To put this in perspective right off the bat, I am not a physically strong person. I have never in my life been able to do a single pull-up. I work out sporadically. My eleven-year-old niece can beat me in arm wrestling. She is part Samoan and I am all English/Danish, so there’s that. But still…
So anyway, there I was walking into church, sitting down in the chapel, ready to get the main event started when I noticed that the conversation happening in the row behind me sounded off. From what I could tell, the guy either had no idea how to flirt or was seriously unpersonable. He kept saying things like, “you’re poor and I’m a millionaire,” “that dress is awful,” and “your whole family is probably poor too.” You know, ridiculous things that villains in eighties movies would say. By the time I realized the conversation was volatile and not a poor attempt to be funny, he had stormed off. I turned around to get a better look at the girl that could inspire such heated dialogue and found a meek, young, trembling, waif of a thing. Not especially pretty but not unattractive. Definitely not rich, or privileged, or overly noticeable. Definitely not the kind of girl a self-titled “millionaire” would seek out. Or be pissed about being rejected by.
After he sat in a back pew, the girl and I were encouraged to move to the center since our congregation was so small. I ended up sitting next to her. The woman she was sitting next to had seen the whole thing and was very consoling and I thought that’d be the end of it. Then the jerk came back and started yelling–yes, yelling–at her. In the chapel. In a church. Classy. And what did he have to say? More of the same “I’m rich, you’re poor” crap only much louder and much more demeaning. Remember how I’m not physically strong? Well, what I lack in biceps I more than make up for in tenacity. I jumped up and turned on the guy, yelling right back at him. I was yelling such catch phrases as “Dude, what’s your problem?” “Back off!” and “Leave her alone!” If he’s going to resort to eighties villainry, I would resort to eighties tough guy talk. Actually, it really didn’t matter what I said. As with most conventions of the eighties, my words were useless against his sheer bad-guyness. He completely ignored me until he had finished his rant, then turned to me and said “What are you looking at?”—yet another endearing axiom from three decades ago—then left to sit on the back pew again. So many swear words filled my mouth and were stopped from escaping only by the fact that we were in a chapel. And as much as I wanted to rip him a new one, I also knew I was no match for him physically and sadly, I had no doubt that he was the kind of guy that would hit a girl, chapel or not.
The girl started to cry and rightfully so. I sat down next to her fuming and rightfully so. I was pissed that this guy had the audacity to disrespect everyone around him–people who were just there for a little spiritual uplifting. I was pissed that he thought it was completely within his realm of privilege to degrade someone he thought he was better than. I was pissed that he might actually be a millionaire and that he represented the kind of people who were rewarded monetarily for simply existing. But mostly, I was pissed that I was THE ONLY PERSON TO STAND UP FOR THIS GIRL. Again, and I don’t know how many times I have to say it, I’m not physically strong. And as sexist as it sounds, I’M A FREAKING GIRL. I’m all for equality and women’s rights and stuff, but is chivalry seriously the sacrifice women pay for it? After I sat down, I glanced angrily around the room. Most eyes were on either myself, the girl, or the creep in the back. And there were more than a few sets of men’s eyes staring in my direction. Most of them had a commiserating look that said “well that was awkward. What a tool.” Yeah, because that helps. Shaking your head in derision is not a proactive means of helping someone in distress. Meanwhile, two girls have to contemplate how vigorously they can defend themselves before their faces get messed up. AND THEN the guy started up again, yelling from the back of the chapel. He was berating those who were looking at him. He was taunting those that patted the shoulders of the distraught girl. He was being a general and overall ass. Finally, at that point, one of the men got up and escorted him out of the building. Finally. Finally.
For the rest of the time I could stand sitting there, I thought about all the men in my life that I knew would have stood up to him. My brothers, my friends–people that would have tried to diffuse the situation, people that would have punched the guy in the face, people that would have done more than just sit there. How is it possible that in an entire congregation of people, not one of them felt the fiery indignation that spurred me to stand? It’s not like my yelling disrupted the meeting any more than assface already had. Where were the brave? The courageous? Was I seriously the best this group had to offer?
I stayed in the meeting stewing for another twenty minutes before I decided I would do more good for myself and those around me by not being there. I left quietly and went straight home to my punching bag. I punched and cried and swore and punched and bloodied my knuckles and strained my wrist and totally ruined my nice church-going makeup.
Now…I’m the type of person that likes to find meaning in the events that happen in my life. I feel like I’m here on earth to learn about being a human and if I pass up opportunities to learn, what’s the point of being here? There were things I could learn about myself and others through this experience. After my muscles and knuckles could punch no more, I sat at the base of my bag and tried to distinguish the teachings from the anger. I found that most of my frustration was not aimed at the guy, the congregation, or even the girl who could not stand up for herself…but at me. I was mad that I didn’t punch him in the face. I was mad that I held back the hateful words I could have scarred him with–if I have one ace in my armory, it’s that I know how to weaponize words. I was mad that I didn’t do more. After all, I’ve been in this situation before…
My story resembles this one in tone and basic structure and has all the same elements: horrible guy at church finds a girl with a weakness, tries to manipulate, control, or otherwise bully her, then attacks her weakness when she tries to stand up for herself. I was that waif of a girl. I’ve been through this and theoretically, should have been prepared to handle it this time. I was mad at myself because I knew that I hadn’t held back out of fear of a physical confrontation alone, but also because I was afraid to go there again. That scary, vulnerable place. These horrible guys are predators, preying on our weaknesses, seeking out the girls they think they can break. I knew this guy’s attacks were stupid because they weren’t tailored to my insecurities. The only reason this millionaire of a man sought out this run-of-the-mill girl was because he found a girl he thought he could control, manipulate, and prey upon. She had a weakness that he could pinpoint. If I had done more–yelled more, attacked him with words or my vapid biceps, whatever–I would have put myself directly in his line of fire and I was afraid to go there. He found her weakness…what if he could find mine too? Like the other creep had…
I thought about the girl again. The dress she was wearing was pretty, made from delicate fabric, but the hem rolled up slightly causing a bubble when she sat down–a tell-tale sign that the dress was not factory, but hand-made. A relatively skilled hand had made it, but it was hand-made nonetheless. She was simple but doing the best she could. She was trying to be content with who she was but was insecure about it. And that is what this monster saw in her. Had my monster called me poor I would have laughed in his face–poverty is not something that I feel insecure about. But my monster could see my insecurities. He could see what I hated about me and he hit me where it hurt–just as her monster had. I wondered what this would do to her, knowing what my monster had done to me. I thought of how long it had taken me to find my feet again. I knew the road this girl would have to travel. And it sucked big time. And more than anything, I was mad that I couldn’t stop her from having to travel it. And then, I learned something…
For all the scraps and scars and trauma I went through, I had become stronger. I had become strong enough to stand up when others didn’t, even though I would never have been able to physically defeat him. I was not yet the warrior I wanted to be, but I was no longer the waif I once was. Maybe he didn’t attack me because he could see that. Maybe I had gotten to a place where even though I knew I was still weak, I didn’t appear that way to those around me. Maybe I was strong enough to fend him off–regardless of my physical capabilities. And maybe he knew that. And even though I didn’t feel like I did enough, maybe all she needed was one person to stand up. Maybe all I could give was all that was necessary. If one person had stood up for me when my monster attacked, my road to normalcy would not have been so long. Maybe I couldn’t stop her from having to travel the road, but I could at least offer her some good shoes for the journey. Two weeks have passed and my blood still boils when I think of this situation. But my knuckles have healed. And that’s something at least.
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