An open letter to my coworker:
It’s a Monday morning and we’re making small-talk.
Like, “How was your weekend?”
“You see that fire out in Calabasas?”
“It’s been so cloudy lately.”
“So, how about that rape letter?” you say.
Yeah, you saw I’d posted about it “like seven times.”
Yeah, I tell you it makes me angry. Angrier than usual.
“Listen,” you say, and you pause, like: “I’m trying to figure out how to phrase this.”
That’s when I pull out the thick skin.
You know, the kind women always keep tied around their waists like an extra flannel shirt, ready to throw on before meetings or rape trials, or walking down the street, or making small talk at the office,
The thick skin that says, “I’ll try my best not to get offended by what you say because I know how offensive it is to have my own opinion.”
“People are saying that it’s 100% his fault and 0% her fault,” you say hesitantly.
You say it the way women are taught to speak, afraid of their own mouths. “And I agree…”
“But…” you say. “But don’t you also agree that this whole thing could have been avoided if she had just been more responsible.”
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