Alicia Wallace, the Bahamas, Former SSH Blog Correspondent

It can be tough to explain to people that street harassment, though normalized, is not normal, and the practice is not linked to the culture of any country. It happens everywhere, and affects a broad spectrum of people.

Street harassment looks, sounds, and feels different depending on identity, location, time of day, and any number of other factors. The harassment I experience on a daily basis in Nassau is unlike harassment in any other place I’ve visited. I’m accustomed to the go-to names, phrases, and gestures of people in my city, but placed in an unfamiliar city, I don’t know what to expect, or how to respond. Language barriers prevent me from making assessments with the same accuracy as when I completely understand what is being said. Having limited knowledge of a place can be disempowering, changing the way I respond to harassment.

A few months ago, I went to Los Angeles for a conference. I was on a tight budget, so I stayed about 90 minutes away from the conference location and spent a lot of time walking and using public transportation. My experiences of harassment were less frequent than in Nassau, but put me on edge. I constantly thought about how desolate the bus stop near my hostel looked and felt at six o’clock every morning, and the fact that I couldn’t change my routine. Harassers could easily determine my routine the next day – or night – and find me there, alone and vulnerable. I thought about the long wait I had, every night, on the bus stop near the conference location. It didn’t get much pedestrian traffic, so even in the dark of night, I felt safer there than I did at the one near the hostel.

After the conference, I decided to visit a friend in Riverside. Everything I’d heard about Riverside suggested that it was pretty quiet, conservative, and, quite possibly, boring. I was fully prepared to wander around, aimlessly walking up and down streets, peeking into small stores, and hanging around the university area. I found that most people kept to themselves, not really bothering to pay much attention to anyone else. I was quite confident that I was in a relatively harassment-free zone. That changed on my birthday, when I decided to venture out a little further. I had to go through the main public transit hub.

As I made my way from a bus stop to the hub, I approached a group of middle-aged women who were hanging around a food truck. One was laughing and talking with the person in the truck, and the other women sat on the ground with their backs against a building on the other side of the sidewalk. As I got closer, the woman by the truck turned to face me, and looked me up and down repeatedly. She spoke rapidly in another language to the other women, making broad gestures toward me. As I walked between her and the other women, she turned the sidewalk into a catwalk. She kept saying things like, “That is nice!” and “You are so sexy!” For the first time, I felt conflicted about my response. This was a woman, clearly my senior, telling me she loved my ensemble, but what about all the other things she said? Should I smile? Say “thank you”? Pick up my pace? I didn’t know what to do, so I did all three. Even when I was well past her, she kept calling after me. It felt odd and uncomfortable.

Just when I started to feel a bit less weird, I approached a group of men in their early thirties, offloading a truck. They stopped to hoot and holler at me. Never before have I had to walk through the people who make me feel uncomfortable and at-risk of sexual assault. Generally, I can safely cross the street at any point in Nassau, but bigger cities don’t give that option. The only way was through, and I made it.

It was another twenty steps before I got to the main hub where a man in his twenties kept asking me for my number, where I’m from-from, and if he could go with me. It didn’t take long to shake him. I quick-walked to the furthest end of the station and sat on an empty bench. I put my earphones in and played an audio book.

Within a few minutes, another man – approximately 40 years old – came to the bench where I sat alone. He talked at me for about five minutes before he got angry. He aggressively questioned me about my reasons for not responding to him. He asked me if he was too ugly, or if I thought I was too good for him. Eventually, he came to the conclusion that I thought he had no money. He took out his wallet, crumpled up bills and threw them at me. He pelted me with money as no less than a dozen people looked on, silently.

In Nassau, I would have read him the riot act. I would have addressed that crowd, and told them they had just witnessed assault. I would have explained to them that they perpetuated that act of violence against me by remaining silent. I would have told them what it means to be a good bystander. I would have told that man that he should have been ashamed of himself, and that I am not object for sale. I am not a problem he could literally throw money at to solve or dissolve. Because I was in Riverside – a city I really didn’t know – and an area I had not explored before, I did none of these things. I didn’t know the culture of the place or its people. I didn’t know where the nearest police station was. I didn’t know how to call for help with internationally roaming. I was a sitting duck – the perfect target for street harassment. It was later that day that I returned to the spot with chalk. “I was harassed here. No one helped me. Don’t stand by. Stand up.”

Street harassment is a reality in every part of world, and there’s no way to identify potential harassers. They can be of any gender, race, or age, and could speak any language. They could feel deprived or entitled. They can talk at you and let you walk on, or may want to escalate the situation, causing you physical harm or public shame. These things can’t be predicted, especially if you’re in an unfamiliar space. While it’s empowering to respond, it’s important for people experiencing harassment to be mindful of cultural differences, deficiencies in knowledge of a place or people, and overall safety. Sometimes the safest thing we can do is walk away. We can always hollaback later.

Alicia is a freelance writer and public educator in Nassau, Bahamas. You can connect with her on Twitter (@_AliciaAudrey and on her blog.

Luiza Pougy Magalhaes, France/Brazil, SSH Blog Correspondent

I am very mouthy and outspoken, so I find it very difficult to keep my mouth shut when I am catcalled. However, I know from experience, that a smart-reply can put me in a dangerous situation, so I usually don’t say anything. Instead, I rely on my friends to listen to my rants regarding the issue. Often, I’m told to just ignore it. Well, I wish I could. Unfortunately, I have always been very bothered by what people have to say about me.

As a child, I was a late bloomer. I was also an awkward little girl with pale skin, big round glasses, frizzy hair and a shy personality. Of course, people loved to point that out. They made me believe that these were not just insecurities of mine, but actual flaws. I felt ugly, and therefore, I was unworthy.

Then, puberty finally caught up with me. My unkempt hair turned into flowy and wavy locks, contact lenses replaced my glasses, and my white skin and slim frame suddenly became charming. There was a new found attention on me. I finally felt beautiful and that made me feel like I owned the world.

I made the streets my catwalk. My clothes became shorter, tighter and there was make-up on my face. That shy girl had emerged into a young woman with overflowing self-confidence, a handful of sass, and a hint of superiority.

However, I soon came to realize that not all attention is positive. You see, a lot of it was unwanted and unflattering. Strangers were shouting at me, cars were honking and men were staring. There was whistling, glaring and catcalling. Just like that, I no longer felt beautiful and wonderful, but instead, dirty and disgusted.

I was no longer a girl, or a woman, not even a human being. I was an object of sexual desire. It was repugnant, and it was exhausting. My confidence changed into fear and my walk became uncomfortable. My routes were no longer determined by convenience, but by likelihood of harassment. My sass and superiority developed into anger and revolt. It was beyond me how such repulsing words could be masked as compliments.

One day when I’d had enough, I decided to swap my short skirts for sweat pants, and to ditch my make-up and contact lenses. Surely enough that would stop them. If only I was right.

As a child, I felt cursed for not being beautiful, but as time passed, I had begun to feel that beauty was the actual curse. However, that day I understood that actually, the only curse is society itself.

It saddens me to say that I was, and still am, a victim of the hideousness that is today’s society. One that is capable of making a little girl feel unworthy and a young woman demeaned. All because of her looks.

And there’s so little I can do about it.

Harassment has nothing to do with beauty or choice of clothing. Harassment is never the fault of the victim, and unfortunately, can’t be avoided in any way. The same applies for any kind of violence against women, for that matter.

Unfortunately, the ones who hold all the power are those who choose to harass. And I don’t know why they do it either. Maybe to feel in control and dominant, to disempower women, to reassure their masculinity or maybe, it’s just sexual frustration. For whatever reason it may be, it needs to stop. Harassment has impacted me greatly, and it continues to everyday.

The saddest part for me is knowing fully well that I have had it easy. There is an abundance of girls and women out there fighting much harder battles than mine. When will society realize that these battles are all of ours to fight? When will the urgency of this issue sink in? I hope, for me and all girls and women out there, soon.

Luiza is a 20-year-old from Brazil who considers herself a citizen of the world. As a teenager she moved to Singapore and now she studies International Business in France.

Liz Merino, Massachusetts, USA, SSH Blog Correspondent

Nothing makes me happier than the time surrounding dusk on a summer night. Though quick to set, walking under the sun and into the stars is both a beautiful and humbling experience.

I walk my dog, Clancy, down a main street and into the surrounding neighborhood in Dedham, MA. One street in particular is my favorite, with a winding curve, a canopy of trees and the Charles River along its edges.

What I don’t enjoy, though, is the street harassment that accompanies my nightly walks. Beeping car horns, tires slowing down and yelling out of windows is not what I want, or need, when I leave my home. And I know I’m not alone.

“Everyone seems to go crazy in the summer… When I lived Downtown there was one day I got hit on 13 times, just wearing a white tank top and shorts. Half of the men were yelling at me from across the street, yelling ‘hey baby’…. after an hour and a half I just went home. Later on I changed my outfit,” said Boston resident Stephanie Pan.

According to 2014 Stop Street Harassment statistics, 65 percent of women have suffered from street harassment in the U.S.

Maybe I should just suck it up and ignore it. It becomes so routine that most of the time I do. But my mother always worries, and in that, I suppose I should remain aware. If I’m staring at the vivid blue sky as I leave my office in Boston for too long or gaze into the accompanying woods along my Dedham walk, who will be staring back unbeknownst to me? A stare? A long look of undressing, stripping layer of layer of my clothes off my body, is more what I should call it.

“When walking through Boston, I find ignoring it to be the best solution, but it’s not a panacea. The anxiety reverberates. I always have a plan of escape ready, and think of what items in my bag are easily accessible and can double as self-defense weapons. I understand that sometimes it’s meant to be harmless or a compliment, but that does nothing to pacify the fear because letting your guard down means being more vulnerable than you already are,” said Rachael Durant, a Framingham resident interning in Boston for the summer.

I don’t want to be called baby or sexy when I’m walking anywhere during my day or night. I definitely don’t need to be told to come over and f*** you either, because you’re sitting in the safety of your car, and the traffic light is turning green, and you’re gone but your words are still echoing around my ears.

I didn’t leave my house for you.

I walk three blocks on my way to work in the financial district. Some mornings are great, the sun shines and with an iced coffee in hand I enjoy a quiet walk before my day begins. Other days though, are not as pretty.

Instead of the beeping horns as in my walks in Dedham, I am accompanied by close, under the breath remarks and whistles I wouldn’t even use on my dog. It comes from all types of men, some my age, some old enough to be my father.

I usually return a hard stare, a few choice words of ‘don’t talk to me like that,” or ‘who do you think you are?’.

“I logically know that not every person I pass, specifically a man, is looking to attack me… I shouldn’t walk with headphones in so I can hear if someone’s coming up behind me. If I walk closer to the street, it’s easier to get away,” said Berklee College of Music student Kathlynn Sell about an area of Boston near her school.

I actually had a man almost follow me my whole way to work last week. I noticed him staring at me on the subway. After we made eye contact he looked away, but throughout the ride I could feel his eyes on me as I read my book. As I left the subway station and looked back he was there, and again when I looked back at the next corner. I walked into a Dunkin Donuts and prayed that when I came out, he would be gone. He was.

A million thoughts ran through my head. What if it wasn’t bustling Boston rush hour? Would someone have helped me if I screamed or caused a scene? What if it was night and I was alone?

“Before I left for college, my dad wanted me to take a self-defense class. I didn’t. But when I moved into my first apartment, he made me bring an aluminum bat that I kept near the door – so that should give you an idea of what he’s told me over the years: ‘Don’t throw the first punch, but come back swinging,’ said Boston resident Alex Lane.

As summer sets in, please remember that bare arms, naked legs and pretty dresses are not an invitation to make comments at me, or about me, or any other women you may see.

The clothes we wear are not for you. Like most people, I’m just trying to get to my job, back to my house, and enjoy my walk along the way.

When does street harassment start? Who does it happen to? Why does it happen?

In reality, it knows no age, color or sexual preference.

“My mother is very paranoid, she was so paranoid that when I was younger she made me take Tai Kwon Do classes, she made me carry an umbrella, knives. When I turned 16, my dad bought me a Taser,” said Pan.

The list of reasons why street harassment happens would be exhaustive to write, and for you to read. But the fact that it happens, I think, is enough to reflect on for now, and how you will challenge it next time it appears in front of your eyes, because it will.

Liz is a recent graduate of Hofstra University with a Bachelor of Arts Journalism degree. She is currently a staff writer for a marketing agency in Boston. Follow her on Twitter @slizmerino and Instagram @elizabethmerino93.