Dear Sir

Disclaimer: The rise of the #metoo movement, and the turn of the tide towards no longer standing for the routine sexual assault of women inspired me to write this. It is not aimed at one individual, nor any recent event, but instead at a lifetime of instances.

Dear Sir,

You say, “I don’t normally do this.” We both know it’s a lie. I wonder if the words feel as gross to you when you say them as they feel when I hear them. As you start slow, telling me I’m nice and you’re glad we met, before making it clear that you’re ready to have sex with me if only I want to. I don't.

Dear Sir,

You remember that I met your wife, right? That we sat and talked about our children, about college, and about what we like most when we go camping. You remember that our children played together, right? They ran, jumped, laughed, and connected easily in that way that only children can. Were you already thinking then, as you looked at my blue hair and tattoos, that maybe you could do with me what you can’t do with the mother of your children? You can't.

Dear Sir, 

My body is MY canvas, and the bright colors on my skin are not an invitation. Your fingers don't get to trace their rudimentary paint-by-number designs against my flesh. You expect that my politeness will not allow me to make a scene, that I'll just stay quiet. I won't.

Dear Sir,
No, I will not smile. No, I don't need to give you the time of day. No, that catcall is not a compliment. My value does not lay in my position as a daughter, wife, sister, friend to a man. You want to think my value lays outside of who I am and what I do, and instead aligns with who I can be in relation to you. It doesn't. 

Dear Sir,
No more blaming. No more shaming. No more unnecessary explaining. I'm done.

Dear Sir.