Archives for February 2012

Today was the second time I’ve experienced a creepy guy in the cafe at London’s Wellcome Collection. I’d been working in the library solidly for about four hours and was looking forward to a well-deserved coffee and biscuit break, so went down to the cafe. I choose a window seat right in the corner with my back to the cafe so I could read my book in peace.

Despite the cafe being half empty, a guy sat directly next to me (the window seat areas aren’t massive, so it’s an odd choice). I immediately clocked him as a potential problem, and sure enough, he starts the performative posturing: sighing loudly, throwing papers onto the desk in what I presume is supposed to be a masculine and assertive fashion, tapping his pen, etc., etc. He hasn’t bought anything from the cafe, and is evidently more interested in watching what I’m doing than filling in his many pieces of paper.

I’m so sick of this – it happens a ll the time, that a guy is clearly trying to get attention by making me feeling uncomfortable, yet it’s not enough for me to be able to ‘complain’ about it. Lately I’ve taken to simply getting up and moving elsewhere (as I had to two weeks ago when a guy chose, in an almost empty train carriage, the seat directly opposite mine) and that’s exactly what I did today. I want to enjoy my coffee break without being eyeballed and made to feel like I’m ‘fair game’ by having the audacity to take a break from my work in the middle of the afternoon.

Predictably, almost as soon as I pointedly moved to another area, he decided to leave, having obviously finished all that important paperwork….

– Jen

Location: Wellcome Collection Cafe, London, UK

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I have been harassed all my life. I try not to let it dictate how I dress, but I am always grateful when it gets cold outside because then I have the added protection of a coat and maybe even a hat and scarf. Even then, I am harassed, when men cannot even see what I look like. It’s simply because I am young, and a woman, and, to them, an object.

It started when I was young, maybe ten or eleven. I was visiting my uncle’s house with my family. He lived near my grandparents in a very poor part of the region. His next-door neighbors’ son still lived at home, even though he was in his 30s. I had never spoken with him or interacted with him, yet as I got in the car to leave my uncle’s house, he looked at me and deliberately made oral sex motions with his hands, gesturing toward his penis. My parents were turned the other way, talking to my uncle, so they did not see this. I was young enough to not understand what he was doing right away, but I knew it was something bad. I never told my parents, maybe because I was unsure of what I really saw or maybe because I was afraid of “causing trouble”.

Later, in college, I got hit on by boys all the time, driving in their cars shouting, “Hey sexy!” or “Wanna get in my car?” I dismissed it as drunkenness or the “frat” culture.

My worst experience, though, was when I was studying abroad. I took the same route to school every day, walking, although I should have taken a taxi. I never felt particularly unsafe in spite of the high level of comments and innuendos by men. One day, I crossed a walking bridge. I saw a young man, maybe in his 20s, approaching from the other side, and I made sure I was far to the right so he could pass. My eyes were lowered. Suddenly, I was pressed against him, my schoolbag smashed between us. His face was near my neck, and I felt his hands squeezing my ass. It felt like forever, but I was in shock. I had never had someone touch me in public, and somehow I thought that being in public in daylight made me “safe.” Finally, I started screaming, and the man ran away. I stood, shaking, on the bridge, as two businessmen walked up the stairs. They had to have heard my scream, but they did nothing. They didn’t look at me or even acknowledge my presence. I cried all the way to school and never walked alone again. I only told a couple people about it.

Months later, I was at a bar and going to retrieve my coat with my friend from the coat check. We passed two young men as he walked, and one reached around and pinched my ass. I turned around, in shock, and he gave me this slow smile, like he knew I really liked it. I wish I had run after him; I had friends that were standing near the exit waiting to leave. I didn’t though, and when I expressed my extreme anger and frustration over the incident, my friends seemed nonchalant, as if I should expect to be groped a little because I dared to go to a bar. They did not know my previous encounter, so maybe they did not understand how violated I felt.

Whenever I walk somewhere or take public transportation (which is often now that I live in NYC), I am on my guard. I can spot a creeper a mile away, and I will do anything to get my distance from them. I zigzag away from men on the street, no matter what they look like, because you never know when one will get a little too close so they can making a kissing sound near your ear or make a lewd comment. I have actually had men look at me in confusion when they go about their day but happen to get too close and I leap out of the way in fear. I can’t help it – I’ve learned to consider any man on the street a potential predator.

– Anonymous

Location: Unnamed places and NYC

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I’m not exactly sore how this happened, but… I actually was diagnosed with psychosis after I was upset because of harassment.

It was the summer of 2005, the happiest summer of my life, a week before my sophomore year in high school began.

I was a plain dresser, but I decided to wear a long pale green chiffon skirt and a shirt with sequin flowers, when I went to buy some candy and lend a movie from the library.

When I walked through a small square, this pretty normal- looking man glared at me and said in a grumpy voice, “Nice boobs”.

I was absolutely horrified, and couldn’t do nothing else than put um my middle finger. He did the same with both of his hands, called me a “fucking asshole” and started roaring to the sky, “All women are whores!”

The memory still bothered me; even after all these years, I still hear his voice. I still hear him even in my dreams.

It’s so weird, only a silly little comment about my boobs and I completely flew over the cuckoo’s nest; I have been in a mental hospital three times and have attempted suicide.

I think the reason is that I have been troubled a lot in my life, so to say, the seed of the mental illness I suffer from had been planted at me at a early age and the harassment made it bloom.

That’s why I fight the good fight. I’m a one woman army, and I will NOT give up!

– Miia Ylitalo

Location: Vantaa, Finland

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