Am I the Only One Who Cared About Denim Day?

First they came for the Socialists, and I did not speak out—

Because I was not a Socialist.

Then they came for the Trade Unionists, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Trade Unionist.

Then they came for the Jews, and I did not speak out— 

Because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for me—and there was no one left to speak for me.

Martin Niemöller

Do you read the captions on my Instagram photos, or do you just look at the photos and move on? If you read them, you may know that yesterday was Denim Day, the day in which we stand against erroneous and dangerous ideas about sexual assault by telling the world that our outfits are not invitations. That what we wear, however short or tight, does not give anyone the right to make judgments, make advances or even make faces at us. 

Nearly two decades ago, a rape conviction in Italy was overturned by the supreme court when the defense argued that since the victim was wearing tight jeans, she must have helped her attacker remove them, thus implying consent. The next day, the women in parliament all wore jeans to work in solidarity with the victim and Denim Day was born. 

Do you think this is important? Do you you care? Do you even agree with the cause? 

A few days ago, I came across an article online that offered advice on how much skin to show on a first date. "Experts" weighed in with tips I used to hear back in middle school about only showing one body part at a time and not "sending the wrong message." 

Seriously? This is 2017. 

I spent my entire education in private school and wore uniforms every day until high school graduation, and the dress code was strict. Students were required to keep their shirts tucked in and girls' skirts had to cover the knees. My skirts were always too short. Whether because I outgrew them or because, due to weight fluctuation, they didn't always rest as low on my waist as they should, I served detention at least once a week because, when asked to kneel on the floor, my skirt did not touch the ground. 

They made me kneel. Why didn't I see how wrong that was?

In the last quarter of my senior year, the office administrator, with whom I was friendly, told me jokingly that I held the record for most detentions ever served by a student at my high school. I found it funny and wore the title as a badge of honor. And then it started to sink in. How much class had I missed out on, how many opportunities to learn and study and improve myself had been taken from me because the school felt that the boys' right to an education without distraction from my knees was more important than my own education?

Sometime in college, I started to realize that I was pretty. And apparently everyone else did too, because since my junior year of college, I have not gone one day-- one single day-- without being hit on, whistled at, Facebook poked, emoji winked at or overtly stared at by at least one guy. Not one day. I am not exaggerating.  Yesterday, on Denim Day, while walking four blocks from my Miami Beach apartment to lunch, I was approached 17 times. 

I'm nostalgic for the days of Jane Austin and Mr. Darcy, when it was not socially acceptable for men to speak to women without an introduction from someone she knew. Whatever happened to those days? How come we can bring back every trend except that one?

I'm tired. I'm tired of the whistles and the stares and the interruptions. And I'm more tired of people not thinking there is anything wrong with it, even women. Especially women. 

To the girl who was my server last night at dinner, why didn't you speak up for yourself when the creep at the table next to mine kept calling you "Sweetheart?" To the girls on the beach who clearly didn't want conversation from the guy on the daybed next to you, why didn't you just tell him to leave you alone? 

Just like how the unenlightened high school version of myself didn't yet realize how wrong it was to be asked to kneel on the floor or sent to detention for the length of my skirt, I'm not sure that you, the wonderful women reading this, realize you are being mistreated. 

And maybe that's why you didn't care about Denim Day. 

Maybe you think that if I don't want to be hit on, I should stop wearing short skirts and crop tops. Maybe you think that if a girl doesn't want to be raped, she shouldn't be walking home alone at 1 a.m. That if she doesn't want to be approached at the hotel pool, she shouldn't be at the hotel pool. Maybe she shouldn't go anywhere at all. 

If this is you, I'm not going to argue with you, because the moment of your enlightenment is coming. One day, you will have been whistled at one too many times. One day, you will have been objectified for the last time. One day, God forbid, you or someone you love will be the girl in the tight jeans. 

If this isn't you, if you agree that women have a right to go through life without fear of harassment or assault regardless of their wardrobe choices, but you haven't voiced your opinion, I won't ask you why. But you should ask yourself. 

We Americans have always counted among our freedoms the right to ignorance and the right to not get involved. I am sorry to tell you that we don't have those rights anymore. Perhaps we never did.