Being Sexually Assaulted Doesn't Make Me Less of a Man

Strength speaks up.
Boy with his fists up.
Vimeo/Daniel Antebi

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In this op-ed, Daniel Antebi, a Sundance Ignite Fellow, explains how the women of #MeToo gave him the strength to speak about his own assault. He created a short film about how societal ideas of masculinity can hurt male sexual assault survivors.

I was never explicitly told that being a man meant hiding all of my feelings. It was implied.

My sweet Latinx father would give me kisses on the cheek before bed, yet I had only seen him cry once. In elementary school a few boys threw me to the ground and kicked me. When I yelped in pain, I was told by a male friend to “suck it up.” In my early teens I shared with other young men the pain mental illness brought upon my family. When I welled up with tears, one boy’s reaction was to laugh at me. As I climbed the ranks of my martial arts studio and began to compete in tournaments, I was taught that “real men” didn’t complain when they were injured. I was taught that “real men" are strong.

Sadly, at this critical time in my life, I came to believe that being strong meant hiding my pain. Of course, this false lesson failed me — and it caused me the most grief after I was sexually assaulted.

When I was 14, a male athletic instructor took advantage of me. He used my eagerness, respect, and trust against me. He made my skin crawl when he should have made me feel safe. He violated me.

My instructor may have left me defenseless, but so did my conceptions of masculinity. My abuse was composed only of pain. If strong men do not feel pain, how could I both speak up about my experience and still be considered a strong man? I was hurting, but other men ostracizing me was terrifying. Societal expectations of masculinity disarmed me because they did not allow my experience of manhood.

Eventually, my pain was so deep that I hinted about the situation to another instructor. He told me “not to read into things, fagaloo” and to “not be a sensitive punani.” I was being told that male survivors are inherently gay and feminine, and that those were bad things. If I wanted to be a man, anything but gay or feminine, I could not have been assaulted. I was essentially told that real men are too strong to be assaulted. I felt as though I needed to hide my experience; I did not want to seem weak.

Later in college, my friend was raped by another man. I consoled him. I empathized when he didn’t want to publicly accuse his abuser. He felt it would seem weak. He told me he was angry all the time. I found myself asking, Why is it weak to be a survivor of assault?

Soon after the #MeToo movement began. I heard women around me champion survivors’ strength and their vulnerability. The bravery it took for these women to move through their fear and pain was clear to a large portion of the public. The #MeToo movement helped me overcome my fear — it taught me a new definition of strength.

When men aren’t given the space to be vulnerable we often seek to dominate vulnerability in ways that are toxic to society and ourselves. We hide our pain so we don’t seem weak.

But do not confuse weakness and vulnerability. It is not weak to share your pain. Sharing pain takes vulnerability. To be vulnerable takes deep strength.

Strength is tender. Strength is sharing feelings of a full spectrum — not just anger. Strength is doing the right thing when it’s hard. Strength taps into love.

Strength is speaking out about your abuser when the whole world is watching.

Strength speaks up.

If you or someone you know has been sexually assaulted, you can seek help by calling the National Sexual Assault Hotline at 800-656-HOPE (4673). For more resources on sexual assault, visit SafeBae, RAINN, End Rape on Campus, Know Your IX, and the National Sexual Violence Resource Center.

Related: Terry Crews Opens Up About Alleged Sexual Assault

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