Canadian_watcher wrote:The culture proves to women who have been raped that a large majority of the rest of the men (particularly those with power) are willing and eager voyeurs. Rapist vs rape fan, if you like. Same thing if you ask me.
... ^
this.
It brings to mind one of the times I was assaulted at work (circa 1987). I was a dishwasher, dish-pit dweller, dish-pig - the lowest of the restaurant lowlies. At this particular place it was a particularly rough, heavy, sweaty, slimey job. I was almost the only female working in the kitchen, definitely the only female dish-pig I knew and absolutely the only female on the supper/evening shift.
Had I been the
bolder-more-self-confident-short-skirt-wearing sort, I would have been serving tables for the incredibly juicy tips to be had there (it was a four star place with five star prices in a three horse town that generally fed bizness types and rich tourists), but i wasn't that sort. In those days, I was the
fresh-outa-high-school-HAD-to-get out-from-under-the-parents-at-ANY-cost-no-money-for-uni-life-is-a-rented-room-and-a-minimum-wage-slag-gig sort.
It was the dead of winter, our dead season. Happily, a handful of fat cats who strapped on the feed bag and got their very expensive drink on could handily cover the wages for the kitchen staff that night - the line chef, two prep cooks and me. Fat cats notwithstanding - I was only on that night because the menfolk were also preparing for an industry show - a very big deal for aspiring chefs. It was good for the restaurant for them to do well - win an award maybe - so they were encouraged by the head chef to use the kitchen as a studio and play with their food. It was the dead season anyway so why not. I was there to do monkey prep and scrub pots, so that they could worry over their stuffed capons and scallop mousse sculptures.
... I was used to being treated a certain way by any of the men on staff at any time ... meaning, for example - a waiter waiting for show plates so he could reset tables might - after watching me for a minute like a wild dog watches free range chickens, suddenly sidle right up to my ear while I unloaded a dish rack and whisper a lot of really nasty shit about my underwear in my ear, take a step back, and then grin like the marquis de fucking sade at the profound discomfort and stunned stupid, wordless embarassment he'd generated. There were many, many variations on that theme that were a daily, inextricable part of the male dominated atmosphere. It was - as C2W was explaining so perfectly, normal. Even I understood it that way. It was not something to cause a fuss about or complain to anyone about. If
you ( a 17/18 year old girlie ) were going to get along there,
you'd better get used to it.
Economically speaking, I didn't have too many other options. I wasn't qualified to do much else. I needed to pay the rent, so I sucked it up.
That night though .... that night everybody went a lot further, including me. There was a jokey atmosphere that night. I recall wanting to be a part of it - like one of the gang, one of the 'guys' ...
One minute we were all laughing about something. The next minute the line chef had me pinned against the stainless steel prep table, fully intent on undoing my pants. I recall wondering how we all got to that *place* so suddenly. I noticed that the other two assholes I had only moments ago been thinking of as 'buddies' or 'older brothers' even ... were only slightly taken aback. I saw some kind of 'huh?' cross their faces and then it was gone, like a lone cloud skimming by overhead on a sunny day. Their split second 'huh?' was almost instantly erased with 'Oh yah! Sure!' and grins just like the one splitting the line chef's face in half like a gash while he held me there with his weight and went after the button of my pants with earnest intent. They laughed even, along with him. He was laughing. I'm pretty sure they thought I was supposed to be laughing too and that if there was anything wrong with the situation it was that I wasn't laughing.
"Hyuk!Hyuk! C'mon! We're just fucking around!"
All this happened in a blink or two ... then I pushed him off me with a similarly sudden, white hot fury, and I kicked that piece of shit so hard, I'd bet
*all the money I don't have (
a Saudi princely sum) he still feels it when it rains.
I screamed in his face: "DON'T you EVER FUCKING TOUCH ME AGAIN." He never did.
They all looked rather startled and he - really angry and sore, but afraid to do anything other than look like he could shrug it off and go check on something in the oven. I am not petite. I am 5' 11' and, when riled, I gather I look like a pretty scary bitch. Think Boadiceaa.
The one waiter on that night suddenly appeared and wanted to know "What?! What the fuck?" His whole table, our one and only table that night, heard me loud and clear. "Ask that asshole.", I said, pointing at the alpha asshole who wouldn't look anyone in the eye and had the distinct air of one who would have happily murdered me on the spot if he thought he could get away with it. That was that. Nothing else was said that night that I can recall, but the sense that I had spoiled everyone's fun filled the air like the stench of everything that rots and is considered so perfectly fucking normal, it's not worth mentioning ... according to most folks.
Go figure.
Many people will sleep for a hundred years, but when they awake, it will be the artists who give them their spirit back. ~ Louis David Riel