The Lies Women Tell Themselves to Survive.
My sister and I sway back and forth, singing and dancing together, laughing hysterically, inventing new dance steps, and cheering on the band. Our friend Isabella joins us, and we are in our own little world in the middle of the restaurant dance floor crowded with friends. The three of us have known each other for so long, since our early young single women days when we’d go out to drink wine coolers, dance, and delight at our own jokes and antics. Arms wrapped around each other, we’d head off at the end of the night for a sleep-over to talk endlessly and tell our innermost secrets.
Decades have passed, none of us are single anymore, our children are grown, but we still love each other and savor these chances to let it all hang loose again and crack up at our witticisms and stories. Tonight is a blast as we freestyle like we did when we were young, looking into each other’s eyes and smiling from ear to ear. Life is still a kick.
As we join the inevitable conga line, weaving in and out of tables around the room where diners watch us over their prime rib, a hand reaches out from one of the tables and grabs me by the wrist. It’s Adam, my friend Sophia’s husband, which catches me off guard because earlier in the evening he wouldn’t even talk to me.
I had tried to be friendly when I saw him enter the party and attempted to initiate a little small talk.
“Hi, Adam,” I said. “I hear you went to see Las Luchas in Mexico City like I suggested. Did you like it? It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?”
I expected an animated response because I heard that he had liked the crazy and fun entertainment with men in costumes, capes, and masks fighting each other. Who doesn’t like a big show with scantily dressed cheerleaders and the audience screaming and jumping up and down?
I thought he might thank me for the recommendation. I imagined a short exchange since I didn’t really know him, “Oh, yeah, the fights were great! Thanks a lot for the tip! Can you believe the masks?”
Instead he said, “Oh, yeah,” then turned away, spotting someone better to talk to, leaving me standing there awkwardly with my glass of Sauvignon Blanc.
“Well,” I sighed, thinking how nice it is to be older and not care if a man pays attention to you or not.
Now, as I hop by his table in the conga line, there he is grasping my hand, jerking me toward him, and saying, “I’ve been watching you all evening. You have some sexy moves out there.” Then he pulls my fingers into his mouth and sucks.
Yuck! I look at him aghast, yank my hand back, and move on. What the hell was that? Two years after #MeToo and this shit still happens. I’m 66 years old, will this never stop?
I would have loudly called him out except his wife Sophia was sitting next to him and I wanted to spare her a scene. Or did she see the whole thing and wasn’t surprised?
As I reflect on it later in the evening, I get more upset. Who does he think he is? He won’t even talk to me as a friend, then assaults me later in the evening. I was enjoying my time with my family and friends, dancing and having fun, and he ruined my evening. My mouth tightens and my stomach lurches a little as my anger builds.
I’m still pissed off the next morning and, feeling the need to express how violated I feel, I finally mention it to my sister. She’s appropriately disgusted and says I should tell our friend Isabella.
“Sophia is Isabella’s best friend,” she says. “Isabella should know about this.”
I hesitate. “No,” I tell her. “I don’t want a lot of gossip about this, I feel bad enough for Sophia anyway, married to that creep.”
Later that day, we reunite with Isabella for some more girl time. My sister, a self-proclaimed gossip, can’t hold back and blurts out, “Sophia’s husband hit on my sister last night!”
Hit on me? I think. He assaulted me.
Isabella says, “What? What happened? Spill it!”
I sigh, feeling forced now to relay the sequence of events. Her reaction made my jaw drop.
“That couldn’t have happened,” she says.
“But it did…” I begin.
“No, Adam is not like that. He would never do that.”
My sister furrows her forehead and drifts away, not wanting to get in the middle of the disagreement she started.
“Isabella, it’s exactly what happened, and it made me feel terrible, really disrespected. Plus, I felt bad for Sophia. She was sitting right there at the table; I hope she didn’t see what he did. I would die if my husband did something like that.”
“No,” she insists. “Adam and Sophia have a wonderful marriage. Maybe he was a little drunk and you misunderstood.”
What?? I think. This is worse than what Adam did. My life-long friend has taken Adam’s side over mine, normalizing his outrageous behavior. No wonder, even though women are 51% of the population, we can’t take control of the world — the way we excuse men and don’t support each other.
I’m betrayed and incensed, ready to throw in the friendship.
A few days later, still angry at both Isabella and my sister, I rummage through my bookshelves at home to find something to read for distraction. I spy the dark blue spine with the gold lettering of my Master of Science thesis from 1976. Opening the volume, I see Acknowledgements on the first page. My skin gets all prickly and I feel myself wince as I read my tribute to two of my professors.
I wrote about one of them, “Science is a relatively new field for women, so I was fortunate to work with Dr. Chandler who freely gave me the chance to develop myself. His encouragement and interest have helped me to come a long way since the first day I came to him. He has been wonderful to me, and I will always be grateful to him.”
For the other, I had this praise, “Dr. Rawlins gave me my first start in field research and helped make the hard times easier and the good times especially enjoyable.”
It’s all fantasy. The truth is they both made my life miserable with sexual harassment and rampant sexism. It brought me up short as I realized the lies we women tell ourselves and the world in order to survive.
Shame on Isabella, shame on me.
Lucinda Jackson, PhD scientist and escaped corporate executive, is a feminist and risk-taker and the author of Just a Girl: Growing Up Female and Ambitious.
