When I was twelve years old, I was a bit of a latchkey child and I didn’t have much to wear. I would sometimes wear a tank top of my older sister’s on hot days that I didn’t realize in my innocence was a bit tight and just a bit sheer. I was developing breasts and didn’t know how to handle them yet, and the tank top had built-in support that wasn’t quite adequate, but I didn’t know. I remember getting shouted at by men in cars on my way to school and feeling so ashamed and dirty, feeling like nothing I did was right, like I was being suffocated by this awful world.
I didn’t know how to dress, I didn’t have any options, and no matter what I did I was always being watched, watched, watched.
I have an hereditary problem with stomach pain, and sometimes I have to concentrate very hard in public because my stomach is hurting so badly. When I’m shouted at, I lose my concentration and the public harassment gives me physical pain. But I think perhaps that this physical pain is just a symptom of the stress that every single woman feels; they just don’t have the searing pain to alert them to it every time it happens. This stress builds and builds, in all women.
Most mornings, mostly because of the neighborhood I live in where men linger outside of stores it seems just to ogle the women going past, I still have an overwhelming feeling of suffocation when I decide what to wear. Can I wear a short dress if I wear leggings underneath, or will I still be shouted at or whispered at or addressed on the subway? Can I wear these shorts, or am I too curvy for them and will people get the wrong idea? I find myself hiding, every day.
But recently, I’ve had enough. I find myself gaining small victories. A young boy said, “Hey baby,” to me in the street. He was about twelve years old, the age I was when I started getting harassed.
I flipped around on him and scolded him, right there in the street in front of his friends. He was a child, and I just wasn’t taking it from a child.
Then, a few days later at a train station a man said, “Hello beautiful”. There were lots of people around, men and women, and police officers in the distance. (I’m not making police officers out to be white knights, but usually when they’re visible people tend to behave themselves better just in case.) I whipped around and simply said, “Excuse me?” and made him repeat what he said. Then I said it again. “Excuse me?” He started backing off, saying, “Alright, alright, lady.’
I said, “You don’t know me,” in such a withering way that he was visibly uncomfortable.
It felt so good, and I’m getting up the courage to speak out more, and in less safe situations. I really believe that we have to fight back, and we have to risk a bit of our safety to do so. It’s the only way any freedoms have ever been gained. It’s the only way they’ll listen.
Do you have any suggestions for dealing with harassers and/or ending street harassment in general?
Encourage women to speak up at any opportunity: if there is a crowd of people nearby, if there are police nearby, if you are in a group, speak out. Carry pepper spray to protect yourself, and rehearse a short phrase that you can say to an harasser to make your voice heard. No war has ever been won without risk or danger. We need to start believing in our freedom, our right to a place in society, above all else. It’s dangerous enough just walking after dark, and that isn’t going to change without brave souls willing to put themselves in the face of danger and shout it down.
– Sara
Location: Everywhere
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