I am a 24-year-old man. And I am a feminist. Here's why.

I am a feminist. As a 24-year-old young man living in today's society, I have never been completely comfortable telling anyone publicly that I support feminism. But it is "taboo" to be a young man and proclaim your support for feminism. It would mean that you are either overly sensitive, gay, or weird. Society's expectations of men and women are very clear and explicit: Men must be macho, aggressive, and dominant. Women must be submissive, quiet, and sexually timid. It is important for my generation to unite in the conversation that is often suppressed by our popular media and politicians. We need to stop labeling feminists as "feminazis," "prude," "selfish," "boring," or "arrogant." We must realize that being a feminist is not limited to one's gender. Feminism is not a movement towards male oppression, but rather a movement towards equality for all genders. I came to this realization through my personal experiences with harassment and violence against women.

"Amanda" was only 14 years old when she was sexually and verbally harassed by a high school math teacher and several fellow classmates. She wasn't a student at the high school. She was a visiting 8th grader from a local middle school on what was supposed to be a day to explore her future high school. "Mr. Cook," our math teacher, was a tall, middle-aged man, witty in humor and sometimes explicit when he instructed his classes. He also had a tendency to grope his female students in a rather sexual way. One time he had tried to kiss a girl who had been accepted into college. Nobody really said anything, and the boys laughed. The girl had been startled and humiliated. I had laughed too, afraid if I didn't I might be accused of being gay, or a loser, or worse. My laugh was not easy. It was a nervous laugh. Deep down I knew what Mr. Cook was doing was inappropriate. I thought to myself, what should I do? Go tell the office? But what if they laugh at me and tell me I'm overreacting? Isn't the teacher fiercely protected by a union? I kept silent. 

Four months later, Amanda came to visit the high school. After math class, the lunch bell rang and the students dispersed as usual. Amanda had nobody to hang out with, so she stayed in her chair. She was minding her own business when one of the boys asked her how old she was. His name was Sean. Unlike me, Sean was outgoing and loud. He made his opinions of others known regardless of how it made them feel. I befriended him not on the premise of a true friendship but out of fear that he would spend the four years of high school criticizing me about what I wore and why I was quiet. The moment he asked Amanda how old she was, I knew something was going on. "I'm 14," she answered nervously. He laughed at her and pointed out to the other boys how big her breasts were for her age. I expected the other boys to laugh, but what was worse than anything was that Mr. Cummings joined them. This wasn't teasing. It was sexual harassment.

The boys and Mr. Cook spent about 15 minutes of her lunch time discussing the size of her breasts and asking how many boys she had slept with. Amanda was a brave girl. She laughed it off. I knew she was suppressing her feelings. I knew I was just as guilty as they were by acting as a bystander and not stepping up for her. But I was intimidated. I decided to take the incident to the principal, Mrs. Phillips. I felt certain that Mrs. Phillips, a highly educated woman in her 60s, would be someone I could trust to protect me and, most important of all, to protect the victim, Amanda. However, my assumption was incorrect. Mrs. Phillips admonished me for "putting the school in a legally challenging position" and I was suspended from school for three days pending an expulsion hearing.

When my parents threatened legal action against her and the school, Mrs. Phillips allowed me to come back. However, she had told all the other teachers about my intention to "demonize a teacher." Instead of moral support, I lived with shame and humiliation for the next two years of high school. Amanda's father filed a suit against the school and moved his daughter to another school district. I never saw Amanda again in person, but we are friends on Facebook. I wanted to reach out to her regarding the incident to better understand what victims of sexual abuse and violence go through years after the incident takes place. I have decided not to for fear that it may rekindle memories that have been put away.As upsetting as these events were, they would not be my last personal encounters with sexism, misogyny, and harassment.


By senior year in high school, the stern faces of the teachers had slowly dwindled, and Sean had "forgiven" me for being "a little bitch boy," as he put it. I never protested that. Nobody cared about or remembered that incident any longer. But those memories are forever ingrained in my mind. I think about it often. The boys and the teacher who are perpetrators have most certainly moved on with their lives. But Amanda might not have. I certainly have tried to move on with mine, but sometimes it's harder done than said. My parents were hosting a graduation party for about 130 seniors at our home, including Sean and his friend "Jason," two of the boys who I had watched harass Amanda.

I still remember the girl's face. Beet red. Naked from the waist down, she was curled up like a snail picked up in the rain. Her hands were covered in dirt. She was wailing. I just stared at her. I was so shocked beyond disbelief that I didn't know what to say or do. I didn't know what had happened. Had she been hit by a car? Attacked by a stranger? I called the police. She was taken to the hospital and a preliminary investigation was conducted at our home that night, where the graduation party had taken place. Evidence suggested she had been raped. It wasn't until later that she identified my friends, Sean and Jason, as the two attackers.

My father admonished me. "Don't ever invite a whore into my house unless you want to leave this house forever." Those were his words to me. He wasn't punishing me. He was punishing her. Somehow, she was a "whore" in his eyes. But what about the two boys, Sean and Jason? He didn't mention a single negative word about them. He didn't praise them, either. They just didn't matter. They were boys. "They were having sex with her." That's all he said. My father, is a prominent member of our community, "quashed" their investigation. Those were his words. And he chuckled when he talked about it. He also sent a letter to the parents of the girl, essentially trashing their daughter. Less than a year later, the girl committed suicide.

Part of me wanted to ask Sean and Jason about it. But I have never spoken to either of them from that day forward. They both went on to college and have good jobs. And me? I wake up sweating in the middle of the night, and cry myself to sleep at times. I have nobody in my life who would understand this, what I saw, and what I went through. None of my friends. I feel like a building is pressing against my heart. I don't see a therapist anymore, either. I just think about that girl and cry.

[Note from Emily Lindin: I have kept this poster anonymous in order to protect the identity of "Amanda." If you would like to be in touch with him directly, please leave a comment or email unslutproject@yahoo.com.]