My female friend and me on the train were approached by a group of teenage boys. They wanted our telephone numbers, we said no multiple times, they didn’t stop. We said we have boyfriends. They pulled out a knife and said they’re going to stab our boyfriends.

– Anonymous

Location: Germany

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See the book 50 Stories about Stopping Street Harassers for more ideas

This is what happens street harassment becomes racism and victim shaming in one…

I was street harassed today in Portland, Oregon. I was just minding my own business just waiting for the bus at College Square in Gresham. The bus was a few blocks away and I hear, “Hey sweetie! Hey sweetie! Hey sweetie!” after a few moments, I turned around and told the African-American male in the red car who was cat calling me that my name was not “sweetie”.

Instead of stopping after I told him to just leave me alone, he decided to call me a fat white trash whore because I refused to talk to him. He started pulling his ID out and kept kept calling me a white trash whore and bragged about working at OHSU. He proceeded to call me ignorant, uneducated, as I kept telling him to stop bothering me and that he was wrong in calling me ‘sweetie’. I was not his wife or his girlfriend and he had no right, to calling me a term of endearment that ONLY my husband should be allowed to call me.

He became abusive all because I refused to acknowledge his presence and called him out. He kept saying “My president is black! My president is black you racist white trash whore! You should be sucking my dick!”

Where does he get off saying that? He doesn’t know me and my husband is Latino. Maybe he thought I was a racist all because all I wanted to do was to get from point A to point B and I just wanted to be left alone.

The bus arrived a few moments later, and he pulled out of the parking lot flipping me off, I told the driver the situation and cops were called especially when I told them it looked he was going to pull a weapon out on me when he pulled out his OHSU ID. An older woman on the bus started complaining about being held up and started victim blaming me, and asking why I was not smart enough to go into a store. I’ve done that before and had the harasser follow me. The bus was the safest option for me, but yet I kept being insulted by this ignorant older woman all because I made her late.

The older woman called me a ‘stupid white bitch’ until the police officer arrived. One thing I learned today, even if the guy was white and still did the same thing, it still would not have been okay. If I were an African-American woman and the same exact thing still happened, and I still stood up for myself, I would still be called racial slurs. Why? Because no matter what color my skin is, it would still not be okay to call me “sweetie” when you are not my husband. And this type of behavior from ANY man, no matter what his race, or background is NOT okay!

– DW

Location: Portland, Oregon

I was 16, maybe 17 tops, an American exchange student in Thailand. I was walking home from a friend’s house, about 7:30 or 8 p.m. The street was lit only by the lights pouring out from some bars and restaurants along the side, deserted except for one man following behind me.

He was a little too close for comfort, so I took some random corners to try to get him to stop, but he continued following me. In a pool of light up ahead, I stopped and pretended to be searching for something in my purse, allowing him to pass me and get plenty far up ahead before I started walking again. Just seconds later, HE DID THE SAME THING until I was forced to pass him. He started walking again when I was just a meter or two ahead of him.

As I got onto a slightly bigger road but just as deserted road, the beacon of a brightly lit 7-11 glowed a hundred meters ahead of me. It was in the opposite direction of home, but it was lit and guaranteed that there were people. I took the opportunity and went in, thinking I would call my host family or a friend to come pick me up if I still didn’t feel safe.

He entered the store right behind me, and I kept my eye on him from where I was pretending to look for a snack. He also pretended to be browsing, just an aisle or two away from me. I was closer to the door.

When he turned his head down to look at something, I made a beeline for the door and booked it home, not stopping running until I was at my front door, out of breath and fumbling for the keyhole.

It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened to me, and it certainly wasn’t the last.

– Anonymous

Location: Nakhon Ratchasima, Thailand

Saturday, before dusk while the sun was still shining, I decided to walk home through Prospect Park, alone, like I do more often than I could ever count. I was the jerk walking the wrong way on the bike/jogger loop from Grand Army Plaza to the south east gate, because it’s quicker to get home that way.

I notice a young man giving directions to a couple. I pass them. I hear a call from the young man I passed, but assume he’s calling after the couple he just gave directions to. I keep walking. Suddenly, the man is next to me and says,“Hey.” I don’t make eye contact but mutter, “Good evening” under my breath. He falls back behind me. I can feel him walking behind me, still. He catches up again and says, “Can I get your name?” I say, “No,” keeping my head down, making no eye contact.

He walks ahead of me; I let out a sigh of relief. He stops. As soon as I pass him again, he speaks to me again, “Why are you playing so hard to get?” I look straight ahead and keep walking. He walks behind me. He keeps walking behind me. He passes me. He waits for me to pass him. He follows me again. I take out my phone and furiously text everything to Jarrod, to keep my hands busy, to call for help if it becomes necessary.

I feel the man drop space between us. I don’t dare look over my shoulder. By the time we reach the boat house, where I can hear—I shit you not—the Electric Slide from an ongoing wedding, I don’t sense his presence, and this makes me more nervous. A middle aged man with limited English approaches me on my left to say, “You know that man is following you? You must be careful.” I say, “Yes, I know he’s following me. Thank you for looking.” He says, “I think he’s gone now, but you must be very careful.” I thank him again. I call Jarrod to recount the story, now that I’m s ure the follower was out of earshot. I leave the park, hop in a cab, and don’t go home.

The sun was shining this whole time. We must have passed hundreds of people: cyclists and joggers and fellow walkers and zoo-goers and picnickers and merry-go-rounders and an entire wedding. I was on the well lit, paved path the entire time (though he walked along the wooded space above the curb). Police officers are always circling that road. That’s why I always walk that way–it’s ostensibly the safest. I refuse to not go through the world as an independent person just because I also happen to be a woman. I was wearing jeans and a tee shirt. I engaged as little as possible. I left the park when I approached a gate. I got in a cab. I didn’t go home. An official report would close with, “And then nothing happened,” simply because I eventually made it home safe.

– Anonymous

Location: Brooklyn, New York