It happens every so often. A male acquaintance will do something that makes me uncomfortable—whether an unwanted touch, an objectifying comment or a wolf-whistle—something that triggers a deep-seated sense of apprehension in my stomach. But as soon as I protest, the expression of my discomfort backfires as it all becomes about their hurt feelings.
"You're exaggerating!"
"That's not what I meant!"
"I can't believe you're treating me like I'm a random guy in the street!"
My standing up for myself becomes a betrayal of whatever bond of camaraderie said person thought we had. In their eyes, I suddenly turn into an overreacting harpy for responding so seriously to something so insignificant.
But for all the men who have ever gotten huffy at me for setting boundaries, those who have joked that "come on, I'm not gonna rape you" when I turned down a ride home, I wish I could have said:
Don't blame me.
Blame them:
"You're exaggerating!"
"That's not what I meant!"
"I can't believe you're treating me like I'm a random guy in the street!"
My standing up for myself becomes a betrayal of whatever bond of camaraderie said person thought we had. In their eyes, I suddenly turn into an overreacting harpy for responding so seriously to something so insignificant.
But for all the men who have ever gotten huffy at me for setting boundaries, those who have joked that "come on, I'm not gonna rape you" when I turned down a ride home, I wish I could have said:
Don't blame me.
Blame them:
