Really, I don't know.
Linda was supposed to leave for work half an hour ago, but her van is still in the driveway. This leaves me in an awkward position, because Bill and I decided it wouldn't be so bad for him to leave me at home without any transportation (we share a car). I assured him, "I'll be fine. Don't worry. I'll just hide out in my room for a few hours until she's gone then I'll peek my head out and start my day."
Apparently, I was wrong. And I kind of have to pee!
I'll spend my time making up for lost updating. Here's a collage of the past week or so:
I went for a walk before breakfast the Friday before last as I normally do on most days. I usually stay within the four major roads around my house: 10th Avenue to the North; 1st Ave to the South, North A to the West, and Dixie Highway to the East. I walk all around the neighbourhood, but avoid the major streets because breathing in car exhaust seems leave me feeling as though I'm not getting the most out of those health benefits of a morning walk. Sometimes, I care about what I look like when I walk. That Friday, I certainly didn't. I was in ripped up jeans and a slightly oversized off-white tshirt, My ratty hair was up and hidden under a bandana like is always is when I neglect washing it.
As I was approaching the North E Street intersection on 2nd Ave, I noticed that the white car stopped at the intersection wasn't proceeding even though he had ample time before I would even need to cross. After I established that he was going to give me the right of way, I crossed the street.
I was listening to Pixies. Surfer Rosa to be more specific. One of my earbuds wasn't working, so I was able to hear when the driver of the white car yelled out "nice ass!" shortly after I had crossed the street. I turned back to see if it was actually him. It was. He then made a left turn and pulled up next to me, calling me names like "baby" and asking if I needed a ride and saying that he'd take me where I needed to go. I kind of laugh-scowled, let loose the word "no" several times and kept walking. I wasn't too uncomfortable with the situation. I had had much more insulting and/or aggressive solicitations for prostitution. "Working?" "Business?" It always makes me mad, but nothing more than that comes of it.
Nevertheless, I turned the corner and headed up North F. Within a minute, another man in another vehicle stopped next to me on the street and asks similar questions. I ignored him for a moment and then gave him a stern "No!" Jesus. A one-two punch. My ankle mysteriously started to hurt, which gave me somewhat of a sense of urgency about getting home quickly.
Two blocks later, another driver. I immediately turned the corner to head back home and whipped out my phone and called Bill at work. I needed to talk to deal with this with him because I was about to start freaking out. While I was on the phone, three other men drove by, slowing down to my pace to get my attention as they passed. I ignored them and kept talking to Bill. I couldn't figure out what the fuck was going on five times in five minutes, and a total of six during a morning stroll? As though the answer was obvious, Bill said, "It's Friday."
Fuck! Why didn't I think of that?
We live in a pretty diverse neighbourhood, in a pretty diverse town. There's a strong Latino presence, though. In fact, I'd say most people in my walking area are of some Latin ethnicity. A lot of them come from that conservative, sexist, ridiculous, Catholic ideology that raises people to believe, and a quote this popular belief, "Any woman walking alone is a prostitute."
It was pay day.
In Jersey, I felt/knew that smoking a cigarette while walking alone made me look less like a victim. Here, though, I'm thinking it makes me look more like a working girl.
I stayed on the phone with Bill until I returned home safely, just in case anything happened.
I'm sure some asshole is going to read this and say, "she's overreacting". And to that I say, "fuck you", because if we have to admit that idea of a woman walking alone [before noon--in the middle of broad daylight] includes her being approached by numerous nameless men for sex at a possible rate of an average of once per minute over the course of five minutes (as was the case on Friday) then we have to admit that the perceived severity of everything more significant than that has been toned down. The safe walk is no longer standard; dealing with solicitation for prostitution is part of the standard. If soliciting prostitution is no longer too far, then groping while soliciting prostitution is no longer far too far. You get what I'm saying. There's a ladder in sexual and violent crimes. When someone presents that it's something to get used to, the dreadful acts a the top of that escalation just get closer and closer.
The following night, Bill and I went out with Joe for bangarang pizza Cubana and a few beers. When Joe dropped us off at our house, Bill asked if I would like to go for a walk with him. I expressed my discomfort and he understood, but made the case that he was with me and that it would be better than going into our house and spoiling the night just yet. We headed North, past 10th Ave and into a neighbourhood we never even had to drive through. It seemed nice enough a place. A cop drove by, and that felt alright, recent events considered. We walked arm in arm for a short while. As we approached North D on 13th Ave, a big white truck pulled up and slowed to a near stop next to us, several feet from the intersection. The windows were tinted and it was after midnight, but I could tell there were at least three people in the cab. It scared the fucking shit out of me. I was with someone! Bill and I moved onto the grass to put distance between us and them. The light from another car which was now approaching the intersection from farther North was starting to shine from off in the distance. The white truck drove away from us. I demanded we turn around and Bill conceded. The car in the distance passed us. It was the cop car.
That was fucking incredible. My breathing was choppy and I was nearly in tears. I kept looking behind us every few moments. Bill tried to get me to stop, but I wouldn't believe that it wasn't a necessary safety precaution. Every person we saw crossing the street or under a light up the block was a threat. He even admitted that the only thing he could gather was that they were sizing him up.
The rest of the weekend was pretty rough, emotionally. I had to deal with my web of gender envy and misanthropy. Bill had to deal with the inability to puncture my reasoning for feeling so helpless. He tried, "You're a very intelligent individual--"
I snapped loudly, "It doesn't matter how intelligent I am, or where I've traveled or what I've studied, or that I'm sick, or what my favourite colour is, or whose daughter I am or whose mother I could be, or that somebody wants to spend his life with me. To men so bold and so hateful and so aggressive, what do I mean to them? Seriously, tell me. How does my intelligence factor in?"
Of course, I apologized for the direction of such a tone to him, but we both know I'm right.
If the standard walk down the street involves a woman being approached by numerous men for sex times, how the fuck am I supposed to feel safe?
We know a couple of people down here whose logic has fallen prey to some myths about rape. At least, I hope, hearing about my experiences dispelled some fraction of their nonsense about the dangers of dressing a certain way or walking alone at night. Probably not, though. They probably just think I shouldn't be out at night at all since I'm a woman.
God I hate people. Man-hating lesbians? I don't see how it's difficult to understand where they're coming from.
So that was part of what was promised in my trailer.
In other news, Bill and I told Linda that we're moving and that April would be our last month, hence the increased awkwardness. We planned it out very well, or at least tried to: Bill would do the speaking since she's far more comfortable being confrontational with me and we'd stress it was for financial reasons and that we weren't trying to do anything to her personally by leaving. We failed. She flipped out. When she found out she wasn't getting money for this month (because we paid first and last), she literally ran out of the livingroom and into the dining room, crying, screaming, and pulling her hair, then, immediately back into the livingroom and out to her bedroom and slammed the door.
Since then, she hasn't really talked to me beyond basic greetings.
Apparently, I was wrong. And I kind of have to pee!
I'll spend my time making up for lost updating. Here's a collage of the past week or so:
I went for a walk before breakfast the Friday before last as I normally do on most days. I usually stay within the four major roads around my house: 10th Avenue to the North; 1st Ave to the South, North A to the West, and Dixie Highway to the East. I walk all around the neighbourhood, but avoid the major streets because breathing in car exhaust seems leave me feeling as though I'm not getting the most out of those health benefits of a morning walk. Sometimes, I care about what I look like when I walk. That Friday, I certainly didn't. I was in ripped up jeans and a slightly oversized off-white tshirt, My ratty hair was up and hidden under a bandana like is always is when I neglect washing it.
As I was approaching the North E Street intersection on 2nd Ave, I noticed that the white car stopped at the intersection wasn't proceeding even though he had ample time before I would even need to cross. After I established that he was going to give me the right of way, I crossed the street.
I was listening to Pixies. Surfer Rosa to be more specific. One of my earbuds wasn't working, so I was able to hear when the driver of the white car yelled out "nice ass!" shortly after I had crossed the street. I turned back to see if it was actually him. It was. He then made a left turn and pulled up next to me, calling me names like "baby" and asking if I needed a ride and saying that he'd take me where I needed to go. I kind of laugh-scowled, let loose the word "no" several times and kept walking. I wasn't too uncomfortable with the situation. I had had much more insulting and/or aggressive solicitations for prostitution. "Working?" "Business?" It always makes me mad, but nothing more than that comes of it.
Nevertheless, I turned the corner and headed up North F. Within a minute, another man in another vehicle stopped next to me on the street and asks similar questions. I ignored him for a moment and then gave him a stern "No!" Jesus. A one-two punch. My ankle mysteriously started to hurt, which gave me somewhat of a sense of urgency about getting home quickly.
Two blocks later, another driver. I immediately turned the corner to head back home and whipped out my phone and called Bill at work. I needed to talk to deal with this with him because I was about to start freaking out. While I was on the phone, three other men drove by, slowing down to my pace to get my attention as they passed. I ignored them and kept talking to Bill. I couldn't figure out what the fuck was going on five times in five minutes, and a total of six during a morning stroll? As though the answer was obvious, Bill said, "It's Friday."
Fuck! Why didn't I think of that?
We live in a pretty diverse neighbourhood, in a pretty diverse town. There's a strong Latino presence, though. In fact, I'd say most people in my walking area are of some Latin ethnicity. A lot of them come from that conservative, sexist, ridiculous, Catholic ideology that raises people to believe, and a quote this popular belief, "Any woman walking alone is a prostitute."
It was pay day.
In Jersey, I felt/knew that smoking a cigarette while walking alone made me look less like a victim. Here, though, I'm thinking it makes me look more like a working girl.
I stayed on the phone with Bill until I returned home safely, just in case anything happened.
I'm sure some asshole is going to read this and say, "she's overreacting". And to that I say, "fuck you", because if we have to admit that idea of a woman walking alone [before noon--in the middle of broad daylight] includes her being approached by numerous nameless men for sex at a possible rate of an average of once per minute over the course of five minutes (as was the case on Friday) then we have to admit that the perceived severity of everything more significant than that has been toned down. The safe walk is no longer standard; dealing with solicitation for prostitution is part of the standard. If soliciting prostitution is no longer too far, then groping while soliciting prostitution is no longer far too far. You get what I'm saying. There's a ladder in sexual and violent crimes. When someone presents that it's something to get used to, the dreadful acts a the top of that escalation just get closer and closer.
The following night, Bill and I went out with Joe for bangarang pizza Cubana and a few beers. When Joe dropped us off at our house, Bill asked if I would like to go for a walk with him. I expressed my discomfort and he understood, but made the case that he was with me and that it would be better than going into our house and spoiling the night just yet. We headed North, past 10th Ave and into a neighbourhood we never even had to drive through. It seemed nice enough a place. A cop drove by, and that felt alright, recent events considered. We walked arm in arm for a short while. As we approached North D on 13th Ave, a big white truck pulled up and slowed to a near stop next to us, several feet from the intersection. The windows were tinted and it was after midnight, but I could tell there were at least three people in the cab. It scared the fucking shit out of me. I was with someone! Bill and I moved onto the grass to put distance between us and them. The light from another car which was now approaching the intersection from farther North was starting to shine from off in the distance. The white truck drove away from us. I demanded we turn around and Bill conceded. The car in the distance passed us. It was the cop car.
That was fucking incredible. My breathing was choppy and I was nearly in tears. I kept looking behind us every few moments. Bill tried to get me to stop, but I wouldn't believe that it wasn't a necessary safety precaution. Every person we saw crossing the street or under a light up the block was a threat. He even admitted that the only thing he could gather was that they were sizing him up.
The rest of the weekend was pretty rough, emotionally. I had to deal with my web of gender envy and misanthropy. Bill had to deal with the inability to puncture my reasoning for feeling so helpless. He tried, "You're a very intelligent individual--"
I snapped loudly, "It doesn't matter how intelligent I am, or where I've traveled or what I've studied, or that I'm sick, or what my favourite colour is, or whose daughter I am or whose mother I could be, or that somebody wants to spend his life with me. To men so bold and so hateful and so aggressive, what do I mean to them? Seriously, tell me. How does my intelligence factor in?"
Of course, I apologized for the direction of such a tone to him, but we both know I'm right.
If the standard walk down the street involves a woman being approached by numerous men for sex times, how the fuck am I supposed to feel safe?
We know a couple of people down here whose logic has fallen prey to some myths about rape. At least, I hope, hearing about my experiences dispelled some fraction of their nonsense about the dangers of dressing a certain way or walking alone at night. Probably not, though. They probably just think I shouldn't be out at night at all since I'm a woman.
God I hate people. Man-hating lesbians? I don't see how it's difficult to understand where they're coming from.
So that was part of what was promised in my trailer.
In other news, Bill and I told Linda that we're moving and that April would be our last month, hence the increased awkwardness. We planned it out very well, or at least tried to: Bill would do the speaking since she's far more comfortable being confrontational with me and we'd stress it was for financial reasons and that we weren't trying to do anything to her personally by leaving. We failed. She flipped out. When she found out she wasn't getting money for this month (because we paid first and last), she literally ran out of the livingroom and into the dining room, crying, screaming, and pulling her hair, then, immediately back into the livingroom and out to her bedroom and slammed the door.
Since then, she hasn't really talked to me beyond basic greetings.