The Issue Today

I am scared of chickens. Namely, roosters. This is due to a particularly traumatic experience I had with one a couple of summers ago. There was a rooster on my grandparents' farm that I just knew was evil. Everyone else would joke about him being tough and protective, but would never listen when I tried to convince them that it went much deeper than that. That rooster knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it. The first few days I was there, I carried a garden hoe with me whenever I was out by the barn, simply for protection. He’d come near me a few times, but whenever I made it clear I still had the hoe, he’d back off. One day, I made the fatal mistake of not only going out while I was tired but also without my hoe. As soon as he noticed that I was not armed or partially on my ‘A Game,’ he went after me. He was running, I was running. I tripped and suddenly he was on top of me. I finally got myself back up and into the house. I noticed blood on my pants and discovered he had cut me on the inside of my thigh. I told my grandma that the rooster attacked me, and she told me I'd be fine. I make sure to point out the scar on my leg whenever I see her now. Since then, it’s been a running joke that I hate roosters and that I am terrified. The truth? I am terrified of roosters, no matter how kind they may seem to be at the beginning.

Now, we’re going to go back, and replace “roosters” with “men,” and tweak the context a little:

I am scared of some people. Namely, men. This is due to a particularly traumatic experience I had with one a couple of summers ago. There was a man who I had met a few years prior that I just knew was evil. Everyone else would joke about him being tough and protective, but would never listen when I tried to convince them that it went much deeper than that. That man knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it. The first few times I interacted with him, I had my boyfriend with me, simply for protection. He’d come near me a few times, but whenever I made it clear I still had the boyfriend, he’d back off. One day, I made the fatal mistake of not only going out while I was tired, but also after breaking up with my boyfriend. As soon as he noticed that I was not armed or partially on my ‘A Game,’ he went after me. He was quick, I was sleeping. I didn’t wake up and suddenly he was on top of me. I got myself back up and into the house. I noticed blood on my pants and discovered he had finally gotten what he wanted. I told my grandma that the man attacked me, and she told me I'd be fine. I make sure to point out the scar on my leg whenever I see her now. Since then, it’s been a running joke that I hate men and that I am terrified. The truth? I am terrified of men, no matter how kind they may seem to be at the beginning.

The first story is one that I’ve told over and over again, always making those around me laugh. Everyone who hears it immediately understands why I keep my distance from roosters and don’t pressure me to like them.

The second story could ruin friendships, it could cause tension in my family. Telling that story to others wouldn’t do much, I would still be expected to go out and try until I meet a “good guy.”

I understand that not every rooster will attack me, and I know that not all guys are waiting in the shadows to hurt you. But, why is it acceptable for me to hate roosters and never want to be around one again, but when a girl is attacked, she is not only doubted but then shamed for being afraid? It’s okay to be afraid, it’s okay to take extra precaution. It’s not “paranoid” or “stupid,” it’s survival. Take care of yourselves, please. What you feel is valid. You are not weak.