Now, anybody who has ever been to Italy knows that there are people on every corner of any tourist destination attempting to sell you a variety of useless baubles, knickknacks and designer knockoffs. Despite however many times you tell them you aren’t interested in buying a bracelet or a “prada” bag they’ll be up in your face a few seconds later once again attempting to sell you the same piece of garbage you declined to buy earlier. My story begins in Pisa, one of the absolute worst tourist traps in all of Italy.

At this point on my trip I was full of excitement, we had just left Rome earlier in the day, and we were en route to Florence when we stopped at Pisa to see the sights and to grab a bite to eat. Our time we had to allotted was quickly spent and I was doing a bit of window shopping with my grandparents back on the way to our meeting place. We finally arrived there and there were more vendors than when we got off of the shuttle. There were at least eight men and one woman vendor waiting for our group. My grandma, being the crafty devil she i,s decided to distract them by carrying on a casual conversation with the group of male vendors, while I sat talking to another woman in our tour group. I really didn’t notice that several men had drifted away from my grandma until I found a tray full of sunglasses shoved in my face. I politely told him no several times, being as timid as I am.

It was around the fifth or sixth time the woman beside me aggressively told him no. At this point I noticed there were about three or four men now grouped around me telling me how nice and funny my grandma was. I would quietly tell them no whenever they would shove a “Gucci” bag or “African” bracelet in my face. They then began complimenting me in an attempt to get me to buy something. It started out innocently enough, complimenting my eyes, my hair… Then they began making remarks on my figure and my breasts.

I already being as uncomfortable as I was before hand was now absolutely terrified. Here I was a fifteen year old girl, in a foreign country, and the only two people I actually knew were holding off the other four or so vendors from everybody else. The woman beside me had started another conversation with a friend of hers who had just appeared. So when they began to call me “sexy” I was on the verge of tears and attempting to get closer to my grandparents.

I eventually stalled halfway to them and curled up on the ground. My grandpa thankfully heard the harassers and swooped in and rescued me. Shortly afterwards the shuttle arrived. When we got on the shuttle to take us back to our bus I sat as far as possible from the doors knowing since not everybody had shown up yet we would be there for a while and they would still be attempting to sell their merchandise. Apparently one of them had given bracelets to my grandma for being so nice to them. He wanted her to give them to my grandpa and me. My grandma heard what had happened and was cracking jokes about how they had “complimented” me. It was then that I actually started to cry. She immediately began to comfort me apologizing for the joke. My grandpa on the other hand insisted that I at least wear the bracelet until I got back to the bus to be polite. As soon as we got back I threw it away. I didn’t want to look at it and just be ashamed of that entire experience.

– April

Location: Pisa, Italy

You walked up to me as I was waiting at the bus stop and pointed at my groceries and asked, “Can I use some lotion?”

I said “No,” then, “Please give me some space” and held my hand up when you got too close.

You stepped 5 or 6 feet back, and then spent the next 10 minutes threatening to break my neck if I ever went downtown (you wouldn’t do it here), telling me that I was a bitch, that I needed to get raped. I stood and stared straight ahead until you got on your bus. “Bye Bitch!” you yelled.

But you didn’t get within 5 feet of me. As for your question, “Who are you, f***ing Wonder Woman?”, I can only answer “Yes.”

– Anonymous

Location: Harbor East, Baltimore, MD

I was leaving work and going to catch a bus home, when I walked through the park and some sketchy man pointed at me and said, “I want to talk to you!” I was talking to a friend on the phone at the time, and said to the man, “I don’t want to talk to you!”

He said, “Yes you do!” and I replied, “No!” The man and his friends start laughing. I turned around and said, “I don’t think this is funny. Leave me alone!” He went from thinking it was funny to yelling at me. “I wasn’t trying to talk to you anyway!” he said, trying to save face.

I got back on the phone with my friend and casually said, “Oh, it’s just some harasser who’s mad because I rejected him and didn’t reply in the way he wanted.”

Business as usual…sadly.

– Anonymous

Location: McPherson Square, Washington, D.C.

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Trigger Warning.

This story is cross-posted with permission from Left Standing Up. Her story illustrates a number of things, including: 1) the vile form street harassment can take, 2) the power dynamics often at play, 3) the devastating impact it can have on survivors, and 4) how there is no “best” or “right” way to deal with street harassers; standing up to them/ignoring them/yelling at them… each type of response works sometimes while other times it doesn’t. Whatever a person needs to do to be safe is the “right” response. We as a society need to do more to make sure these incidents don’t happen in the first place.

Ten minutes. I was hitting the ten minute mark of just standing in front of the freezers, seemingly debating whether to buy a quart or a gallon of milk. Or perhaps unsure of which kind I wanted. Skim or whole? Maybe 2%? I had a pensive look on my face.

It’s the look I get when I’m frozen inside. Generally from shock. Often from fear. Almost always after a harrowing experience that’s left me momentarily paralyzed.

My allergies had been just horrific, but I’d decided to brave the run across the street to the little bodega anyway because I’d been out of dishwasher soap and milk and coffee filters for three days. As I walked up the steps to the entrance, two men walked out. Because I’m a woman who’s been trained by society not to look strange men in the eye when its dark out and they look potentially threatening, I didn’t. But they stopped in the doorway and came up close to me, speaking far louder than was necessary. “Whoa mama, look at those tits.” “Daaaaamn. Naw like really dog, daaaaaaamn.” One started masturbating and pushed up close to my face as I stared at the ground, trying to navigate around them. He rubbed himself and licked his lips as he undressed me with his eyes and loudly proclaimed what he’d do to me.

“Guys, stop it.” I said in my tired, exasperated and slightly pissed off voice.

Hollaring back is something I’ve been doing lately, but only from afar. To those men who – in broad daylight – yell at me as I pass by on the sidewalk. From a fairly safe distance I might add. When others are around.

Never before have I fought back – even verbally – to men (plural) who’ve gotten up in my face and harassed me so loudly so late at night in utter isolation.

They were pissed. One pushed me into the doorframe as I tried to pass. Both started screaming at me – “You f—ing ugly a– b—-!!” “Who the f— you think you are?!” “You’ll take it and like it!!”

I got into the store as I heard them trample down the stairs, still yelling obscenities at me. Nonchalantly, I went straight for second aisle, grabbed the soap, and moved to the freezer section.

Where I froze up completely.

And where I now found myself with a slightly pensive, mostly blank expression on my face, just staring. It wasn’t that I couldn’t decide between a quart and a gallon, or whole or skim.  It was that I couldn’t remember what I was looking for. It was that I was paralyzed with fear. After a minute the thoughts flowed, and they only made me more petrified.

They had screamed awfully loudly at me. What if they were waiting for me outside? What if they jumped me from behind the stairs as I came down? I’m carrying my house keys and my wallet – my wallet with my ID, which clearly says I live exactly across the street. What if they simply walked up behind me with a knife or a gun and forced me to open my front door for them? What then?

I didn’t have my phone so I couldn’t call or text anyone. The store owner had gone to the back stock room and wasn’t someone I’d have sought help from anyway. Minutes ticked by and still I stood and stared at the fridge. What was I doing there? Why had I come to the store in the first place? How long should I stay?

More minutes passed. I started to sneeze again, and to sweat.  Finally I looked around and thought: I have to get home. I grabbed the wrong size and type of milk, sauntered to the front, paid for my purchases, and headed to the exit.

Crossing the street, my eyes were like daggers as I took in all the potential warning signs, jumping at every leaf that crackled behind me.

I quickly bolted both my gate and my front door. Sliding down to the floor, I slowly let the tears go.

Why had they had to say anything at all? Why had they had to block my way and masturbate in front of me? Why did they have to yell at me? Why did they have to make me feel so unsafe and so vulnerable and so scared?  Why?

The ironic thing is that I had just returned from a happy hour, celebrating women’s rights and choices and power and freedom with friends and allies. After which I’d given a friend a ride home. We chatted the whole way back about street harassment. About how our male friends – allies though they were – just didn’t understand. It wasn’t just about how often it happened. It was about how often we had to think about it, and how bad it was when it did happen.

Street harassment is about power. It’s about making women feel unsafe and unwelcome all the time. It’s an extension of rape culture that results in making women feel frozen in fear of the “what if.” That fear is what has chained us for so long, its iron grip piercing our skin and invading our minds and making us feel like we’re crazy as we stare and stare at the freezer, waiting for the waves of panic to pass.

An hour later, feeling calmer and more grounded, I look back and wonder why and how it was so bad. Because few such encounters are so bad when you look back on them instead of as you experience them. And now, with the very minor distance of time, I can’t help but wonder about so many women for whom home is not a safe haven. Who wouldn’t have had anywhere to go. Who didn’t have a sister to call immediately afterwards, or a front door to bolt and lock. For most women in the world, their home is the most unsafe place for them to be.

I’m very lucky. I know that. But I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I admit it – I’m still even a little scared. I’ve looked out my window more than a few times in the last hour, because knowing you’re being irrationally paranoid about such a thing doesn’t actually prevent you from being that way.

Another 20 minutes later, and I realize I’ve forgotten the coffee filters.

But I’m not going back out again tonight.

I was walking home and two guys from my school were behind me and started yelling, “Big ass!! big ass!!” and laughing and then they kept asking me for my number and it was really upsetting and degrading.

– Anonymous

Location: Cleveland Rd, Pleasant Hill, CA

Share your street harassment story!