“I’ve got to use some Tic Tacs, just in case I start kissing her. You know I’m automatically attracted to beautiful — I just start kissing them. It’s like a magnet. Just kiss. I don’t even wait. And when you’re a star, they let you do it. You can do anything. Grab them by the p*ssy. You can do anything.”
Dear Mr. Trump,
I realize these comments are ones you made over ten years ago. I realize that everyone sometimes says ignorant, and even hurtful things that they later regret, and that can be forgiven. But while first “apologizing” for these comments (if you can even call it that), you flippantly labeled them as “locker-room banter”, and tried to distract from the severity of your comments by letting everyone know that Bill Clinton is far worse and that we have "bigger" things to worry about. Mr. Trump, I don't excuse anything Bill or Hillary Clinton may have done. But just because somebody else does bad things, doesn't mean the bad things you have done don't matter. Every evil done by a politician matters. You gave an apology for comments that encouraged and made light of unwarranted sexual acts on women who didn’t ask for them, and called it simply "locker-room talk." And later in your Tweets you again referred to these comments as just “locker-room talk”, pointing out yet again someone you deemed to be filthier than you in comparison. Mr. Trump, you apologize like a young boy who doesn’t quite yet know how to truly be sorry, but knows he needs to apologize to get what he wants (the Presidency). You do not seem sorry to me. And considering you still make outlandish and inappropriate comments about women and other minorities, I’m going to assume your character has not improved much since these comments were made 10 years ago.
The reason there are so many women (and men) who don’t want you in office, is because your attitude and flippant disregard of your own comments disgust them. An apology is not an apology if you follow it up with "BUT so-and-so is worse." It is usually a sure sign that a person is not truly repentant for what they've done. When women read your vulgar comments, observe your brash, rude demeanor, and see how weakly you apologize, they think of every catcall and predatory look they’ve ever received on the street, and cannot fathom the new president of the United States having the same kind of character as the men who make them afraid to go anywhere alone, or without pepper spray, or without a handgun. Some women are willing to overlook your vulgar comments and all-around distasteful presence, because they are putting their hope in you to do other good things as the president of the United States. I won’t judge those women. I know that many feel stuck between a rock and a hard place in this election. But I personally cannot see past it. When I read your Tweets, listen to your words, observe your sad apologies, it leads me to believe that your character has NOT improved since you made those comments. Every woman I know has been assaulted or harassed by men, since they hit puberty, and some even before. Though I know the president of the United States cannot single-handedly stop sexist, abusive comments and acts, I certainly don’t want to endorse the boy that disgusted me in high school as the next president.
Mr. Trump, your comments are not common locker-room banter. Many, many young boys make jokes about consensual sex with girls. And many grow out of even that. Decent boys and men do not make jokes about sexual abuse or touching women without their permission. I read an article today that said some high school football coaches in Texas are having sit-down talks with their teams to discuss your comments. Coaches have much influence over teams of young men, in some of their most vulnerable years, and they are turning their attention to your comments in a desperate effort to make sure your disgusting words don’t pollute young minds. You are not even president yet and adults are already having to damage control over your “won’t hold back” personality. The article quoted senior high-school boys who said they do not talk about girls that way. Locker-room talk is talk about sports, school, and girls, but it is not talk about sexual assault. If 17 year old boys know this, why do you, a grown man, not know this? Your flippant labeling of these comments make sexual assault seem like a joke. They make every woman cringe with the familiar feeling of hungry eyes on their bodies and greedy hands in places they don’t have permission to be. Surely you are aware of the fears women face every day. Surely you are aware that we have been told since we could understand our parents’ words how to protect ourselves from men who would seek to use and abuse us. This is an epidemic: A sickness in America, and in the world. We don’t want a president who openly adheres to it. I will not even go into how this kind of attitude contributes to the sex trade that happens right under our noses here in America. That is an article unto itself. But it is people who are okay with this kind of talk, people who enjoy it, people who dismiss it as normal conversation, who fuel the mindset that is involved in the trafficking of women and children by people who seek to use and exploit them. (For some statistics on sex trafficking in America, go here.) I am NOT calling every man who talks like Trump a sex-trafficker, or even someone who would necessarily act on their crude comments. But I am saying there is a widespread problem with a lack of respect for women, and a selfish attitude about sex, that is fueled by these kinds of "joking" comments. If we accept those kinds of comments as normal jokes, what kind of attitude about sex are we creating in people? Sex is meant to be mutually shared and enjoyed. It is meant to be kind and compassionate and loving. When women are objectified with lewd comments, the meaning of sex is distorted, and human beings are disrespected.
I have stories that prove what this kind of “locker-room talk” makes of men, and the way it affects women. Stories about men who got too close, said too much, and didn’t care how they made me feel or what boundaries they may have been crossing. And they are not even the worst stories a woman could have to tell.
When I was 12, a stranger put his hand on my upper back to unnecessarily “guide” me through a doorway as I passed him. As I walked, his hand slid deliberately from the top of my back down my spine, all the way to my tailbone. I shivered and jumped forward before his hand could travel any further down. I was afraid to turn around and look at his face.
When I was 14, my mom dropped me and two of my friends off at the mall to hang out for a few minutes while she shopped down the street. We walked around shops, smiling and giggling at our first little experience with freedom. Part women, still part little girls. Hanging out in the food court, when my mom was on her way to pick us up, we were approached by an older teenage boy, who looked to be around 17. He focused his attention on me, and said “You see my friend over there in the Dallas Cowboys cap?” He pointed to a group of five or six other boys, all around his age, standing near a table. Then said “He told me to tell you he wants to fuck you in the ass.” (Everything in me wanted to censor those words. I do not even like typing them out. But I want you to feel the weight.) Again, I was barely 14, still in middle school. My two friends laughed out of shock, out of discomfort, and nervousness. My heart jumped into my throat. My face scrunched into an expression of horror, and fear. He laughed as if he had just told the funniest joke, and walked away, joining his friends again. Previously, puberty had been something I was excited about. I was excited to grow up and become a pretty woman. When my mom picked us up, I sat in the backseat with my arms crossed over my newly developed body, like maybe I could make it disappear.
My freshman year of high school, I dated a 16 year old boy for two weeks. He broke up with me and never explained why. I wondered if it was because he felt like he wouldn’t be able to get sex from me. That was confirmed when I later found out he was telling people that he “didn’t want to have sex with me anyway”, because I “probably would have just laid there while he did it.” (This guy went to church and played in his church’s band.)
When I was 15, on the way home from a school field trip with my dance team, we pulled over into a Walmart parking lot at night, because our bus driver was exhausted and had almost gotten into a wreck. They were going to have to switch bus drivers, but some of the girls’ parents were driving to come pick them up instead. Many members of the team went into the store to wait. My friend and I walked through the parking lot to go inside, and on our way to the doors, two dirty-looking grown men in a truck pulled up in front of us and blocked our path. They grinned at us with yellow teeth and asked for our phone numbers. We didn’t look a day over our actual ages. They knew we weren’t adults. We squeaked out a “no,” and like cornered and frightened animals, backed away from the truck and ran around it, into the store, in search of the dance team’s male escort. We wouldn’t leave his side until my dad showed up to pick us up.
The same year, with the same friend, walking through the mall minding our own business, we were suddenly surrounded by a group of young Hispanic men. They closed in on us as we passed by a kiosk, brushing up against us and touching us as they passed, whispering things in Spanish, and leering with these looks that said they knew they were intimidating us, and enjoyed it. I panicked inside. But they brushed past and kept on walking. I had goose-bumps on my arms from where they’d touched me.
When I was between 16 and 17, on different shopping trips with my mother, groups of young men would make sexual comments as we passed them, or make “mmm” noises, and lick their lips while staring me in the eye. I would look down and walk faster. My mom would glare at them with stone cold eyes.
When I was 17, my best friend and I went to the bathroom together during school. We found a freshman sobbing on the floor in the corner. We asked what was wrong, and she said she had chanced telling a few of her classmates that she had been raped, and they made fun of her. She said some people didn’t believe her, and a couple of mean girls in her class had stolen her sandals, taken them to the bathroom and thrown them in the toilet. We sat on the floor with her and told her it was going to be ok, she was going to be ok.
When I was 18, I made a quick trip to the grocery store to buy one thing. I was wearing jean shorts with black tights underneath them. The tights had a small hole forming on my lower thigh. I noticed the employee who was manning the self-checkout stations staring at me with a creepy look, but that wasn’t really new to me, so I tried to ignore it. After I finished, as I was walking passed him with my bag he said, “Hey, you know you have a hole in your tights…” in a slow, flirty manner. I blandly said, “Yeah, I should probably get new ones” and kept walking. From behind me I heard, “Oh don’t do that. I REALLY like them…” I chanced a look over my shoulder. He was staring hungrily at the back of my legs. This man was grey-haired, balding. Large glasses. He could not have been a day under 60 years old. I shuddered and longed to round the corner where I would no longer be able to feel his eyes on me.
When I was 20, I went to get lunch with one of my friends and her baby girl. After lunch, as we were bent over (wearing jeans) strapping her little daughter into her car seat, we realized we were standing somewhat in the parking spot next to us, blocking an older man who was waiting to pull his truck into it. His window was down, so I stood up and told him sorry, and tried to move out of his way. He yelled back, “Oh don’t apologize! I’m enjoying the view…” My friend and I looked at each other. He grinned at us as if he thought that was a normal comment. As if we should feel flattered by it, instead of violated. We quickly finished strapping her daughter in and climbed into the car. We drove away, and I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I thought about the oblivious infant in the backseat, and what kind of world she was going to grow up in. What kinds of things men would one day say to her that would make her feel violated, and like she didn't have a right to respectable comments and conversation. I tried not to think about anything beyond that.
I am only 22 years old. And these are not my only stories. I, like every other woman, have many. And mine are not the worst ones out there. Not even close. I have been followed in stores by men with penetrating eyes. I’ve rounded corners in panic and tried to disappear into a sea of people. Clutched a small can of mace like it might save my life. I’ve texted my boyfriend in a panic, just so somebody will know what happened to me if I happen to disappear.
Every woman I know has been sexually harassed, and some have been physically assaulted. I have friends whose backsides and genitals have been grabbed by drunk customers at restaurants they worked in, friends who have been groped and stroked by men whose names they didn’t even know during Uber rides. Friends who have been told “you like it” during an assault or called degrading names. Girls who have been called worthless or useless or pointless because they wouldn’t put out. One of my friends once had an arrogant young guy (with a demeanor much like Trump’s) tell her, in the middle of a restaurant and in front of their mutual friend, that he thought they would have great chemistry in bed. She made it known that his advances weren’t welcomed. In the same sitting, he reached under the booth and slid his hand up her thigh. She exploded in rage. We become angry when being nice and scared no longer works. When we realize that telling someone "no" doesn't even mean a damn thing anymore. When we realize our voice doesn't mean anything to men who view us as objects, because objects do not get a say.
Mr. Trump, what you consider to be normal locker-room banter sends shivers up women’s spines. It makes us fear that we can't keep ourselves safe from the likes of people who would seek to violate and hurt us. It lacks compassion, respect, and love: three things that all human beings deserve. You have allowed your own daughter to be called a “piece of ass” right to you, without even the slightest reprimanding. These things are why I don’t consider you to be the champion for human life that some consider you to be, and why I don't believe in your apology. I’m a woman. I’m a human life. And your attitude about women and lack of remorse reminds me of every guy who has ever made my skin crawl in my short 22 years. The sad thing is that I know this isn't over for me. It isn't over for any woman. We can expect full lives of disrespectful comments, violating stares, and for some, unspeakable actions even beyond that. We have been taught to be cautious and look out for ourselves, and to have a "healthy" fear of strangers, because of people who talk and act the way you have. We walk around with pepper spray, guns, and knives, because of people who talk like you have. I’m not stupid enough to think that if you were a better man, you could stop the bad attitudes and bad behaviors of other men. This will continue, because disrespect and the twisting of the meaning of sex has permeated our culture. But I don’t want to vote that blaring attitude into office either. There are many men, just like you, who think they are God’s gift to the universe, God’s gift to every woman’s bed, and we experience them everyday. You are not God’s gift to any woman’s bed.
And you are not God’s gift to America.
Those of you who are discouraged by the Republican and Democratic candidates you have for the Presidency, please remember that you have other options.
