Week 6: Food Memory
(Warning: discussion of sexual harassment)
I didn’t know where to find the bus stop. Not a good thing, seeing as darkness had already fallen and I was walking past a trio of young boys who were accomplishing the unlikely yet common feat of looking like trouble while doing absolutely nothing.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Good. The road I was on fed into a larger avenue, and I saw buses on the other side of that street.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Were they talking to me? I swung around the boys and crossed the road. I needed to cross the larger avenue, but the light was on to cross in the other direction, so it provided an easier escape route. Two concrete dividers and three separate signals separated me from the far sidewalk.
“Hey bitch! Hey bitch! Hey bitch!”
I paused on the first divider. The next walk sign promptly turned on. I crossed. No green light for the final leg of the crossing yet. I looked back. The trio hadn’t left their hangout spot to follow me. I allowed myself a soft laugh. What made today’s set of troublemakers think that “hey bitch” was going to work to get someone’s attention? I don’t answer to “bitch.” Those boys don’t have a right to my attention just because I’m walking by.
I crossed the far avenue. I found my bus almost instantly and took a seat. The bus pulled out of its station and lurched along the road. I peppered a few laughs at the boys through the twenty-minute ride to my destination. Faced with a choice between amusement at how someone could think treating me like a piece of meat was acceptable and apprehension of walking home from work in the dark, I chose the giggles.
I still remember the day when I taught myself the hard-earned lesson that I didn’t have to indulge these people. A man chose the seat next to me on the bus, despite the numerous open seats he could have chosen. “Where are you headed?” he asked.
I lied.
He trotted out the ultimate bullshit indicator: “Are you from England? You have an English accent.”
Can you develop a plausible English accent after spending one week in the country ten years ago and watching the occasional movie with English actors? “No, I don’t.” I kept looking at him. I had to harmonize my need to get this man to go away and my social conditioning to be nice to everyone I met.
“Want to go to [sketchy college bar] with me?”
I saw the light: You will never see this man again. You never want to see this man again. So why do you care whether he thinks you’re mean?
“No.” I put my headphones in my ears and turned up the music.
Unfortunately, I don’t have to engage with these men for them to have an effect on me. They can take my self-confidence and replace it with a feeling of being covered in a scummy film. I hate to say that, because it makes them sound powerful when they're just plain pathetic, but it’s true. My most professional outfit, a pantsuit reserved for job interviews and court appearances, draws the most catcalls. When I put on that suit, I feel a rush of empowerment. I see myself in the mirror and think that I’m a proper professional woman instead of a barely-employed new graduate. But when I am harassed on public transit on my way to and from the courthouse, I temporarily feel like food instead of a proper professional woman.
Laughter helps. But even when confidence returns, residue from the scummy film remains.
Thanks to zia_narratora for her beta feedback!
I didn’t know where to find the bus stop. Not a good thing, seeing as darkness had already fallen and I was walking past a trio of young boys who were accomplishing the unlikely yet common feat of looking like trouble while doing absolutely nothing.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Good. The road I was on fed into a larger avenue, and I saw buses on the other side of that street.
“Hey! Hey! Hey!”
Were they talking to me? I swung around the boys and crossed the road. I needed to cross the larger avenue, but the light was on to cross in the other direction, so it provided an easier escape route. Two concrete dividers and three separate signals separated me from the far sidewalk.
“Hey bitch! Hey bitch! Hey bitch!”
I paused on the first divider. The next walk sign promptly turned on. I crossed. No green light for the final leg of the crossing yet. I looked back. The trio hadn’t left their hangout spot to follow me. I allowed myself a soft laugh. What made today’s set of troublemakers think that “hey bitch” was going to work to get someone’s attention? I don’t answer to “bitch.” Those boys don’t have a right to my attention just because I’m walking by.
I crossed the far avenue. I found my bus almost instantly and took a seat. The bus pulled out of its station and lurched along the road. I peppered a few laughs at the boys through the twenty-minute ride to my destination. Faced with a choice between amusement at how someone could think treating me like a piece of meat was acceptable and apprehension of walking home from work in the dark, I chose the giggles.
I still remember the day when I taught myself the hard-earned lesson that I didn’t have to indulge these people. A man chose the seat next to me on the bus, despite the numerous open seats he could have chosen. “Where are you headed?” he asked.
I lied.
He trotted out the ultimate bullshit indicator: “Are you from England? You have an English accent.”
Can you develop a plausible English accent after spending one week in the country ten years ago and watching the occasional movie with English actors? “No, I don’t.” I kept looking at him. I had to harmonize my need to get this man to go away and my social conditioning to be nice to everyone I met.
“Want to go to [sketchy college bar] with me?”
I saw the light: You will never see this man again. You never want to see this man again. So why do you care whether he thinks you’re mean?
“No.” I put my headphones in my ears and turned up the music.
Unfortunately, I don’t have to engage with these men for them to have an effect on me. They can take my self-confidence and replace it with a feeling of being covered in a scummy film. I hate to say that, because it makes them sound powerful when they're just plain pathetic, but it’s true. My most professional outfit, a pantsuit reserved for job interviews and court appearances, draws the most catcalls. When I put on that suit, I feel a rush of empowerment. I see myself in the mirror and think that I’m a proper professional woman instead of a barely-employed new graduate. But when I am harassed on public transit on my way to and from the courthouse, I temporarily feel like food instead of a proper professional woman.
Laughter helps. But even when confidence returns, residue from the scummy film remains.
Thanks to zia_narratora for her beta feedback!