Two of my male friends were talking about the wardrobe of a particular female. From what I gleaned, the moment a woman’s work uniform is anything less than the “normally-socially-acceptable” amount of clothing, she immediately becomes an “escort.”
Let’s ignore the fact that she’s wearing those clothes in a business owned by men, controlled by a society of exploitation and objectification that doesn’t give a damn about her as a human being. Let’s propagate those attitudes. Let’s make her less than she actually is. Let’s make her a sexual object instead of a human being. Because it’s her fault; it’s her damn fault for working there, and the patriarchy that chose that uniform has nothing to do with its lack of material. Of course not.
I said nothing. I laughed with them and made fun of that girl’s clothes. I’m ashamed of that.
I need to get better at not playing along. I need to get better at calling out the people I care about. Friendship with someone should make me more likely to protest, not less.
Tomorrow, I’ll be better.