That’s What She Sed Ministrare

Amazing post by Alice Bradley ’91

Read the whole post, “On being an object, and then not being an object,” here. 

But now, I don’t know, I may be slightly more intimidating these days, because I am 42. I am middle aged. Being middle aged renders you invisible to the kinds of creeps who dole out harassment, so you’re mostly left alone. I’m really enjoying it. Not only do I not miss my youth, I am pleased to be rid of it. 

To be a young woman in our culture means that you exist, from an alarmingly young age, for the appreciation of others. Therefore, your every feature is fair game for public appraisal. 

It means you become accustomed to a certain kind of gaze: a cold survey of your merits and deficits. 

It means you tense up when you walk past a group, any group, of men, because you know they’re going to say something, it may or may not be positive, and either way it’s not going to leave you feeling good about yourself. 

It means you can’t look sad or even neutral in public because a stranger, a man, will inevitably order you to smile. 

It means you automatically flinch when a guy looking at you passes a little too closely, because you know he’s going to murmur something in your ear. You know it. And then he does, he murmurs damply into your ear, and you feel like you need to disinfect that entire side of your head and you turn and shout, “WHAT DID YOU SAY TO ME,” but by then you’re invisible. He’s done. He doesn’t bother to acknowledge you. No one does.