On being “nice”

So a bad thing happened recently.

A man sexually assaulted me. In the midst of the chaos of a crowded bar—with his wife and friends nearby, but not paying attention—he grabbed me violently, put his hands and body on me. To be clear: He groped my breasts, dry-humping me from behind, and would not let go.

And in that moment, I froze. I didn’t strike him. I didn’t scream.

Because I was there with people who knew him, who had known him for years, I didn’t call the police.

I didn’t know what to do, except wrench myself free of him, and then hide behind the people I knew.

I hid. As if I’d done something wrong.

I tried to explain what had just happened. No one had seen it happen.

I found I couldn’t find the words for the fear and nausea. I didn’t know how to make them understand. I choked.

I tried to shake it off. I tried to let it go. I sat back down.

But I am finding now, days and weeks after the fact, that I can’t shake it off.

I feel sick.

*****

When I gave birth to daughters, I was thrilled and terrified in equal measure. Terrified, because I know from my own experience the kind of ugly things that can happen to girls. (And to boys, I know now.)

I was trying to be nice.

Back then, in high school, I was trying to be nice when boys pushed themselves on me in ways I’d rather not recall.

Fast forward to almost 40.

What a shock to find that the curse of trying to be nice hasn’t lifted. My immediate reaction was the same as it was when I was 16: Be nice. Let it go. You’re okay. It’s okay. It’s not a big deal.

I can’t believe myself. I am angry with myself, frustrated, sickened.

*****

The guy was trouble from the start, I could see—verbally abusive, leering, sexual and violent in his comments. He wanted to “do me with a ball gag in [my] mouth.”

Everything in my gut had told me to get away from him immediately. But I was there with other people, who said, “Don’t mind him. He just likes to shock.” His wife told me across the table that they’d been happily married for 14 years. I wanted to believe her.

I didn’t want to cause trouble. So I ignored my gut: complete override. Figured I could stick it out.

Bad move.

After he assaulted me (and he and his wife left as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened), I shut down. I tried to shut it out. I put on my happy face, smoothed my hair, my blouse, my jeans, rejoined the conversation. Charming, be charming. Princess Charming. Be nice.

I smiled. I listened. I made conversation with the others. All the while, a stream of rationalizations rushed through my head: He was drunk, after all. He has problems, after all. He has a wife, after all. We have mutual friends, after all. I must be overreacting, after all. I’ll never see him again, after all.

After all, after all, after all.

And yet I would tell you that what I want to teach my daughters most of all is that intuition is an invaluable tool—a compass never, ever to be ignored. I want to teach them to remove themselves from any situation that makes them feel unsafe, before the situation can escalate.

After this recent assault (I almost typed “incident,” just to be nice — unreal) I suddenly doubt myself, doubt my ability to teach them what they very much need to know.