#Me I
don’t think I’m the only one who had a strange moment of introspection when I first saw the wave of women making #MeToo posts on Facebook and Twitter this past fall. Do I qualify? Is this me too?
I have never been raped, had never consciously identified as a survivor of sexual assault or sexual harassment. But as I read and talked with other people about this movement, particular memories began to pull at the back of my mind. My first kiss was a tongue-shoving make-out at a fraternity party a week or two after I arrived at Michigan. I was drunker than I had ever been before. He walked me outside, then upstairs, then kept on shoving with his tongue and hands and body. He held me in place, one arm tight across my back, fingers gripping my leg hard. He kept on holding while he told me over and over how pretty I was. He kept on holding until my friends found us. I have felt uncomfortable at work because of the way my boss addressed me. I have felt uncomfortable in lab because of the way the grad students talked about another student’s crush on me. I have endured sharp, persistent pain during sex (I should have asked again for softer, slower — but then again, he should have listened the first time). I have apologized to and mollified someone angry at me for refusing sex that night. I have said nothing, done nothing, built walls out of “should have”s. Endured, stayed quiet, forgiven. Coerced encounters, ambiguous consent, perniciously bad
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