rest of your shift wondering if you should go over there and say something to that misogynist fuck, while also waiting for this to happen again each time you take a man’s coffee order. ‘Annnny second now, one of you is gonna make me feel shaky and awful...Oh! nope, that transaction went well actually. That went alright too.

Hell, that was even pleasant! Oh wow, another brief yet respectful interaction...Maybe this time...Nope....Okay, starting to feel kinda normal again...at least for now...’

The next time Ryan came in and ordered his usual, Alex was there hanging out. I prepared the breakfast and was about to bring it to his table but I froze and just stood there, unsure if I ought to toughen up and not let it shake me, or if my hesitatation was indeed

warranted. Alex looked at me inquisitively and I quickly explained to him what had happened previously in one breath and that now, uh, I can’t seem to move, haha. With eyebrows raised and lips pressed together and a tone of heart-felt sarcasm in his voice, Alex nodded and said, Oh, here let me take that!, and took the plate and cutlery out of my hands and a vivid wave of relief and peace instantly washed over me and I could have cried with gratitude. * My friend and co-worker Matt and I were talking about dating. He talked about how he couldn’t keep up with how often girls he dated expected to hear from him. They would say, “Hey, it’s been a week and I haven’t heard anything from you, what’s going on?” And he would be like, “It’s been a week?” He experienced time differently and it often caused tension between him and others. I responded by telling him a bit about a time when I was dating someone I was really into, but some time had passed since I’d heard back from him and meanwhile, my brain-“Your girl brain?” Matt interjected, smiling.

“You mean my brain?” I said and paused while his face fell and he nodded guiltily and said, “Right. Yeah.” He knew better, didn’t he? He alwasys spoke so highly of the women in his life, his mother, his grandmother, his friends.

“--And my brain just went running off with questions about what I could have done wrong.”

I gave Matt the first edition of this zine to read.

“Are you giving this to me because you think I’m a misogynist?” he said.

He never mentioned it again until about a year later.. For some reason, I was surprised and had assumed he hadn’t actually read it.

“And?” “I was terrified that I’d be in it.”

“Why?” “Because I’m an idiot!”

Yes, darlin, and look, now you’re in it. * My next zine is gonna be called “How to pick me up at a dance party” or ”How to dance with me” (undecided/working titles) and it’ll be two pages long.

Page 1: DO NOT FUCKING PICK ME UP, as in, DO NOT LIFT ME OFF THE GROUND WITHOUT MY CONSENT. DO NOT LEAVE ME WITH NO WAY OF CHOOSING WHERE I WANT TO GO NEXT, NOT FOR ONE SECOND. ALLOW ME TO HAVE AUTONOMY OVER MY OWN FUCKING BODY, CONSIDER ENJOYING/CELEBRATING THAT WITH ME HERE ON THE DANCE FLOOR

PLEASE OH FUCKING PLEASE. Page 2: LET ME DANCE HOW I WANNA DANCE. (If unclear, see Page 1) (If still unclear, don’t be surprised if I tell you to kindly fuck off.)

And then I will sell it and finally cash in on all the emotional labour I’ve expended on wellmeaning gents and their sense of entitlement to my body/dance floor space. Ka-ching.

By the way, the last time a dude picked me up while we were dancing, I told him that he needed to give me a heads up if he’s going to do that, and he jovially replied, “Naw, I don’t!” and I sharply said back, “Yes, you do.” He was a bit taken aback and apologised and I wondered if he might be kinda cool and I shouldn’t write him off and should brush away my usually hardset misgivings and tell myself that maybe it was just that one time and it won’t ever happen again now that I made myself clear about my boundaries.

We grabbed a late-night snack after the bar closed and had the weirdest series of stunted conversations, interspersed with him answering calls and texts from a friend of his who he claimed to be worried about responding to because there’s a good chance that she liked him but the feelings weren’t mutual, however, it sounded like she could be in trouble, so it’s complicated. (He didn’t go into any further detail.) I asked him questions about himself, but he deflected every one. I grew bored and annoyed quickly. His name was Steve and he told me to look him up on Facebook because he wanted to get to know me. He kissed my cheek while I cringed and we parted ways and the next day I told one of my co-workers about this weird fucking date because she did theatre and he did improv and maybe they knew each other. Turns out they had a friend in common. A few weeks later she sent me a message saying that she’d caught wind of him being accused of sexual assault and having issues with consent on multiple accounts.

I feel disgusted but simultaneously more validated than I’ve felt in a very, very long time and it’s a little exhilarating and I want to dance and shout “I TOLD YOU SOOOO” to everyone who’s said “Really?” when I’ve told them I don’t like when dudes pick me up off the ground.

Also, I hadn’t been on a date, let alone a fun one, for about a year or so until then. * In 2015, Alex killed himself. It was bad. My heart broke. I’ve never felt sadness like that before. I’ve never felt anger and utter powerlessness like that before. I’ve never felt pain like that before. I don’t think it really ever goes away.

A month after, we had a kind of wake at the cafe we worked at. We were all there, his friends, his community, and the part of his family that lived in the city. I dressed up as fabulously as I could. It made me feel like I had some form of power over something, even if it was just how

I put on eyeliner.

I met his aunt and uncle. To me they seemed cold and extremely suppressed. They brought a slideshow of pictures and I brought a large foamcore board to project them onto, as I’d been asked to. I stood on a bench to nail it to the wall and his uncle stood near and told me whether it was straight or not. I hammered the nail and said something like, “There! I’m glad I got this job.” And his uncle said something like, “I’m glad you did, too!” But it was in a way that...made me feel weird. As though he’d just blurted it out and it wasn’t something for me to actually hear or respond to. I glared at him and beelined to the other end of the room and was careful to just avoid him as best I could. I wanted to just be around my friends without further impending distress.

Later on in the evening, I was talking to a small circle of folks and I must have been telling the story of how I got hired there a couple years prior. Without warning, the uncle appeared beside me and caught the last bit of whatever I’d said and he “jokingly” interjected with something that implied that I had performed sexual favours for my manager. I stared at him and shook my head and just said, “No.” “No?” “No. Yeah, that’s not what we’re talking about at all.”

I was short and firm and gave him a look of disgust that said I could destroy him but I’m going to walk away instead because he just shifted and his laugh faded fast and seemed disappointed that his “joke” fell so flat. I think I said something else to him, but I can’t remember.

I tried to get out of the moment. I didn’t want to be there. I dissociated. There was a heavy black stab wound oozing and expanding in my chest and my jaw clenched and I was just surrounded by far-away faces and grief and I could feel Alex just shaking or nodding his head in the exact way that I needed to see someone do but there was no one to offer the return to peace the way he had many times before.

The days following, when other attendees recalled the evening, they would talk to me about what a great toast his uncle gave and how glad they were to get to chat with him. * I had a dream that airport staff guys made creepy comments towards me and wrote ‘Cute!’ in my passport, so I took it to their authority (a woman who looked like Margaret Thatcher) and said I was going to press charges unless they gave me free printing services for life so I could make more zines about this shit. * That feeling when: you’ve already told the two drunk boys on the subway twice that they need to stay away from you but they still feel like they need to explain that their intent wasn’t to make you feel threatened or anything, and yeah, you believe them, but you don’t fucking care, so you hand them your trusty Princess Leia scowl which you’ve got down so pat by now

that they instantly cower and disappear without another word. *poof* (Eight-year-old me took very good notes.) #yesimawitch #usetheForce * Second time in the last week that some dude (here we go again) has interpreted me writing in my journal at a cafe as a fucking invitation to alarm me and interrupt what I’m doing to spark up a conversation.

Occasion 1: - *appears out of nowhere to my right* How’s the writing going?

- *spooked deer in headlights* Good.

- What are you writing?” *PEERS AT THE PAGE* - I’m journaling.

- Oh cool...Nice day today, hey?

- Yep. I continue writing, put no effort into engaging this stranger any further, cause I’m clearly in the middle of something here. I put on my blinders and focus on continuing writing and I think he slinks away eventually.

A good 20 minutes later, on his way out, he appears out of nowhere again, this time to my left and says, “Would you like to get a coffee sometime?”

I give him the deer in headlights again, and then shake my head, hoping this clearly indicates “Absolutely not, that is enough.” And he says “Alright, bye” and peacefully leaves with no argument and I’m like *phewf* but also feel completely dragged out of my zone and my anxiety levels are now higher than where they were before I initially put pen to paper and I’m totally distracted by whether or not I handled that okay, or if I was rude, or if I could have been nicer, and then reminding myself again and again that I owe this person nothing, etc. Awesome.

Way to decompress at the end of the day.

Occasion 2: Dude pulls up in his car, in road-rage mode, calls out to a pedestrian, “Fucking dick. I know how to drive! What an asshole!” Dude gets out and goes inside the cafe, passes me on the front patio. This time I’m drawing on one side of the book, while the opposite page is filled with, you know, all my fucking feelings in word-form for my eyes only. I’m starting to think my drawing is about finished and I’m rather pleased with it and might share it with the world at some point and maybe I’ll head home soon. But then I feel someone hovering over my left shoulder and I look up at the road-rage dude through my sunglasses, and he says: - Hm! Learning to draw?

[WOW. OKAY. Let’s just pause for a minute right there, shall we?......]

- ...I’m just drawing.

I don’t hastily cover the notebook or anything, I’m just sort of frozen and trying to focus on being polite and calm, while also recovering from my sudden disorientation and feeling rather exposed against my will at the moment.

- Oh I didn’t mean to offend.

- I’m just clarifying.

- That’s cool though. It kinda looks like you.

I glance around, trying to remember if I said anything that indicated that this was totally the time for unsolicited feedback on my private drawing in my private journal. Private, as in not public. Private, as in I am not willfully sharing this with you right now. What is happening?

Why won’t it stop?

- Hm, yeah, huh, it’s interesting. Yeah, it’s kinda like a face, but it’s not a face, and it’s sort of landscape-like...

- Mmhm. Okay.

Dude starts fishing in his pockets and I hear his keys and it crosses my mind that he might be looking for change and might try to buy the drawing/PRIVATE JOURNAL ENTRY from me and I don’t want to wait to find out. I’m done here. I put the cap on my pen and pick up my purse and close my notebook.

- O-kay...?

Dude seems confused by my standoffish-ness, pulls out his car keys and gets into his car and leaves. I pack up my shit and leave, with this feeling that someone just helped themselves to my space and intimate details of my present emotional circumstances, again, without my consent.

SURE PAL, COME ON IN. COME RIGHT ON IN. FUCKIN HELP YOURSELF. Next time I’m just gonna straight up start hissing. Like a furious cat. * That feeling when buddy won’t stop talking to you about nothing on the dancefloor (“heyyyyyyyyy look at you dancinnn/you having fun?”) while you’re just trying to dance and enjoy yourself and you’re already sooooo over saying, “What?” cause you can’t even hear all the nothing he’s saying anyway and you’re kinda busy singing along right now, and you don’t have any damn patience left for those “how to dismiss physical boundaries” tactics cis-het dudes always employ by saying something inaudible and then coming right up to your face and maybe lightly touching your arm or your back or your hip or your ribs(oh how clever you are, so smooth...), rather than just maybe communicating respect/interest through dance, and you’ve met this guy here a few times before and you’ve directly told him before you just come here to dance and he just doesn’t seem to be taking the hint so you just blurt out, in a firm but friendly enough tone, “I hate talking on the dance floor!!” and then buddy immediately turns his back to you and then turns around to threaten you with: “You realise that’s the last time I say hi to you.” and you’re like...K. And you keep dancing and singing and he keeps his word and avoids you and you actually maybe feel a little freer now, strangely enough, and it’s all good!

And then you remember that time when you refused to dance with a dude and he protested by giving you a solid punch in the hip, and you’re glad this particular interaction went so well given such reckless behaviour on your part. Thankfully, your somewhat impulsive reaction was effective and the fragility of his cis-het male ego manifested only in words rather than in

physical violence. (This time.)

And then at the end of the night someone asks you, Did you have a good night? And you respond, Yeah! (And you did! It was awesome!)

But you know they have no idea that what constitutes as a good night for you is one where you make it home without your body being violated by a man. And you hesitate for a moment and then decide to mention the one uncomfortable encounter on the dance floor and you name names--because in this case both you and your friend are acquainted with Michael--he’s SOMEONE YOU KNOW--and your cis-het male friend responds with, “Oh! Well, that’s good that he left you alone after. I mean, I know him to be a really nice guy. He’s definitely not a violent person. I can vouch for him. It sounds like he was probably trying to pick you up.” And you tell him you’re well aware of this, obviously, and you’re not saying he’s not a nice guy, but let me tell you about this tactic guys use to invade your space and it’s just not cool and I hate it, but it’s alright, I handled it, and effectively so apparently, and hey he didn’t punch me so that’s cool cause that can happen. And then you drop it because it looks like if this conversation were to continue it will consist of you justifying yourself and practically pleading to not be accused of being a tad harsh or rude or delusional or judgemental or mean. You drop it, but you have so many questions and so many stories for guys who would totally wear one of those “I believe women” pins. * Shout-out to whoever posted once about a man in Toronto who goes by Zanta who is apparently infamous for harrassing women on the subway, cause guess who I got to meet and then promptly disengage from and effectively avoid a potentially harmful situation tonight.

He sat directly across from me (the only woman in that sparsely populated train at 1am), looked directly at me, said “How are you today?” I shrugged. Then he introduced himself and I said, ‘I don’t feel like talking’ (bold move) and walked to where there where more people sitting a little nearer each other (all men) and he shouted at me for a while about googling his name and I shut out the rest while I sought my headphones, wondering if anyone around me would help me out somehow if things were to escalate from there (and then also expect nothing from me thereafter, with any luck), and also promised myself that I’d press the emergency alarm if I became tempted to. I went to get off at the next stop, but then he shouted that he was getting off here, so I waited and then discreetly stayed out of his line of vision till the doors closed. A man gave me a sympathetic nod as I sat back down and curled up my knees, and fuck yeah I didn’t miss my 1:30am bus connection as a result.

Anyway, shout out to that Facebook thread, wherever I saw it. I really hope you all have a safe and peaceful ride home tonight. Also, shout out to anyone who helps someone get home safe (like, with their consent and everything). I’m usually fine, it’s usually even kinda lovely. But once in a while, ya know, intuition + lived experience + learned survival techniques are what get me home in one piece.

* Dude at the bar sneaks up beside me while I’m dancing and touches my lower back and says, “Let me guess: you’re a teacher.”

Me: “Wut.” (This has become my default response to random men interrupting my good times.)

He repeats himself. I shake my head and return to dancing.

“Am I close??”

“No.” His non-consensual grope + my gut and cumulative experience told me that his pick-up artist tips have not prepared him for me to get into my Cancer Midheaven or whether or not I’m actually a “full-time” multimedia artist and writer and all of that. Best to just let the expression(s) on my face take the lead (happens anyway) and carry on with my life. * To the guy who offered me a ride to wherever I was going at 5:45am this morning, while I was standing at the streetcar stop: No, thanks. I’m good. Yep, I’m sure. *polite smile* No, thanks, I’ll get there right on time.

Yep, going to work. Pretty far, yeah. Nah, no, really, I’m fine, thank you. I’m not telling you my name. You have a good day now. Look buddy, it’s 5 fucking 45 in the morning on a Sunday.

I do not feel like going on an adventure--as you put it--with a stranger in their vehicle. I don’t give a shit about how many red and gold bills you just nonchalantly counted in front of me. I’m just waiting here at the streetcar stop, minding my own business, listening to my breath and trying to focus it towards my hips and lower spine because there’s apparently 0 energy movement happening down there these days and seeing as my back totally seized up a couple days ago thanks to a series of other situations that triggered some past trauma, I’m working on changing that and right now you are disturbing me and preventing me from taking care of my shit. So, yeah, I’m sure I don’t want a ride to work from some man I do not know. If you could please fuck off now and let me enjoy my own non-invasive company while waiting for my streetcar in peace, that’d be great. Yeah, you take care. Hope you see one day that you’re worth more than your car and whatever’s in your wallet and whatever attention you can get from some stranger lady minding her own damn business, by the way.

Light’s green, bye now. *EXHALE* * Yesterday at swing dance class, the instructors split up the leads and follows to work on some styling--the follows (my group) learn how to swivel/twist when a lead swings us out, which requires a lot of dramatic hip movement and it’s really fun to do..

Once we’re paired up again to practice what we learned, a lead says to me: “Yeah, guys just don’t look good swiveling, haha.”

And I say: “Um.” And all I can think about is Prince and David Bowie and every set of magnificent hips I’ve ever seen on a dance floor. With enthusiastic conviction, I say: “I disagree! But okay...”

“Oh.” He seems surprised and confused and says nothing further.

By the way, this lead was a cis-dude with long hair and I wished I had really short hair again just for this moment. *crying for humanity and all the stifled joy* * Me: *gets on subway* *accidentally makes eye contact with a dude* Stranger-Man: “Go home. No Lansdowney vaginias allowed.”

Me: *turns right around and skips to the next subway car at the next stop* * When I was fifteen, my mom remarried a guy named Fred. She later told me about a interaction they had while they were grocery shopping.

My mom put a few packs of pads in the cart and said that should be enough for the household.

Fred said, why don’t the girls buy their own?

“Why should they buy their own pads?”

His response: Well, boys buy their own condoms.

(They split up eventually.) * Had a nightmare about a Trump-supporting American (middle-aged white man) at work who was pleading me to sign something for him so that he could vote to send his son to war on behalf of his country. I was about to give in to his sobbing and pleading and just sign this paperwork to get him to go away and he was so thankful, he said, he knew he shouldn’t but he just has to give me a kiss he’s so happy, and he pulled me towards him to kiss the side of my head and I pulled away and said “Don’t! Don’t!” And when his lips touched my cheek, I flew into a rage and stabbed him multiple times in the temple with the ball point pen. He was on the ground. Inky blood everywhere. Fucking amazing. The scene reminded me of Artimisia Gentileschi’s painting “Judith Slaying Holofernes.”

A few moments later I saw the man sitting next to another co-worker (unidentifiable in the dream) and he massaged her thigh and I stormed into the office to report this motherfucker to my manager and HR person. HR person said, But Julianne, you were being open and friendly towards him! And I screamed, Of course I was!! That’s a natural defence mechanism!!! And she asserted, You were being friendly right from the get-go, there’s nothing I can

do. And I shrieked her name and then yelled to my manager that I needed to talk to him, bawling my eyes out. I stormed out of the office and woke up. * So I went to the Cinecycle open screening, which I’ve attended two other times before.

The first time was in Feb 2015 when I showed a cut of my animation, “Vacation (No Fear Whatsoever)”, and the second time in July 2015 when I showed an excerpt of my short film, “The Free Space Interview Project: What Are You Afraid Of ?” The second time I went with a friend and we actually walked out after both deciding we were done with the shit several people had brought to show, particularly one that was called “Lust” or something and was just a bunch of close-up cuts of vintage pin-ups and urban architecture and was pretty much straight up objectification with nothing else to offer. I’d started having violent visions of me getting up and throwing chairs and shattering beer glasses, yet I stayed frozen, which I’ve noticed now is something that happens when I’ve been triggered and I’m having an anxiety attack. My friend, disgusted with the quality of films being shown followed by ample egoinflation from the other audience members, leaned over and said, “I’m done! Do you want to go?” And I was so happy and relieved, I felt like I’d been rescued and whisked away to safety.

Later that night I realised I’d forgotten my wallet back at Cinecycle and luckily the two guys who run the open screenings were still there at 2am and had found it. They asked me what I thought of the screening earlier, and, well, I was pretty damn honest and told them I walked out on the sexist, misogynistic, triggering, dehumanising imagery and then they both were like, “Well, I know the guy who made that film, and I know he’s not sexist, definitely, he’s a really nice guy, and he said afterwards for the Q&A part that he was making a comment on media and the juxtaposition of blah blah blah.” To which I responded with, “Well, I shouldn’t have to know the filmmaker personally to be affected otherwise. Our work should speak for itself, period, should it not? And if you’re trying to ‘make a comment on that shit’, then make a comment on it! Don’t just replicate the crap because then you’re just replicating crap! And all that new crap is just as harmful as the old crap. And if you’re okay with affecting people in harmful ways, then there’s a definite problem and you ought to examine yourself as an artist. In my opinion.”

And they seemed kind of impressed actually. “...W hat was your name again?”

We actually had a pretty nice chat for a good 45 minutes about film and creative process and Toronto before parting ways, and they complimented the film I’d shown earlier and one of them also remembered the Vacation animation I’d shown way before. So I walked away feeling pretty positive and like I’d connected with some interesting folks.

I guess I told you all of that because, well...maybe to help you imagine the mansplainy boys and men’s club it kinda felt like tonight. Who did all that talking? Who showed the majority of the films? Who did allllll the taaaalking? Who had all the advice to give? Whose world

did we live in? Whose Canada did we live in? Who was the audience? How many films of trains and highways can we show in one night? How much longer can we make our explanations of our films than our actual films? Who did all the talking and talking and talking?

With my phone, I made a recording of the “quick q&a” after my in-progress animation “Changes in Daylight” was shown. When you listen to it, you hear a guy say “Wait a minute, you’re new here!” and I respond “I’m not new here...” And that was one of the guys I spent 45 minutes talking to last July. I mean, I know I have a good memory. But sometimes I wonder if...just...ya know...I might be...just a tad disposable? So folks forget. And I carry around this little history with me that they’re forever oblivious to. (And that’s when history becomes herstory, boys and girls and beautiful variations thereupon.)

The first film shown that night was 9 minutes long, loaded with special effects, took place in early 20th century (I think) Paris, starred two white guys with British accents, one of them Lucifer, the other Archangel Michael, included one fart joke, a sex scene (I think that’s what that was?), and in the credits listed the two female characters: one as “hooker” and the other as “prostitute.” (I want to raise my hand and ask, “Like, are you even trying?”) And then buddy spent a good 15-20 minutes afterwards (I was looking at the time) telling us all about his Facebook page for his other two films, everything he went through to shoot each of them, everything he went through to shoot this 9 minute one, told us about his day job, about how busy he was and sorry he couldn’t stay too long, and so on and so on and so on.

By the way, just wanna send a shout-out to the dudes (of all ages, there was an age span of probably 23-65 there) who spend 5-10 minutes explaining their whole film to us prior to their film actually playing (in some cases, I kid you not, a complete play-by-play). While the requested time limit for the film is 10 minutes. “Somebody stop this man!!” I want to shout.

Also noticed anytime it was a woman’s turn to show something- “Do you wanna say anything beforehand?” Their answer: No, I’m good! (Before mine I said, “This is a work in progress.” “Anything else other than it’s a work in progress?” “No. That’s it!”)

So mine screened, and had a nice applause and a couple nice comments afterwards, which was obviously lovely to hear.

“Any questions for Julianne?”

A young man seated behind me asks, “Were you inspired by those tapes of Stanley Kubrick interviews that were recently recovered?”

“Um...no, I didn’t know about that, but it sounds interesting. I’ll check it out.”

Dude then proceeds to explain to me what they were and replaces Kubrick’s name with ‘a legendary filmmaker’, like I needed background info on who Stanley Kubrick was...

Right at the end of the recording, you hear the middle-aged man next to me whisper to me a question about the sound, saying it sounded distorted, said there must be something wrong with the way the audio was processed. And I thanked him for the feedback, said I’ll check it out, I’m working on it. Maybe he didn’t hear me say it was a work in progress. Or forgot.

And then for the rest of the evening he would periodically tap me on the shoulder to lean over and tell me again that he could sense that something was off with my sound and not to take what he said personally and that he knows what he’s doing and then told me that I need to learn about clipping and distortion and exporting and that I should look up YouTube videos, it’s allll there, yap yap, oh yeah. Cool bro, I said I got it.

I do like sharing my work with different audiences and observing various reactions. But when I’m still warding off a headache in my third eye 5 hours after an event like that, after spending so much time in a space like that, I really have to ask myself, is it fucking worth it? * I once was showing my drawing portfolio to someone, which included some nudes from life drawing at uni, and he commented on one, “This is very good. But this, this part”--pointing at the slightest curve on her stomach--”is too much, I think.” “[disbelief]...Well, that’s how her body was. What, was I supposed to edit that out? Is that your actual criticism?”

He stood by it. * So there I am standing at the subway platform, on my way to live my life n whatnot, and I’m feeling kinda stiff in my neck and lower back so I decide to stretch a bit while I wait. I’m reaching my arms up, rolling my shoulders a bit, and then bend forward with my nose to my shins and focus on breathing into my hips and hamstrings, WELL-AWARE that I probably look a bit funny doing so, especially to that man in the windbreaker who I can feel looking at me but you know what, I’m not too bothered right now and this needs to happen before I get to where I’m going and I’ll just send some mind-your-own-business vibes (the Force).

Plus this position I find always helps ease anxiety and that’s a nice thing and I’m starting to feel a bit more centered and clear, and it’s all good.

I hear the train coming so I start to gradually roll up and as I’m doing this I hear some man cheerily say to me, “The train is coming, you better stand up!” And I look at the man in the windbreaker and say, “I know. I can hear it.” And then he says something unintelligible because the train is, ya know, loud, so I furrow my brow and say, “What.” and do very very little to appear at all actually interested whatsoever. And he says something like, “Just wanted to?????cause if you were stretching and???and the train went by???blah blah???Haha” And I just kept my confused/annoyed face on, nodded and said, “Okay. Whatever.” And this motherfucker, who’s probably in his 50s or 60s says, “I admire your flexibility!” And I wince and say, “Thanks.” and plunk my big headphones on and grab my sunglasses and walk a bit to get on via a different door. Body tense again, heart racing, mind raging.

Thanks, I’m actually not doing this for your praise and attention, and I suspect you expected me to blush and smile and shyly flick my hair back and say, “Oh thanks, I try, aha!” But

actually, I’m desperately squeezing in some stretch-time not because my goal is to eventually impress you by putting my legs behind my head, but rather so that I can hopefully move around some of the tension and stagnant energy that I hold in my lower back because guess what--tension in that area is a fucking result of creativity and sexual expression and emotional processes and survival and safety in one’s body being constantly fucking undermined and under threat over the course of a lifetime and your comment on my fucking body just added to the pile and triggered all kinds of memories of similar everyday-traumas that go back as far as when I was a little girl and as recent as early last week and please GO FUCK YOURSELF. *pushes psychological attacker into tracks* Oops.

So maybe we can all agree that, like, it’s not cool or remotely appropriate to talk to complete fucking strangers about their bodies ever? Our bodies aren’t conversation pieces.

And maybe men could stop gaslighting women? Cause the ambiguity of “I admire your flexibility”--Are you coming on to me? Or are you just generally interested in fitness?--it’s terrifying and creepy.

“Oh, well, how is he supposed to know all that?” Maybe you’re totally sheltered from how women’s experiences vary from your own and can’t fathom how on earth your friendliness or even mere presence could possibly be interpreted as threatening, or maybe you just don’t talk to or listen to women? Maybe women’s fear is 100% legitimate and founded upon prior experiences and they’re not simply delusional self-involved man-hating crazy-bitches?

Also...I’m realising that as I reach a new age bracket, I’m now seen less as a daughter or granddaughter by men out there (not that that has stopped them from psychologically assaulting me before) and more as a peer, ie: not jailbait. Which is just super.

When my mom came to visit me last summer, she told me that when she was on her way back from the grocery store one afternoon, some guy rode past her on his bike, looking back at her. He stopped up ahead of her path to leer at her walking past while he leaned against a post and lit a cigarette.

I’m just gonna put my headphones back on and, you know, wonder how people heal trust issues.

Also revisiting that idea I had recently about tattooing “psycho bitch” on my shoulder. Or maybe along my collar-bone. I’m not sure yet. ***

Julianne Ess/Foot-to-Face is a multimedia artist currently working with collage, stop-motion animation, and zines to tell a cyclical apocalyptic story. She approaches her art practice as a way of documenting processes of transformation and is interested in its power to expose and heal our fears around change, the unknown, and our capacity for intimacy. Ess is selftaught and roots her work in a holistic, anti-oppressive ideology. She is currently based in Toronto, and has previously lived and created work in Winnipeg (where she grew up), Freiburg, Brussels, Ghent, and Edinburgh.

Support: patreon.com/julianneess Instagram: @foottoface Animations: vimeo.com/foottoface foottofacebyjulianneess@gmail.com

foottoface.com