Sexual Intimidation in College by a Professor
My story comes out of a place fraught with a medieval power dynamic and internal structurality that, in many ways, set the stage for my encounter. I was nineteen. I was bright-eyed and naive and in college, and I needed help with the process of rasterizing a map for one of my classes. I did not anticipate that my professor, mid-conversation in office hours, would start rubbing his crotch, as if I couldn’t see — or maybe the point /was/ for me to see. The door had been shut due to an earlier offer from him for more privacy over my concerns. But I needed my problem to be solved for my map project. So I sat for ten extremely uncomfortable minutes, he rubbing his hard crotch through his pants and staring at me in my eyes, while I maintained a firm gaze and asked my questions. I was shaken. I left immediately after and swung the door open, all the while he kept asking me if I needed more help. I never returned to his office hours for fear that his act of sexual intimidation would escalate to physical coercion. But like all stories in the MeToo campaign, I faced him again and again after this incident. We took photos after I graduated because, hey, he was partially responsible for filling me with that coveted UC Berkeley knowledge. I imagine a world in which women are not seen as vessels.