Dear Man in the Blue Minivan,
Sometimes street harassment isn’t calling me ʺbaby,ʺ asking me to smile, or commenting on my outfit. Sometimes street harassment isn’t on the day when I wore a cute top and got attention, or when I am walking home late from a bar and my hair is tossed.
Sometimes, street harassment is in broad daylight, on my way to work, and not in the form of a ʺcompliment.ʺ
Today, street harassment was a man from the comfort of his car, waiting to turn on a walk signal, angrily yelling at me to ʺmove my fat ass along.ʺ
Sadly, I’ve grown fairly used to street harassment in my daily life; I’ve perfected the sunglasses-on, earbuds-in, ʺcan’t see, can’t hear youʺ technique. Granted, most of these harassers use words to get my attention disguised as a compliment, perhaps a chance to make me blush. I’ve never said anything or asked them to stop —
Sunglasses-on, earbuds-in.
But, today I wanted to say something. Not just because you degraded me with an asinine insult or because our interaction was within earshot of coworkers. Today is different because I’ve realized something. Thanks to you, I realized not one damn soul on earth has the right to talk about my body the way you just did.
Including myself.
I’ve struggled with body image issues most of my life. The words you threw at me are the same I’ve said quietly in my head, wishing my fat ass would just hurry along. I have belittled and disrespected myself in more ways than you ever could.
You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you that I hate intersection crosswalks. Seems unreasonable, right? But, I hate them. I abhor the feeling of a dozen cars lined up, fixing their gaze on the people walking through a crosswalk. I’ll get a flurry of thoughts all at once; is my skirt too short? Did I wear something too tight? Do I look too large? Can they all see me?
After years of growing stronger, learning to love myself and step broadly into the sun for all to see, you took a small sliver of that acquired love-of-self away from me. All at once, I became afraid of crosswalks again. Not because a car might hit me if I miss the light, but because your vulgar words made you feel empowered and stripped me of my confidence. I hate that I allowed you to make me feel that way and that you have managed to stain that area of the street with memories of your negligent and unnecessary pass of judgement.
To the woman on the sidewalk who said, ʺthat’s so rudeʺ and shook her head when he drove off, thank you. Your three simple words in solidarity were my saving grace and snap back to reality, that no one, not even myself, has the right to disrespect my body.
So, dear man in the blue minivan, I will use my body in the best way I know how — to share this story and inspire others to feel a little braver when they step into a crosswalk. To be what the woman on the sidewalk was to me: solidarity.
Sincerely,
Sara
Location: Washington, DC (intersection near Logan Circle)
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See the book 50 Stories about Stopping Street Harassers for more idea
