This is cross-posted with permission from author Beckie Weinheimer’s blog.
A few weeks ago when I was walking near my apartment in the well lit bike trail in Forest Hills Park, in Kew Gardens, Queens, NYC, a slight boy of maybe 15, dressed in nice school clothes, carrying a typical school backpack tapped on my shoulder a little after dusk, and interrupted my tranquil walk with an, “Excuse me ma’am.”
I took out my headphones and paused the audio book I was listening to. “Yes?” I thought he probably needed directions, or needed to borrow my phone to call a parent to pick him up.
The very last thing I expected was what followed. “Will you give me a blow job?”
I stood back, frowned, sure I had misunderstood. “What?” I asked.
“Please, Ma’am can you give me a blow job?” This kid, shorter than me repeated. He looked scared. Desperate.
“Please?”
I was horrified. “No. I. Will. Not.” I pulled my phone out of my coat pocket. “You better leave right now or I will call the police and take your picture and post it on line. Do you want that?”
He took steps backwards still facing me. “Leave.” I pointed. “Go.”
And he did.
Of course the rest of my walk was ruined. I wasn’t frightened. I could have taken on this kid. And I was close to the road and cars and people. But I was upset.
As I walked home, I called my daughter. The more we talked, the more I decided, this kid was being initiated, given a dare, and perhaps he was more frightened of the guys waiting in the bushes than he was of me. I actually began to feel badly for him. I even said a prayer to the universe asking that this kid wouldn’t get beaten up just because I said no. But what kind of universe do we live in, when this is initiation, or bullying? And why is it that so many males see nothing wrong harassing an unknown female they come across in public?
A few days later, I was dressed to the hilt, faux ankle length fur coat, dressy boots, nice jewelery, walking in Manhattan with my husband on Fifth Avenue heading toward a concert of Handel’s Messiah. As we walked and talked a street vender we were passing called out to us, “You have a beautiful wife, sir.” My husband and I were in the middle of a conversation and he didn’t even blink. I stopped several feet past the vendor and faced my husband. “Did you just hear that man? That was street harassment.”
“He just wanted to sell us something,” my husband replied. And then went on with our conversation.
“Are you not hearing me?” I stood in front of him so he couldn’t walk. “That is street harassment. He is objectifying me. He didn’t say, ‘Ma’am what a fine looking husband you have there,’ did he?”
And my husband, who is a strong male ally, a suporter of equal rights for women, and wants to stop street harassment, finally got it. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
I’ve heard men say, “I’d be happy if a female stopped to tell me I was good looking.” But because that rarely if ever happens, and it almost never turns into something more dangerous, like groping or rape, they have no clue. Really no clue.
Fast forward to this morning. I find myself in Palm Beach, Florida. Its beautiful. My husband and I drove to the beach at sunrise. He ran on the sidewalk above the beach, I walked barefoot on the sand letting the crashing waves wash over my feet. I walked past the public beach to the un-lifeguarded beach where the road above is so high up that there is a 25 ft cement retaining wall, with steps down every so often from the private homes above. I was walking along enjoying the waves, the sun dancing on the navy blue water of early morning when I felt more than heard something. I was alone on the beach. I looked up to the wall, and there at the top of one of the stairways stood a man. He stared down at me. He waved. I looked around. Totally alone. Not another person in sight. I had two choices. One turn around and race down the sand the five or ten minutes it would take to the public more populated beach. Two, I could jump into the water.
Should I try to save my iphone in my pocket or just race into the water? I knew the water was my best option. The man still watching me was fully clothed, long pants, shoes and a hoodie, all things that would weight him down in the water. I was dressed in only a tank top and shorts. The waves were wild. I am an avid swimmer, but I’ve had a few close calls in tidal waters with undertow and waves, so I had opted for a walk rather than a swim this morning. But the thought of that man coming for me, alone on the sand, was much more scary than the thought of plunging into the ripping ferocious waves.
In the end the man didn’t come down. Maybe the rod iron gate he stood at was locked. Maybe he too was simply out enjoying the sunrise and waved to be friendly.
The point is I didn’t know.
The point is females never do know when it will escalate.
My husband, running on the street above had no clue. He never will know the fear most of us females who dare to walk alone face every single day. He doesn’t have to plan escape routes whenever he ventures off the beaten path. I envy him and every other male that privilege. I hate it that I have to plan. I hate it that because a man waved to me my calm morning was sent into a frenzy.
Because yes, in my past, once on a quiet morning when I was fourteen, and a boy from my high school who I only knew by sight asked if he could walk with me on the shortcut through the fields to school tried to rape me. I didn’t have an escape plan that day, but I shoved him away as he reached around me and unzipped my dress. I shoved him and ran-the fastest run of my life.
I ran for three minutes, through sagebrush that scratched at my legs, over boulders and stones and finally skid down a steep grassy hill wet with morning dew where a neighborhood began. People were out walking their dogs and up retrieving their morning papers. Lovely, wonderful people. Gasping for air I turned back to see him at the top of the hill bent over hands on knees watching me and gasping for air too.
It never occurred to me to tell one of these blessed strangers what had just happened or to call the police. I told my mother that night. She said, “But you got away, you are fine.”
And that was the thought in that day and age. In today’s world I know my mother would call the police, call the school, fight for me. But back then we as women had so little voice to speak out.
It’s forty years later and I’m still planning escape routes. Still on the watch for a stray male who may be eying me. People who say a strange man complimenting a woman in public is nothing, haven’t had a past like mine, or sadly like most females.
I will always be planning an escape route. I’ve taught my daughters to plan for their safety in public places. My hope is that one day that if l have a grand daughter maybe she will be able to walk off the beaten path without fear, without planning an escape route. Maybe things will change. I believe they can change if we continue to share our stories, to support each other and to stand up to harassers when safety allows.
