purity culture

The other night, I went out to a bar.

I’m not a big fan of bars.  They’re typically noisy, crowded, and full of drunk people–pretty much all things I prefer to avoid.  But my sister’s friend has a couple of sons who play in a band, and my sister’s been telling me how good they are for some time. Every time they were on, however, it seemed to coincide with my orchestra concerts.  The season is over now, so I agreed to a night out with my sister and her friend’s family.

She wasn’t wrong–the band was good.  Not my typical music choice, but I recognized most of the songs they covered (they play 70s and 80s hard rock).  I did have to giggle at one point when my sister said, “Doesn’t this song bring back memories?”  I was about six at the time the song was new, so not really.  Still, it was a good time.

Until Mr. Gropey showed up.

Now, I have to say, I’d had my eye on him for a while.  He already seemed like the creeper type, so I wasn’t unprepared.  And in this case, having a crowd helped; out of necessity, I was maintaining my seat at our table just so I could have breathing room–there was no way for me to be cornered anywhere.  He sidled up to me and whispered, “Having a good time?”  How he missed the glaringly obvious wedding band, I will never know.  Maybe he just didn’t care.  After all, he looked to be in his late 40s or early 50s, and he’d had no problem hitting on the 21-year-old at our table.  Regardless, my response was something fairly non-committal like, “Uh-huh” while simultaneously avoiding eye contact.

He didn’t take the hint.  He snaked his arm around me and put his hand on my waist just above my tailbone.  Fortunately, I was seated on a bar stool, so he couldn’t grab anything lower (not that he wasn’t making a valiant effort).  I’m quick.  I stuck my elbow in his ribs and flipped him off.  He backed away, but not before trying to engage my sister–as though she hadn’t just witnessed all his behavior for herself and would look twice at him.

Now, I’m not telling this story to get sympathy or to ratchet up some kind of Angry Feminist cred.  I’m telling the story because I think it’s important to talk about these things, particularly among Christians.  No doubt some of those who read this are going to make assumptions about me or my clothes, or they will judge me for setting foot in a “seedy” environment.  They might assume I was under the influence of alcohol.  Didn’t I know what I was getting myself into?  This is the message that is sent by the Modesty Police.

There was a time when I would indeed have felt guilty for being in a bar and for dressing nicely.  I would have felt as though I had encouraged his behavior somehow or that I deserved it.  Hell, I probably would have felt guilty just for listening to the kind of music the band was playing.  Not anymore.  I know that I have the right to be where I want to be and feel safe.  I’m not eternally damned for my choice in music or clothes, and I wasn’t the one in the wrong when a creepy guy tried to cop a feel.

In the twenty-plus years I’ve spent in churches, the vast majority of the time I’ve heard more about how I’m supposed to behave as a woman with regard to my body than just about any other topic.  Church leadership frequently set themselves up as Sexuality Hall Monitors, and comments about modesty, sex, availability, femininity, submission, and what we do with our reproductive parts abound.  Those things permeate nearly every discussion, even when they seem irrelevant.

In all the time I’ve been in churches, I never once heard any pastor or leader give a sermon on how men should keep their hands to themselves.  Not one.

Is it any wonder, then, that people don’t come forward more often with stories of how we’ve been publicly groped?  We desperately need people to stand up and tell their stories when these things happen, because we need to create safe space–especially in our churches–where everyone understands and agrees that it’s wrong no matter what.  People get away with pervy behavior because they know a lot of men and women will keep silent about it.  It’s not just Christian culture that blames the victim–it’s our society in general.  If we call ourselves Christians and claim to be counter to culture, then we need to be the ones to stand up against that kind of thing.

And lest anyone think I’m forgetting about men, I’m not.  There were some pretty creepy women at that bar, too.  The big difference is that women are usually blamed in both cases–we caused men to put their hands on us, and it’s obviously (and rightly so) a woman’s fault if she grabs a guy’s ass in a bar.  But I get the sense that while men are rarely held responsible for “leading her on,” they are supposed to be flattered by the attention and are not supposed to feel violated by it.  (I really can’t speak to what happens if men do this to other men or women to other women; in my previous churches, I doubt that would have been addressed at all, which is pretty telling.)

I don’t feel like anything that happened was terrible or tragic.  It was gross, and I was offended, but it wasn’t the worst thing I’ve experienced.  My point is that it was still wrong, and we need Christians to stop fixating on what people are doing consensually with their genitals and start addressing what’s being done against people’s wishes.

Because of my natural personality and my own life experiences, I feel pretty fortunate that I can look back on this and have a good laugh at Mr. Gropey’s expense.  The next morning, my husband and I were in church and the title of one of the songs listed was in German.  He suggested that if someone gets fresh with me again, I should just shout at him in German–that’s sure to scare him off.  Then he got a wicked gleam in his eye and said, “Or you could just play sweet church lady.”  I knew exactly what he meant.  I told him that next time, I’m just going to ask the guy if he knows Jesus as his personal savior.

Maybe I’ll earn some Jesus points and lead someone to the Lord; who knows?*

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*Just in case you missed the sarcasm, I’m not really advocating for this as a way to get away from a perv, and I don’t really care to waste my time “witnessing” to a creeper in a bar.