Content Warning: religion, sexual assault
Driving to a bar, I notice the bumper sticker on the car in front of me—are you following Jesus this close? I’d drive backwards if I could. I’d back up into the car behind me. Stop traffic. I’d back my car into a lake and still swim away backwards. I imagine driving ahead past them and saying, don’t worry I’ll give Jesus all the space he needs. Instead, I stop a car’s length away behind them at a red light and look away, at my phone. My mother sends a text saying, don’t eat meat today—it’s Friday. I already had a turkey sandwich for lunch and ham for breakfast. The light changes green and I drive so slow that another car merges in front of me and grinds on Jesus’ ass. My mother adds, did you give something up for Lent? I want to tell her that I gave up giving things up for her patriarchal god. I want to tell her that god doesn’t care about us. I want to tell her that if there were an almighty god, they’d have bigger concerns than the food I eat. I want to tell her I’m going to order a bacon cheeseburger with a side of chicken wings and filet mignon for dessert tonight. I want to tell her so many things but I don’t. I wait to answer. I know she’ll complain later that I don’t talk enough. That I don’t let her in. That daughters shouldn’t treat their mothers this way. That I shouldn’t box myself in. That I need to let more people into my space.
At the bar a man puts his hand on my shoulder. He just wants to start a conversation but I lean away. He doesn’t step back but he puts his hands in prayer. I know he’s offended. I know I’m being rude. I know I’m supposed to be grateful for his attention. I know he wants me to worship him. I know I don’t want him to touch me. He says, look my hands are clean. If it was about clean hands, I’d spray Lysol in his face. Dunk him in detergent. Baptize him in hand sanitizer. I know that it starts at the shoulder—men want any excuse to feel for the curve of my elbow. It’s an invitation to find the hollows beneath my knees. To search for the spaces between my thighs, up and under my skirt. If it was about clean hands, I’d smile and flip my hair like I’m supposed to. The way I’m expected to. The way he wants me to. Too many men have found those places before—without asking. Without permission. Without my consciousness.
If it was about clean hands, I’d go to the bathroom to wash my shoulder. I’d scrub until my skin turned raw pink, just underdone and bloody. I’d grate my nails, peeling off layers. They say it takes 28 days for skin to shed, grow an entire layer. It’s been 10 years and I still feel the first hands—all of the hands—that have invaded my body. I’ve scrubbed down to my bones to find fingerprints etched in cartilage. How many seconds, days, weeks, years, decades does it take to erase touch from the skin?
I say nothing to the man with “clean” hands at this bar. I continue to lean away. How many men actually have clean hands? How many men ask us before grazing with their hands? How many men say nothing when they see other men reach for us? When they see us bind our bodies? I want to tell my mom I’ve given up letting men touch me for Lent. I’ve given up answering for Lent too. I’d give up this skin—give up the flesh beneath it. If I could find the right sponge, I’d scour my bones. Tonight, I don’t answer the man with clean hands or my mother or anyone. I go home, picking off each fondled flake of skin from my body.