Just Say No

It happened. A glitch in the system. I was supposed to say no, but couldn’t.

I called my future ex-husband to get his health insurance information. We are still legally married, so whether or not he has health insurance matters to the next company charged with overcharging me for basic care. As for what else is going on in his life, I basically didn’t care. But I let him speak. I let him tell me about all the things going on with his job and how he’s learning how to do his laundry at a laundromat (he’s 36) and the next exam he’s taking and what he has going on for the weekend. I had things I needed to do. I was still reeling from the trauma of having my car broken into the day before, and trying to decide whether or not to move again for the 4^th time in 3 months, and he knew this. But I let him talk. I felt insignificant and invisible.

A neighbor who is a bit off, but seemingly harmless, chatted me up on Friday night, interrupting my apartment search in the business center. He was at the crime awareness meeting and we talked about all the issues our apartment faced, including the prostitute who had come in from the cold into our lobby. He shows me a video of a security officer Facebooking while he’s supposed to be watching the gate, and before he puts his phone away, he says, “What’s your number?” We had been talking like we were friends for several minutes and he had even introduced me to his dog, so it seemed natural for us to have each other’s numbers. We’re neighbors. But I didn’t want to give him my number. I don’t want to give any man my number right now. I kind of wish it wasn’t necessary for the man I married to have my contact info. I gave this kind stranger my phone number, though, because I didn’t want the conversation to go from friendly to awkward. I think he has some anger issues and I even called him a “shit stirrer” for checking the expiration dates on the fire extinguishers. He’s not 100% stable. I felt weird and uncomfortable.

Church has been a huge part of my life since I was a chubby little girl who lived for miniature powdered donuts with real powdered sugar and not this cornstarch crap we see today. A good Southern church always has donuts. I’d been looking forward to going to the church I attended while I was in college, and I made the march over to the Singles class, feeling a mixture of hope and shame since I have to get used to the word “single” again. I made my way over to the crowded donuts table and got myself only a bottle of water. All bread goes straight to my thighs. As I tried to turn around, I hit a man’s arm with my elbow.

“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“You’re all right, sister.”

He then held on to my elbow and leaned in. I froze. What was happening? After what seemed an eternity since he had to lean all the way forward to my stock-still face, he pecked me on the cheek. His way of saying good morning, I guess. I didn’t say anything and hurried back to my seat. I felt embarrassed and dirty.

WHY CAN’T I JUST SAY NO.

I actually have neither the time nor the interest to hear about your life, man I moved halfway across the country to get away from. I’d rather not give you my number, strange man who takes video of officers. Please let go of me, old man in church that I’ve never met. I’ve always had trouble saying no, especially to males. It can be as benign as giving my little brother or nephew money when I don’t really have it to give. It can be as sad as me being forced to give my father all the money from an elementary school fundraiser I was doing and then having to lie to the people who thought they were buying spices when they ended up getting my parents some crack cocaine. It can be as horrifying as when I was repeatedly molested and forced to perform sexual acts on or with my older brother when I was 7, 8 and 9.

I never question a woman when she comes forward with allegations of assault or abuse, especially when decades have passed. I know how difficult it can be after a lifetime of stuffing your feelings down to lay your darkest secrets out for the world to see. And the women we’re hearing from today are up against beloved and powerful men, some who even have the power to wage nuclear war. I felt bad a couple weekends ago when I went to a tailgate and told a guy that the lawn chair he was sitting in was mine and that I would like to sit in it. The invitation told guests to bring our own chairs, but I still felt like such a rude bitch. He had zero power, except for that which I gave him. Some men can make me feel ashamed and ill at ease, even when I’ve done nothing wrong.

They can also make me furious. They can make me resolve to never let anything like this happen to me again. I’m tired of being a victim. I sincerely hope that no one tries something that violates my body or my autonomy ever again, but I honestly can’t wait for the chance to tell them no when they inevitably do.