By Lauren McEwen, Washington, D.C., USA, SSH Correspondent
I came here today to write about street harassment and race. How it affects me as a black woman, personally. How it distorts the way we speak about street harassment, as a whole. How I feel that my sexuality and freedom of gender expression are circumscribed by forces that I cannot control: history and bigotry and sexism.
The internal conversation that I have with myself each morning: Will this outfit draw too much attention? Can a black girl walk down the street in gym shorts without being harassed at every corner? I think all of these things and then I change into something that will leave less room for comment.
Regardless of how many anti-slut-shaming lectures I give myself, I know that my sexuality is not my own, but is tied to a history of excusing violence against black women and dehumanizing black women by portraying us as innately sexual beings with no feelings, virtue or value.
It’s a legacy that has been passed down since slavery and like many perverse tools of subjugation that were created back then, still affects our everyday.
For this reason, I get furious when I am harassed by black men on the street.
I understand that most street harassment is intra-racial, stemming from a blend of proprietary delusions and a sense of comfort while degrading women with a shared racial heritage. But, as I listened to the speakers in front of the Lincoln Memorial on the 50th anniversary of the March on Washington, as I feel these feelings of camaraderie and hope with people who share “my struggle,” it reinforces old feelings of disappointment and anger that I feel each time I am harassed by a black man.
I expect better from them, and I cannot shake it. As potential victims of racial profiling and police harassment, I expect black men to be cognizant of what it feels like to be unable to walk down the street without fear, or worrying about the way your appearance or body language may be perceived.
That was why this tweet from @brokeymcpoverty, during the height of the #BlackPowerisforBlackMen hashtag’s popularity rang so true that I must print it here: “#BlackPowerIsForBlackMen because when i explain not wanting to be bothered on the street, im accused of misandry/conceit/rudeness.”
That entire trending topic spoke to the myriad of ways that women have been silenced by black men in the Black Power Movement. From women standing on stage with Dr. King 50 years ago in silence, to far too many black men refusing to acknowledge black women’s problems, while expecting us to stand behind them when called.
And yet, when Stop and Frisk was finally ruled unconstitutional, I cheered along with many others. I had spent months retweeting articles about the NYPD’s discriminatory program, tapping my touchscreen violently in outrage. I shed tears watching YouTube documentaries about the effect Stop and Frisk had on black and brown men, and how police officers were forced to harass these young men in order to stay in good standing at work.
But I have literally had a black man tell me that I “don’t love” myself because I am bothered by street harassment. A strong black woman isn’t easily bothered by constant threats and leers and groping from strangers, apparently.
That hashtag, no matter how firmly rooted in truth, was called “divisive” by some loud voices. I started seeing women friends of mine, tweeting how they love black men and disagree with everything that is being said. Others began to argue that the conversation “took away” from what we are trying to accomplish as a race. That we should continue to ignore sexism in the black community just like we should ignore racism in the feminist movement.
It directly parallels the guilt trip that I have had harassers try to employ when I refuse their advances. I am sometimes accused of “being afraid of brothers,” not being attracted to black men out of some fault of my own – usually, because I am a light-skinned snob. It’s frustrating because the black community became insular out of necessity, and in my mind, using that background to justify harassing black women perverts that history. Pet names like, brother, sister, queen and king were meant to build a sort of fellowship, and now that is distorted to place the blame on me when I am turned off by street harassment.
I expect more from black men because their sexuality has had limitations placed on it by racism, as well. The oversexed man of color is the boogeyman in too many articles that I have read about street harassment. I cannot tell you how many times I have come across comment section standoffs where women of all races swear up and down that they are harassed by men of color at disproportionate rates, unaware of how strongly their comments echo assumptions made about black male sexuality from the Nadir of American Race Relations.
Studies and my own personal experiences (I tend to be harassed by black men more frequently, but not exclusively.) tell me that that is not true, but perception and reality are two separate animals.
Some feminists who have studied street harassment argue that mistreating women is one of the only spoils of patriarchy in which black men can engage. That may be true. But it does not stop me from shaking my head in disappointment every time I’m accosted by a black, male harasser.
Am I being unrealistic? Maybe. But I have also been told that it’s foolish to dream of a day where gendered harassment in public is no longer the norm. And yet, here we all are.
Lauren is a recent graduate of Howard University where she majored in print journalism with a minor in photography. You can check out more of her work at laurenmcewen.weebly.com and follow her on Twitter at @angrywritergirl.
