Vincent Cavallero

“Are you kidding me?” my roommate responds as I decide to wait for him to use the restroom before taking my turn.

No. I was not kidding. 

I have explained to him many times before my precautions regarding a public restroom. I enter and immediately head for the handicapped stall. It is the safest place in the room. The handicapped stall provides enough room to breathe, unlike the suffocating borders of the typical five by three foot stall. When necessary, the handicap stall gives space to move around, access to the door, or the ability slip under if anyone else were to ever uninvitedly enter. I do not dare put myself through the vulnerability granted by a urinal. Whoever invented those bad boys must have been brave as hell. 

After using the restroom, I wait for the room to fall silent. As the door shuts with the last person exiting I am at last alone, and I make my escape. I wash my hands and head for the door at an olympic race pace. 

I was not always this way though. My precautions are rooted in my middle school years when I was outed by my ex-step sister about my sexuality. I had a lot of support from my friends and my brother, but most people in my grade were not too fond of the idea.

In sixth grade everyone started joining the Instagram community, and followed all of the trends. Posting their “Man Crush Mondays,” “Throwback Thursdays,” “Selfie Sundays,” and their “Woman Crush Wednesdays.” Woman crush Wednesdays were a favorite for the guys in my grade. Each Wednesday I would wake up to a plethora of notifications letting me know that I was tagged in a post. Here we go again. It was 7am and I was already 6 people’s “wcw,” and by noon I was about 9 more. 

This was not strictly an online phenomena though. Whenever I would use the restroom boys would rip me from the urinals and shove me into the women’s room. Simple solution; I turned to using stalls. Unfortunately, the walls and lock of a stall could not even provide me sanctuary. The boys would hop over, slide under, and even break open the door to attack me in my most vulnerable state. The rumors are true, swirlies are not just something that happens in coming of age films. Neither is being spat at, having your clothing stolen, or being completely pulverized by 3 middle schoolers while you helplessly lay stuck between a porcelain bowl and a solid polymer plastic partition. I used the restroom in the nurse’s office until the day I graduated Senior year.

Next time you witness someone holding their bladder to the point where they are risking a UTI, or entering an all gendered single use restroom, keep your remarks to yourself. They are doing all that they can to feel safe.