Now that the dust has finally settled in my life, I'm doing the very stereotypical post freshman reflection on my first year in school. I'm not overwhelmingly interested in rehashing each and every moment because they're all resolved in some way or another. Things changed, I grew up (hopefully), I stressed and laughed and cried and discovered a fondness for Sweet Tart ropes from the cave. You know, normal college stuff. But there is one thing––or person––that stuck with me left unprocessed.
At the beginning of the year, I'd call him my friend. Now, looking back, I cringe a little at my lack of judgment. Before I truly get into this story, I want to say that it could have been a lot worse. Some girls come home from their first year of college with trauma that's left with them for the rest of their lives and this is not that story. It might even be a little bit petty. This "friend"––let's call him Piers for the sake of the story (of course, not his real name)––doesn't deserve jail time or suspension from school, but I also can't say I ever want to be around behavior like this again in my life. I feel a little guilty for even putting these words to paper but I can't stop thinking about this little storyline in my year so here goes.
Piers' behavior started off subtly enough that I didn't even recognize it as sexist, it just left me with a weird feeling in my gut. He would make tiny comments about myself and the other girls in my friend group's bodies in a way that could be labeled as harmless but still felt pointed enough for me to take note of it. The moment would pass so fast, the girl under question would hardly have time to think about it. He'd make comments about a tight shirt or the amount of makeup someone was wearing on a particular way. Not enough to warrant a fight but enough to make someone self-conscious for the rest of the day.
This, I think, is the thing that sits with me. It's not the more blatant stuff (though there are plenty of things I could touch on, don't worry), it's the stuff that's so hard to call out without feeling crazy. While he could move on with his day without thinking blinking an eye the girl he commented on was left to wrestle with this comment and her own body for hours to come. She was also left with the daunting task of deciding whether to call him out––making everyone in the group uncomfortable––or just sit in silence with the comment by herself.
It wasn't just the covert stuff, either. I honestly don't know if I'd still have some sort of "friendship" with him if it wasn't for some of the more blatantly sexist things he did. That's the other thing that scares me. Looking back at it now, I know that the comments he made toward me wore on my mental health. One of my friends (at one point also a part of this group) was picked apart––both positively and negatively––on a day to day basis with these comments about her body. I won't get further into her story because it's not my place to tell it, but it does make me question my own moral code. Could I really watch my friend be harassed that way and still live with it? How would things be different now if I would've said something on her behalf?
Piers liked to belittle the women around him. I think I took the worst of this. He would constantly reference my inferiority (concerning my gender) and talk about how I should answer to the men around me––specifically him. I know I shouldn't victim blame, especially when I am the victim in this case, but it's so hard to reflect on your past actions and realize you could've done something to remove myself from a bad situation so much earlier than I did. At first, I thought these comments were a sort of lame attempt at sarcasm, but as the days wore on, it was clear to me that at the root of these lazy jokes were his real feelings about women. Even after I saw this, I still chose to surround myself with him.
Of course, he was the real problem. I have to take a second to remind myself of that. No matter what I could've done (or maybe even should have done), it was his responsibility to be a decent human being and he didn't do that.
There was one day where Piers and I were joking (that's the confusing part about all of this, I remember laughing and having fun with him amidst all this animosity) when he accidentally pushed me to the ground. This could sound horrible in the context he's portrayed in, but on that day, I laughed it off. It wasn't purposeful or malicious, but looking forward, I would love some friends who respect my boundaries. I won't portray this as abusive because it wasn't, it really was an accident and had a sort of friendly undertone. The moment I remember about this though is after I fell (I laughed at myself for being so clumsy), I noticed that the fall had opened an old wound. I rolled up my pant leg and sat down for a second, arguing with myself if it was worth it to trek all the way to my dorm to get a bandaid for the injury. Without warning (and certainly without my permission), Piers pushed my pant leg up further, grabbed me by the leg, and began tending to the wound.
The wound itself really wasn't that bad. A scab that had reopened because of harsh contact with the carpet. A simple "sorry" would have done just fine. We could have moved on. But Piers made that moment feel like a violation. I would have quickly forgotten it had ever happened and nobody would be reading a stupid blog post about it. But here we are.
I kept turning this moment over and over in my head. No real damage was done. The blood dried, the scrape healed, I didn't even say anything at the time. I have nothing to show for it. Some people will tell me I'm hugely exaggerating, I'm sure. But I'm still thinking about it. Once again, it's that thing that refuses to be labeled––you feel sort of crazy, let me tell you, for trying––but it's so...off. The lack of boundaries, the fact that I did have a *small injury that I should've had the autonomy to deal with on my own.
Before I'm too hard on myself, Piers was impossible to confront. My friend and I, once we had convened together and realized his misdemeanors against us, tried every strategy we could think of to get him to realize his errors. Once, on a random day, Piers was messing around with my headphones––stealing them from me and dangling them just out of reach. Out of sheer desperation, I did the one thing I could think to do, I smashed his fingers with my Hydroflask.
If the way I'm writing doesn't make me sound totally crazy, this does, I know. But in a weird way, this was one of my prouder moments in this whole experience. Though I know his fingers were not seriously injured, he pouted for the rest of the day: refusing to make eye-contact with me and answering the rest of the group with timid, one-word answers. On a normal day, I would have folded. Told him I was sorry and totally wrong for using violence and blah, blah, blah for the sake of the group. But that day I look him straight in the face and said: "I'm not going to apologize because you don't deserve it" and that was that. He was still angry and none of my problems were solved but this seemed like a tiny little victory in the scale of things.
Violence is never the answer. I get it. Objectively not the move. But here's the thing: it worked. While telling him his behavior was wrong was ineffective and yelling just got us nowhere, this at least pacified him. This, too, seems like a sad microcosm for the realities women are faced with. When we are peaceful we are ignored, when we are angry we are called crazy anyway. Being told you're crazy by a room full of people refusing to hear you would drive anyone insane.
I have no conclusion for this story. We're not friends anymore. Once I sent him a series of Snapchat videos telling him a very shortened version of this account and he unadded me without watching a single one. And that's it. He probably hasn't thought about me since we saw each other last. He has no reason too. We haven't even been friendly in a long time. That's the worst part. No, not that we're no longer friends. Fuck. Him. It's the fact that he has most likely moved on and I can't seem to make peace with it. Although it was him who was at fault––not me, he doesn't have to shoulder the burden. In most conflicts, I'm not afraid to admit that I am at least partially at fault because, WOW, do I have flaws. But this one was on him. Maybe I wasn't the perfect friend, scratch that, I KNOW I wasn't, but my transgressions have nothing on his. I might never get closure on this story, but at least releasing into the void allows me some semblance of control.
At the beginning of the year, I'd call him my friend. Now, looking back, I cringe a little at my lack of judgment. Before I truly get into this story, I want to say that it could have been a lot worse. Some girls come home from their first year of college with trauma that's left with them for the rest of their lives and this is not that story. It might even be a little bit petty. This "friend"––let's call him Piers for the sake of the story (of course, not his real name)––doesn't deserve jail time or suspension from school, but I also can't say I ever want to be around behavior like this again in my life. I feel a little guilty for even putting these words to paper but I can't stop thinking about this little storyline in my year so here goes.
Piers' behavior started off subtly enough that I didn't even recognize it as sexist, it just left me with a weird feeling in my gut. He would make tiny comments about myself and the other girls in my friend group's bodies in a way that could be labeled as harmless but still felt pointed enough for me to take note of it. The moment would pass so fast, the girl under question would hardly have time to think about it. He'd make comments about a tight shirt or the amount of makeup someone was wearing on a particular way. Not enough to warrant a fight but enough to make someone self-conscious for the rest of the day.
This, I think, is the thing that sits with me. It's not the more blatant stuff (though there are plenty of things I could touch on, don't worry), it's the stuff that's so hard to call out without feeling crazy. While he could move on with his day without thinking blinking an eye the girl he commented on was left to wrestle with this comment and her own body for hours to come. She was also left with the daunting task of deciding whether to call him out––making everyone in the group uncomfortable––or just sit in silence with the comment by herself.
It wasn't just the covert stuff, either. I honestly don't know if I'd still have some sort of "friendship" with him if it wasn't for some of the more blatantly sexist things he did. That's the other thing that scares me. Looking back at it now, I know that the comments he made toward me wore on my mental health. One of my friends (at one point also a part of this group) was picked apart––both positively and negatively––on a day to day basis with these comments about her body. I won't get further into her story because it's not my place to tell it, but it does make me question my own moral code. Could I really watch my friend be harassed that way and still live with it? How would things be different now if I would've said something on her behalf?
Piers liked to belittle the women around him. I think I took the worst of this. He would constantly reference my inferiority (concerning my gender) and talk about how I should answer to the men around me––specifically him. I know I shouldn't victim blame, especially when I am the victim in this case, but it's so hard to reflect on your past actions and realize you could've done something to remove myself from a bad situation so much earlier than I did. At first, I thought these comments were a sort of lame attempt at sarcasm, but as the days wore on, it was clear to me that at the root of these lazy jokes were his real feelings about women. Even after I saw this, I still chose to surround myself with him.
Of course, he was the real problem. I have to take a second to remind myself of that. No matter what I could've done (or maybe even should have done), it was his responsibility to be a decent human being and he didn't do that.
There was one day where Piers and I were joking (that's the confusing part about all of this, I remember laughing and having fun with him amidst all this animosity) when he accidentally pushed me to the ground. This could sound horrible in the context he's portrayed in, but on that day, I laughed it off. It wasn't purposeful or malicious, but looking forward, I would love some friends who respect my boundaries. I won't portray this as abusive because it wasn't, it really was an accident and had a sort of friendly undertone. The moment I remember about this though is after I fell (I laughed at myself for being so clumsy), I noticed that the fall had opened an old wound. I rolled up my pant leg and sat down for a second, arguing with myself if it was worth it to trek all the way to my dorm to get a bandaid for the injury. Without warning (and certainly without my permission), Piers pushed my pant leg up further, grabbed me by the leg, and began tending to the wound.
The wound itself really wasn't that bad. A scab that had reopened because of harsh contact with the carpet. A simple "sorry" would have done just fine. We could have moved on. But Piers made that moment feel like a violation. I would have quickly forgotten it had ever happened and nobody would be reading a stupid blog post about it. But here we are.
I kept turning this moment over and over in my head. No real damage was done. The blood dried, the scrape healed, I didn't even say anything at the time. I have nothing to show for it. Some people will tell me I'm hugely exaggerating, I'm sure. But I'm still thinking about it. Once again, it's that thing that refuses to be labeled––you feel sort of crazy, let me tell you, for trying––but it's so...off. The lack of boundaries, the fact that I did have a *small injury that I should've had the autonomy to deal with on my own.
Before I'm too hard on myself, Piers was impossible to confront. My friend and I, once we had convened together and realized his misdemeanors against us, tried every strategy we could think of to get him to realize his errors. Once, on a random day, Piers was messing around with my headphones––stealing them from me and dangling them just out of reach. Out of sheer desperation, I did the one thing I could think to do, I smashed his fingers with my Hydroflask.
If the way I'm writing doesn't make me sound totally crazy, this does, I know. But in a weird way, this was one of my prouder moments in this whole experience. Though I know his fingers were not seriously injured, he pouted for the rest of the day: refusing to make eye-contact with me and answering the rest of the group with timid, one-word answers. On a normal day, I would have folded. Told him I was sorry and totally wrong for using violence and blah, blah, blah for the sake of the group. But that day I look him straight in the face and said: "I'm not going to apologize because you don't deserve it" and that was that. He was still angry and none of my problems were solved but this seemed like a tiny little victory in the scale of things.
Violence is never the answer. I get it. Objectively not the move. But here's the thing: it worked. While telling him his behavior was wrong was ineffective and yelling just got us nowhere, this at least pacified him. This, too, seems like a sad microcosm for the realities women are faced with. When we are peaceful we are ignored, when we are angry we are called crazy anyway. Being told you're crazy by a room full of people refusing to hear you would drive anyone insane.
I have no conclusion for this story. We're not friends anymore. Once I sent him a series of Snapchat videos telling him a very shortened version of this account and he unadded me without watching a single one. And that's it. He probably hasn't thought about me since we saw each other last. He has no reason too. We haven't even been friendly in a long time. That's the worst part. No, not that we're no longer friends. Fuck. Him. It's the fact that he has most likely moved on and I can't seem to make peace with it. Although it was him who was at fault––not me, he doesn't have to shoulder the burden. In most conflicts, I'm not afraid to admit that I am at least partially at fault because, WOW, do I have flaws. But this one was on him. Maybe I wasn't the perfect friend, scratch that, I KNOW I wasn't, but my transgressions have nothing on his. I might never get closure on this story, but at least releasing into the void allows me some semblance of control.
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