Here is another brilliant take on the incident by the very cool and articulate Ian Harvie, reposted below:
People often ask: “Which restroom do you use?” I usually reply: “Which ever one I want.” But in all seriousness, I prefer the Women’s Room mostly because they smell better and men are generally filthy pigs. So why do I want to id as a man? I know, riiight. But every single time I walk into a public women’s restroom, there is always another female-bodied person in there to greet me who takes one look at me, covers her mouth gasping for air, pointing at me and then the door saying (panicked): “You’re in the wrong room!” Every time!
Some incidents are more (as my friend Margaret put it) ‘appalling’ than others. Like anyone would, sadly, I’ve gotten used to it and have come to expect it. But luckily for me this kind of experience has given me a series of card-cataloged responses I can reach for and unload whenever I ‘gotta go’. Sometimes, when there’s an incident like this, I feel like it’s a teachable moment and I have infinite patience. While other times, I want make lewd gestures, grabbing my own chest to point out the obvious. And trust me, it’s obvious! Had any of those bitches just taken a millisecond longer to look at me, she would have seen my female body. You see, sometimes I don’t have access to my internal educator. The most common recent response I pull from my rolodex is: “I CAN READ. I’m in the right room.” Sidebar: Even if I couldn’t read, I know what the stupid little skirt on the restroom door means.
My most recent experience with this type of incident was at a benefit Hulaween (Halloween) party in the Big Apple with my friend, Margaret. The setting was in an enormous banquet room with a large stage in a prestigious, first class hotel on Park Avenue. The evening included a nice appetizer of chilled pumpkin salad, glazed meatloaf and mashed potatoes – that the woman sitting next to me at table 27 thought was an oversized dollop of sour cream. She was angry that the wait staff didn’t even ask if I wanted “sour cream” and plopped it on my plate. I think it was her husband that was sitting at our table in a clergy costume that was chugging red wine and making comments like: “The Latino’s that work for me would be fighting over that.” We’re dining with racists and classists people, awesome. The dessert was a medley of cheesecake, chocolate torte and ice cream. The food on a scale of 1 to 10 was just alright.
The event was hosted by entertainer (and auctioneer), Bette Midler and friend Joy Behar (from The View). The Divine Miss M began an organization that helps restore New York neighborhood parks, gardens and plants a bazillion trees. I think I read somewhere on the Web that the party raised over $2 million for restoration and education. There were many famous folks there, rich folks, and families of the famous and rich folks. Oh yeah, I think there were a few people who worked for the famous or rich folks.
There were a couple beautiful parts of the evening. Foremost was that Willie Nelson honored for his music; his life’s work with non-profit group, FARM AID; and his pioneering new energy company, Pacific Biodiesel. Who knew Willie was collecting used vegetable oil from restaurants across the country and fueling bio-diesel engines, including his own tour bus? For this, Willie rocks! He also (country) rocked the stage that night with classics such as Crazy and Always On My Mind, but not before singing a duet with Bette. Another amazing part of the night was musical guest, Stevie Nicks and her full band wrapped up the night with all your favorite sing-along songs; Rhiannon, Stand Back, and Edge of Seventeen. Needless to say, the entertainment shadowed the strange incident that happened.
Now let’s back up for a second. Right about the time the wait staff was clunking the appetizer plate in front of me, I alerted Margaret that I needed to go to the bathroom and she decided she would go with me. When we approached I could see the line snaking outside the door of the Ladies Room. It was one of those entryways that didn’t actually have a door. There were two wide, offset doorways that made you zigzag your way into the first part of the bathroom. I think they call it a Powder Room in a fancy hotel like that. There was a mirror, some floral arrangements, and a big bench, where a 60-something, robust kind of gal, sitting on that bench putting on a pair of slacks – apparently changing out of her pirate costume. The moment I caught her eye she pegged me as a man and instantly began screaming: “Hey, you’re a man! Get out! You’re in the wrong room!” My initial response to smile it off, failed. Sometimes that works, the smile distracts people long enough to further survey my body. But not this time, she kept at it: “Get out, you’re a man! You can see me!” So I responded: “Yes, I’m a man with breasts.” Trying to stay calm, I flashed my grin again.
I felt bad for my friend who was standing close by. She and I had just had a conversation the night before about driving across country and using public restrooms. I described women’s reactions to me at rest areas in the red states (or as I like to refer to them: “The Fly Over States”), Iowa, Kansas, and Nebraska, just name a few. Women get so freaked out in restrooms when they see me. And now, my poor friend was getting a first-hand look at what happens every time I walk into the lion’s den or as most people refer to it “The Ladies Room”.
Sidebar, I enjoy the image of a first-class hotel, where a gold-plated, serif-scripted sign, hangs over a doorway that reads: “Ladies Room”. Ironically, few of the women I encounter in there are Ladies.
Before I could get a handle on the situation that was happening with the woman on the bench, another woman stepped out of line from behind me. Taking a couple steps forward, she said she knew me from the dining room, we were sitting together. She also alerted me that I was in the wrong room. As she made her point moving closer, she looked down and saw my female body and began to reach with one hand to grab my chest. Before I knew it, her other hand followed and both were on my chest and closing in. I looked down at her hands and with my hands still planted in my pockets and said: “Look at you, just reaching out.” My voice rose, not louder but higher. I repeated myself: “Look at you!” She pulled her hands away and gave my chest a ranking of “Not bad”. At this point as if ’she hadn’t dug a deep enough grave’, as Margaret put it, she jutted for one last, single-handed feel.
The robust woman on the bench changing her slacks had shut up, and Senorita Grabby Pants went back to her place in line. Shocked, I was shocked and Margaret was shocked. But I knew, from experience, anything but calm was not an option. Safety is paramount, even in a fancy Ladies Room, with a fancy sign, at a fancy Halloween party, in a fancy hotel, attended by rich, high society folks from New York City, safety first. Plus, I could see Margaret was really upset and I wanted more to comfort her than to tear into the ignorant women. Margaret looked directly at the woman standing in line and stared, daggers. The long scary daggers from Margaret continued while the line progressed. The bathroom attendant also looked at me like I was in the wrong room. I’m not imagining that. I’ve seen it a thousand times, I know the look.
Two stalls opened and Margaret and I entered. Afterwards we washed our hands together as the attendant still stared. We left by the same path we came in and I definitely felt a little small walking out, passing the wallpaper of women who lined the hallway and were witness to the events. The woman who grabbed me stepped out of line again, this time her hands were not reaching for me. I barely stopped moving as she told me she was sorry. My instincts were still in charge and I more wanted to console the woman who had accosted me. Fuck, I wanted to console all the women in there. I think my reply was: “Alright.” and gave a small nod. It was not alright, but I didn’t want to have a conversation with her about it either.
We exited the bathroom making our way back to the dining room. We stood for a moment recapping the recent event before going back to our table. A couple of women who were in the bathroom at the same time came up us to apologize about what had happened. They were sweet to offer their condolences and disbelief. We went back to our table to finish dinner and enjoy Willie and Stevie.
I’ll try to wrap up what I thought of this whole experience with the following:
First: I more often feel bad, in a pathetic kind of way, for people who walk through life that fearful, careless, and unaware. This is not to say that I don’t experience anger, I do. But I generally reserve it for processing later. But I felt especially bad in this case, because the woman who had groped me in the bathroom had to finish the rest of her night sitting at the dinner table with Margaret and me. I think of that as part of her divine punishment, having to face us for the duration of the evening.
Second: I hate that I felt small walking out of that bathroom. No matter how righteous I was and no matter how well I handled it, I slinked out of there, not wanting to take up space. I regret not walking out of there completely confident that I belonged in that rest room. Somewhere inside I still felt wrong, but not about my presence in the Ladies Room. Note to self, I need some work in this area.
Third: I always feel protective of friends, lovers, or witnesses that vehemently take my side and are angered by these incidents. This will sound incredibly contrived or corny but, I want those friends, lovers and witnesses to have mercy on the fuckwits who create those terrible situations. Have mercy.
Fourth: Some might think that this was a blatant display of homophobia. I agree with this is to a certain extent because it’s in the same family of hate. But even more, I think it was about Queer, gender, and trans phobias. But this also felt very much like a class issue. I think anyone who wasn’t as rich and privileged as the lady who grabbed me was at risk of being singled out and made an example of. Yes, as Margaret put it, “You don’t belong.”
Fifth: I hear people talk about how if men were in the women’s rest room it would be ‘a safety issue’. My response to that is this: If I were a man, which I am, but not the kind that you think; and I were going to attack you, do you really think that the little skirt logo on the door would stop me? Better yet, do you think I would wait in a line of 30 women until it was my turn, to attack you?!
And finally (for now), for the robust lady sitting on the bench changing her slacks, who started the whole thing: I mean this from the bottom of my heart. Nanna, do you really think that I wanted to catch a glimpse of your fat, old pussy? You can’t be serious? NO ONE WANTS TO SEE THAT WALNUT! Really, what the hell were you doing changing your slacks in the Powder Room of the Waldorf Astoria on Halloween anyway? You were in plain view of all of the people waiting to use the lieu. I think somewhere, deep down, you wanted someone to see that walnut. Put it away, Nanna.
By the way, I’m going to keep using public rest rooms. It will most likely be the “Ladies Room”. So ladies, be forewarned if you see a masculine person in the bathroom, waiting to use the toilet, we can read AND we know where we are!
- Ian Harvie
