I’m 21 and I’m Sick of Men

 

 

 

When I was 4, I sat on a Day Care Class trying to figure out how to draw a star on my paper while my classmate’s dad sat beside me and slipped his hand under my shorts.

 

When I was 7, I wanted to experience swimming when my uncle volunteered to take me into a deeper part of the sea during a family party and promised to never let me go. His fingers never let go of my crotch.

 

When I was 12, a playmate was about to move and I decided to sleep over their place on her last night with me. I was awakened by hands pressed on my barely developed chests.

 

When I was 14, we didn’t have aircon at home and summer nights were impossibly tolerable because we needed to seal all the windows and curtains at night, because someone unidentified comes unpredictably, carrying a flashlight, peeping at me and my sister while we were asleep.

 

When I was 16, I was walking to my class with sore feet when an old male instructor offered a ride. I gladly accepted. He suddenly placed his hands on my lap and asked for my mobile number.

 

When I was 17, I was walking home from class when two drunk school boys blocked my path, gripped my arms and won’t let go until I gave them my cellphone number.

 

When I was 20, I was invited at a birthday party, took shots of tequila with friends, tended to my throwing up companions, then suddenly dragged into a bathroom by a friend who didn’t accept my “no” and went on attempting to kiss me, pulling up my dress and taking down my shorts. All I did was pin myself on the bathroom floor  trying to talk my way out of it.

 

I’m 21 now.

 

And still, I hear people say, “what did you wear?, It’s your fault for showing too much skin”. But…..I didn’t. I was in my uniform, I was in a long dress, I was in my pj’s.

 

And still, I hear people say, “why didn’t you fight back?, why didn’t you call for help?, why didn’t you shout?, It’s your fault for not ta action”. The fear had caused me to get nailed at where I’m at. The loud thumping of my heart was deafening me out. The terror I was keeping in blacked my brain out. The fear of embarrassment shut me up. Oh, how much I hated myself for not being able to react the way people ideally expected.

 

And still, I hear people say, “Why were you there?” “Why did you pass by that road?” “Why did you chose to ride that vehicle?” “It’s your fault for putting yourself in that situation”. I’m sorry, for not knowing that bad things may happen. I’m sorry, for putting too much good faith on other people. I’m sorry, for being a woman.

 

I’m 21 now, and I’m tired of men.

 

Men who are no better than a dog told “No”.

 

Men who degenerates women into a mere object of pleasure.

 

Men who thinks catcalling is cool.

 

Men who were born as males at part, but cowards at heart.

 

Men with no balls, but full of scum.

 

Men who act like they weren’t born and raised from a woman’s love, compassion and strength.

 

I am sick. Sick of them. Sick of all their bullshit. Sick of their existence. And also, challenged. Challenged to raise a son, far from their image.

 

But my faith is high up, and my hope unswayed, that not all are like them. That there are those who value decency, and morality, and respect. And I am living for them.