The Undercover Introvert

Women with Opinions on the Internet: Are You Triggered Yet?

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We’ve all heard the old cliche that opinions are like assholes, right? Everybody has one. Well, here’s a new spin on an old favorite: if you’re a woman daring enough to share an opinion on the internet, you can collect a lot more than a single asshole. They will literally come out of the woodwork to let you know how wrong you are, no matter what you’ve said.

Ladies, we all know, the cost of just being women is high in all facets of our daily lives. But there’s something about being on social media that really brings the boys to the yard, and it has nothing to do with a milkshake.

An article I wrote about the pitfalls of dating in the current political climate was recently shared on Twitter. No problem, right? It’s great exposure! But, wait, I’m a woman with an opinion, which means there are legions of men waiting in the wings to descend with insults, threats, and other charmingly fun comments about how no one wants to date me anyway (I’m seriously heartbroken, gents). Many of the comments made me wonder if they’d bothered to read the article at all, or just decided to shut me down because women are fun to look at but not so great to listen to.

This is every day on the internet, guys. All day long. No matter how innocuous or outlandish the opinion shared, push back is absolutely guaranteed. If it’s not mansplaining, it’s insults. If it’s not insults, it’s condescension. Sometimes it’s a fun mix of all three.

The basic formula for online interaction is this:

Woman: here’s an opinion based on my life and/or professional experience.

1st man: WRONG.

2nd man: here’s why you’re wrong…(goes on to explain, but tl:dr)

3rd man: I think what you actually meant to say was…(usually the opposite of what you said)

4th man: divisive slut/bitch/whore.

5th man: you should calm down.

For those of you non-women out there, I’m sure this seems like textbook over-exaggeration. Sigh. If only. Unfortunately, like I said, the cost of being a woman on social media is high. The same men who might not be able to locate the courage to speak to a woman in real life become valiant warriors in front of the keyboard, upholding their sworn duty to make sure the so-called fairer sex keeps her opinions to her goddamned self on social media sites. These guys are quick with a not all men retort or a below the belt slash at a woman’s appearance–truly a stab in the dark in many cases; for example, my Twitter handle featured a cartoon character as my avatar for over five years. These are the same guys who would probably describe themselves as ‘nice’ and don’t understand why they are still single.

I’ve triggered guys before by stating that men need to do better.

I’ve triggered guys by asserting that we don’t owe you a smile when we’re out and about in public.

I’ve triggered guys by stating that I’m not interested in dating.

I’ve triggered guys by remarking that more women need to run for political office.

I’ve triggered guys by bringing up systemic sexism.

You get the idea. I could go on and on. There is literally a treasure trove of material just sitting in the comments of my Twitter and Facebook feeds.

Guys respond by telling me I sound angry. That I need to calm down. Or that I sound ugly. I have to laugh at that one, even if the idea is sickening–that only women who don’t speak their minds are considered beautiful. I get called bitch, slut, and a myriad of other colorful and inventive names that would make my mother blush, and my mother knows her way around a string of expletives. No shrinking violets in this family.

These knee jerk, aggressively defensive responses to my social media posts used to upset me, and I made the mistake of interacting with the trolls many an aggravating time (mostly because I had really excellent comebacks; I mean, come on!). But I’m finding it funnier and funnier the more often it happens. How fragile these male egos are, that my words could so easily shake them to their core. How powerful I must be to elicit such a response with only my words. By attempting to tear me down, you’ve only revealed how weak your position truly is. It’s sad, really…but also funny. There have been instances where a particularly colorful and poignantly pathetic reply has caused me to laugh until I cried–thanks for the pick me up, random douchebag!

So, keep it coming, fellas. I’m here to drop knowledge and collect assholes, and you’d make a mighty fine addition to my collection.

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To the Man Who Told Me To Smile

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We’re strangers, and I’m out and about in public, minding my own business. I’ve never seen you before in my life, but you still thought you had the right to walk up to me and say:

Smile. You’re too beautiful not to be smiling.

I’m sure you thought this was a compliment. Because you called me beautiful. And I’m sure the way I recoiled instead of smiling felt like a slap across the face to you. But I was just trying to get through my day.

You don’t know the first thing about me. You have no idea that talking to perfect strangers makes me incredibly itchy, that it engages the anxiety that lies waiting inside of me to make life much more difficult than it has to be. And, honestly, you don’t have a right to know any of that information. Because we aren’t friends. We aren’t anything. We just happen to be in the same store at the same time. Women going out in public doesn’t give you the right to make demands on them or tell them how they ought to be comporting themselves to better please you. That’s bullshit. You wouldn’t do that to another man. You would leave him to behave as he sees fit in the world. But I’m too beautiful not to be smiling in your expert opinion, and you took it upon yourself to remedy the situation.

You aren’t the first man to tell me to smile, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. The nerve this takes on your part is infuriating and frightening, but it’s also pretty damned commonplace.

Here’s what you don’t know about being female: it’s an open invitation. For unsolicited advice. For demands on my time. For blatant staring. For following me out to the parking lot. For asking repeatedly for my number even after I make it clear I don’t want to give it to you. For calling me a stuck up bitch because I’m not interested. How dare I not be interested. Because you are a catch. A nice guy.

Here’s another thing you don’t know about being a female: it’s dangerous.

The man who tells you to smile inside the building could be the same man who forces you into his van in the parking lot. He could be the same man who follows you home from the store. He could be the same man who lashes out at you physically after you refuse to give him your phone number. You just never know. So, you learn to perpetually walk on eggshells, because it’s better to be safe than sorry.

When I go out in public, I never stop looking over my shoulder. I take constant note of my surroundings and watch the men around me, tracking their movements. Are they too interested? Have I seen one of them a few too many times in the store? My mind runs nonstop, assessing, planning, worrying, anticipating the worst case scenario.

That’s what it means to be female.

Here’s one more thing you should know: my public face doesn’t belong to you. I don’t owe you a smile. I don’t owe you anything at all. Internalize that shit. Breathe it in and keep it there. Hear me when I say that that if I’m out buying groceries or poking around stacks of books from my local library, simply inhabiting the same space doesn’t give you the green light to exert your will over my behavior. I could be dealing with any number of personal tragedies. Or I could just not feel like smiling at that exact moment. It really doesn’t matter. Mind your own fucking business and let me do the same.

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Why I Stopped Apologizing

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Women apologize all the time, endlessly, like broken records. We’re socialized to be polite and self-effacing, to not share our conflicting opinions unless absolutely necessary, to keep our heads down at all costs or risk being called a bitch. If someone gets our order wrong at a restaurant, we apologize for being a bother. If someone misunderstands us, we apologize for being unclear. We apologize for the people around us and for events that are completely out of our control. The list goes on and on. I’ve even started numerous sentences off with variations of I’m sorry, but I just don’t agree…

I used to incessantly apologize all the time myself, of course.

But I’m currently in recovery.

Why’s that, you ask? I read an article a few years ago about this phenomenon in women, how their default method of conversing in the world of men is apologetic in nature. It struck me then that the article was describing my exact conduct. It was chilling. The revelation honestly shook me to the core. I spent days questioning everything I had ever said or done. When we fuck up, we should apologize–it’s what decent people do–but why the hell was I apologizing for having an opinion, for doing my job, for correcting someone in a situation when they should have been apologizing to me? It didn’t make any sense. I decided right then and there that I was no longer going to apologize simply for being who I was and speaking my mind.

It was interesting to me to find how insidious this practice of constantly saying I’m sorry had become in my daily life. I literally had to clench my teeth to keep from spitting out an apology during my day to day interactions with the people around me. It was like quitting some kind of addictive substance cold turkey. I had the shakes. I was lost without my apologetic crutch, which had held me up for years. I felt like an asshole for not prefacing an explanation with an I’m sorry. But that feeling eventually went away and, let me tell you, the result has been liberating.

It’s not that I’m adverse to admitting when I’m in the wrong. I absolutely do that (no one is perfect, of course, but I try to own up to situations where I messed up or said something off base), but my constant, almost involuntary apologies are a thing of the past.

If you’re a woman reading this, I challenge you to listen to yourself throughout the day. Measure your running guilt level (mine stays quite high no matter what I do; oh, the joys of womanhood!) and keep track of how often you either apologize or feel as though you should have done so. I was shocked to see how often I offered the phrase I’m sorry in situations where my male counterparts just kept rolling, and rightfully so. Men aren’t socialized to question themselves incessantly. They aren’t told that meekness is more honorable and attractive than assertiveness. They aren’t called bossy when they dare to lead. They are called ambitious and strong. They are looked up to and revered as straight shooters who get things done. I remember being called bossy as a kid like it was a bad thing. I needed to keep my opinions to myself and let others (boys) have a turn to talk, even when my ideas were better. I come from a family with a strong maternal figure. Mom didn’t raise me to take shit, but society gets its hooks in you regardless. I learned to temper my strong opinions with apologies–a spoonful of sugar to help that medicine go down. It worked, but it took a toll. When you preface what you say with an I’m sorry, it loses its authoritative edge. It diminishes it, and you.

We deal in words. We think in them, speak them, and use them to define ourselves and the things around us. The ones we choose to utilize matter. It’s how we cut our path in this world.

So, ladies, I challenge you to stop apologizing unless you’ve actually done something wrong. Being born female is nothing to be sorry over. Be bossy. Have opinions. Correct someone if they’ve gotten it wrong. Don’t hide your strength behind constant conciliatory statements. Be bold and whatever the hell else you want to be. Cut the path you want to walk in this world using language that lifts you up instead of tearing you down. There will be people who don’t like it, and that’s fine. You don’t owe them an apology or an explanation.

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Here’s One of My #MeToo Stories, Because Every Woman Has Them

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I ran cross country and track in high school and loved it. When my dad retired from the Air Force, we moved to Florida the summer between my sophomore and junior year. I wasn’t happy about leaving my friends, but at least I had cross country to look forward to in the fall. The team wasn’t as competitive as the one I’d just come from in Kansas and there were two coaches, one for the boys’ team and one for the girls’, which was another change.

Things were strange from the beginning, and they got worse as the days went on. First, Coach Rocky stared at us. It was unsettling and constant, but hard to put a finger on exactly why (we were kids, y’all).  Second, he didn’t like us hanging out with the boys team. I found this odd, because my team in Kansas had been very cohesive, with all of us hanging out and chatting before and after practices. You know, like a team? Third, he would also put his arm around us or drop a hand on our shoulders or backs. Some girls seemed okay with this. The rest of us weren’t, and we started to actively keep our distance. I’ve always had a thing about strangers touching me. I value my personal space and only want it breached by invitation. He made a habit of coming up behind you and pulling you into a half hug that felt all kinds of wrong. I clearly recall telling him to stop touching me. And it did stop, for a bit. And then it was back to unwanted hugs, his big, sweaty hand sneaking onto your back or shoulder, followed by the feeling of wanting to twist out of your skin. Keep in mind, we all ran in our shorts and sports bras (it was four p.m. in Florida and felt like running on the surface of the sun), so he was touching bare skin.

I eventually talked to some of my teammates about how uncomfortable this shit was making me. Another new girl, S, had been catching rides home with Coach Rocky after practice a few times a week. Her mom worked late and wasn’t always available to pick her up. Maybe because I was vocal, even in the face of one of the senior girls who didn’t see a problem with anything that was going on and told me so, S confided in me that the coach would put his hand on her leg on the drives home. He knew she was alone at home after practice, and often had her sit in the car in her driveway for several uncomfortable minutes before getting out of the car. I didn’t know what grooming was back then, but I understood this was fucked up. So, I assured S my mom could drive her home that night instead.

On the drive, I told my mom why S needed the ride and filled her in about all the other creepy incidents that had felt so wrong over the first half of the season. The following day, my mom made an appointment with the vice principal to discuss whatever the hell had been going on during our practices. In the meantime, I tried to get other girls on the team to agree to come in to speak to the VP with S and me. There were zero takers. I could see the prospect made many of them uneasy. But the senior girl confronted me, calling me a bitch for even considering doing something like this because I would ruin Coach Rocky’s life and he had a family to support. I was going to get him fired over nothing.

I’d like to say I called her a bitch right back, but I didn’t. I doubted myself and felt guilty at the thought of his family. Did I really want him to lose his job over this? Was it really that bad? Unwanted hugs? Repeated invasion of our personal space even after being asked to stop? It felt wrong, but maybe making a big deal out of it was a mistake…

The fact that I ever second guessed myself like this infuriates me to this day. An older girl who should have known slightly better than I did (looking back, I can appreciate that she was a baby herself) blamed me for whatever repercussions this grown ass forty year old man might face for his inappropriate actions. I internalized that blame and questioned my gut. I’d rather have just shown up, gotten through practice, and then went on my merry way without him leering at or trying to put his hands on me. I didn’t want any trouble, but I didn’t want any of this shit either. Even at 16, I understood this wasn’t right. Not to mention that my mother had already made the appointment with the VP and she would not have backed down on this for anything.

The appointment itself was an absolute shit show. S, my mom, and I were all crammed into the VP’s office. We told him all about what had gone on. S couldn’t even look up from her lap, but she told him everything, including the shady shit that had happened on the multiple rides home after practice. After hearing everything we had to say, the VP said: I hug students all the time and it’s never been a problem.

My mom shot back quick as you please: Do you make a habit of hugging students even after they ask you to stop?

The VP admitted that he didn’t do any such thing. We found out later that he was actually pretty good friends with Coach Rocky. There was quite a bit more back and forth between the VP and my mom, and then the meeting ended. The result? Coach Rocky was immediately fired and barred from reentering school property.

Just kidding! Gotcha!

What actually happened first is the girls were informed that we were no longer to run in just our sports bras. We needed to wear t-shirts to practice for hours in the blinding sun and ninety degree temperatures. Because having our stomachs and backs exposed was the problem, not the man in his forties who couldn’t keep his goddamned hands to himself. Senior girl was pissed about this development and blamed me, of course.

Meanwhile, my mom was still making noise with school officials. Eventually, Coach Rocky did get removed from his position with the girls’ cross country team, but he retained his job teaching handicapped students and was able to carry on coaching the girls’ basketball team. I had friends on that team who said he was doing the same shady shit to them too. He was later fired for sexual abuse of one of his handicapped students. I wonder if the VP asked her to stop wearing such provocative clothing first. Bros before hoes, amirite?

This story isn’t remarkable or earth shattering. It’s actually pretty commonplace. We all have one that’s eerily similar, right? We weren’t believed. We were told it wasn’t a big deal. We were blamed. We doubted ourselves and felt guilty for getting someone else in trouble. When we talk about the sickness inherent in our culture, this is what we mean: a society in which teenage girls are made to bear the responsibility for attracting the attention of a 40 year old man.

We were kids. We were there to run. We didn’t do a fucking thing wrong.

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Dear Men: Mind the Culture Shift

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This is an Open Letter to Men:

It’s hard not to notice the flood of big names being dislodged from their place in the cultural firmament by accusations of sexual misconduct as well as the hashtags #metoo and #BelieveWomen lighting up your social media feeds. I just want you to know that the discomfort you’re feeling right now is only the harbinger of the rapidly approaching change on the horizon. Get used to that discomfort, because women are no longer taking your shit and we’re ready to put our collective foot down. The days of saying and doing whatever you want without consequence have ended. The culture is shifting. Don’t you feel it moving under your feet? Almost like a rug being pulled unceremoniously out from beneath you? I feel it too, and women like me will do whatever we can to make sure that shift is irreversible.

Maybe you’ve never had a woman stand up to you and call you out for some sexist shit. That doesn’t mean you’ve never fed into the systems of oppression used to keep the so-called ‘fairer sex’ in line. And being called out is a strange feeling, right? It’s uncomfortable. Disorienting. Sometimes rage inducing. It just doesn’t jive with the unfettered way you’re used to moving through the world, unchecked and boundless. Oh, to know that freedom. To live and breathe it. To act with complete autonomy, your very existence blessed by society’s warm embrace.

Women don’t know that freedom. We can’t even imagine it. We navigate a world uniquely suited for our male counterparts, attempting to find our place in it. We watch what we say, how we dress, the way we interact with the men around us whenever we venture out in public, always on the lookout, ever vigilant in case a situation suddenly goes sour. And if something happens, if a man takes liberties, follows up his wandering eye with wandering fingers or worse, it all comes back to our conduct, our clothing, our words. Or it did. Before the culture shifted like an earthquake under our feet, shaking some sense into society for the first time ever. Now, all of a sudden, men are being called out for their bullshit, no matter how small. They are being challenged. No longer taken as the fount of objective truth, men are being forced to explain themselves and their bad actions, their words, their ‘jokes’. This has led to a lot of defensiveness. A lot of #notallmen. Rivers of male tears and treatises full of mansplaining.

Here’s my advice: if a woman voicing the opinion that men need to do better triggers your defensiveness, instead of challenging her with the blunt force of your masculinity, ask yourself why you’re so defensive. Is it guilt over past actions? Is it fear that control is slipping from your fingers faster than you can keep hold of it? Is it anger that a woman has the audacity to stand up to men behaving badly? Whatever it is, that’s your emotional labor to burn through, not hers. And if you honestly want to be a man who doesn’t objectify, shout down, shame, or oppress women, then you should want to be better and that means accepting advice and criticism. How else does a person change? The culture is infected, and no one can be born into it and live with it without sipping on that poison. To cast it out takes more than lip service. It takes deliberate action that doesn’t stop as long as you’re alive. Doing better is a process. But if what you really want is for women to post #metoo on Twitter and Facebook one day and then allow the sexist status quo to continue the next, we aren’t about to have that. Those days are done. Change is coming. Jump on the train or get bowled over.

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