"Something is messed up here/something isn't right" (WBR)

(lyrics credit Sleater-Kinney)

I don't know how coherent or polished this will be. I'm still feeling pretty pissed-off, defensive, and raw right now. But bear with me.

I've dealt with street harrassment before. Assholes who think they have the right to pass judgment on my body just because it's female and they can perceive it? Oh believe me, I'm an old pro. After having spent nearly three years as what passes for a mature female in our ageist culture (ie, I still had some growing to do at 17, but considering that according to a couple of hack evolutionary psychologists the only proper age for a female is perpetually fifteen I think I'd qualify), I should just walk out the door expecting it, right? But so far all I've gotten are the semi-benign "you're lookin' good" type of stuff, which is lecherous, but not particularly harmful. I can deal with this--I shouldn't HAVE to deal with it, but I CAN. (Though guaranteed I'll be griping about it to my therapist.) And it won't bother me for long, though I'll probably add it to my mental file of "idiots and misogynists." It's a thick file. The only thing that seemed really worrisome before was when Idina* and I were at the mall and some guy said his name was Ben Dover and asked how old we were, where we were from, and where our boyfriends were. God, that was an embarrassing experience just because of my naiveté. But I digress.

And I've also been talked to on the street many times in a non-harassing way-- "do you have a cigarette?" "Can I borrow two dollars?" "I'm diabetic and haven't eaten in four days, do you have any money?" Stuff like that. And with the exception of this last example, which happened to me when I was sixteen and FAR more trusting of the human species, I've always said no.

But HOLY SHIT...today sucked so much ass.

Two guys--one close to my age, African-American, and wearing a green camouflage jacket (so figures with the camos, eh?), and probably around 5'11-6'0 (so essentially my height with the boots I had on today); the other maybe 60-ish, Caucasian, balding, with a wispy goatee, wearing a light brown windbreaker, about 5'5 or 5'6, though his bad posture possibly made him look shorter than he actually was--are a few paces ahead of me on Main Street in, downtown Akron. I WORK on Main Street. I was leaving my building, headed for the post office about a block away. Why? Because I had to mail something to Canada for work. Not that it matters. Had I not been on company time, I should be able to walk down Main Street (or any other street) any time I damn well please without having to worry about anything.

But that's not the way the world works for people of my gender, is it?

So I'm walking fast. I usually walk fast. I have long legs. I like getting from Point A to Point B. And I had fifteen minutes until the post office closed. So I get to where I'm caught up with these guys. And the younger one notices me. He asks how I'm feeling. I assume he's going to be one of the usual random people on the street--one question, then he asks for something, then I say no, then he leaves. The usual MO of random strangers.

So I say I'm feeling fine, smile impatiently, and keep walking to where I'm now in FRONT of them. But the younger one calls after me: "How old are you?" I raise my eyebrows and don't answer and keep walking.

He keeps yelling it. The bastard. Now I'm worried. What the fuck sort of right does he have to know anything about me? He's not my friend, boss, teacher, family member, he's no one to me. Just a random MALE person who thinks that because I'm a FEMALE person, he does have a right.

Well, no he doesn't, and I don't want to give it to him, but I'm scared now because this guy is definitely bigger than me and I've just remembered I don't have my giant ass key chain (carabineers, keys, rape whistles, bottle openers--it's a giant hunk of metal and I'm not afraid to use it and having it makes me feel at least a little bit prepared) to smack him with should he try to do anything. So I decide to answer his question with an untrue answer so that hopefully he will leave me the fuck alone, and decide that if he doesn't I'm close enough to the post office that I can get there and get inside it very quickly.

"Twenty-two," I say.

Quietly. Possibly the fear shows in my voice. Why I chose twenty-two, I have no idea. I mentally curse myself for making myself older rather than younger, thinking that I should've said sixteen or seventeen--that maybe if I was the oh-so-lovely term "jailbait" he'd leave me alone. (Isn't it interesting how the idea of committing statutory rape is supposed to deter someone, but the idea of raping an adult ISN'T? Consider for a moment how WRONG that is. And also consider how men are only described as 'legal' in common parlance when it is describing their ability to do something--such as smoke or drink or go to a strip club--but women are described as 'legal' to indicate that other people are allowed to do things TO them. What the fuck is UP with that?)

Which he's not doing, now that he 'knows' I'm 'legal.' Though he might still think I'm lying, because he starts YELLING "twenty-two! Twenty-two! Twenty-two!" and then starts teasing me because I'm REALLY speeding up now, and I'm almost there, and these bastards are NOT going to catch me.

The entire way between telling them I was twenty-two and reaching the door I am pissed-off and scared and I am muttering under my breath about what fucking idiots they are. Muttering is a new habit of mine, though I USUALLY do it in the privacy of my own car towards other idiot drivers. Maybe it's a defense mechanism though. If I am insulting them under my breath, I can feel superior. But I am so pissed off. They don't have a right to do this.

I get to the door, I go in, the Trusty Postal Worker is apparently in the back room, I'm shaking, getting out the damn Canada letter (this is ALL Leif Eriksen's fault. Because he discovered Canada, and had he not, we would not be shipping stuff there. Damn my ancestors piss me off sometimes.) It gets sent. I'm still shaking, I'm glad the Trusty Postal Worker is famously close-mouthed now because if I were to say anything more than: "this has to be sent by registered mail," the tears would show.

When I leave, I am freaking out. I can't tell if the change TPW has given me includes a penny or a dime. I remember something I read in some magazine somewhere that talking on a cell phone while walking can deter people from...doing something. It can be safe. (I hope to God this magazine wasn't Cosmo, considering how untrustworthy and crap they are.) So I call Zach* and we talk until I return to my building. I don't tell him why I needed to talk until I'm in the elevator. I'm still processing.

I'm STILL processing.

Would things've gone differently if I hadn't been alone, and nevermind 'not alone,' but possibly "with a dude?" What was these guys' plan? Were they just getting their jollies by scaring me or were things potentially more sinister? What were these guys' relation to each other?

And what the fuck made them think they had the right to do what they did? Like I said, I don't care if some stranger 'talks' to me to ask me for a cigarette or money--I'll say no, but I don't care. I also don't care if someone asks me how to get to some place. I may not know, but I won't care. These are appropriate interactions with strangers.

Chasing them down the street mockingly yelling "twenty-two" is not.

And a little warning:
If you've just read this and want to tell me I must've been dressed like a slut for them to be so persistent, kindly shut your trap. I'm allowed to wear whatever the fuck I want. I considered posting a picture of myself in today's clothes, but then I thought: "anyone who would advocate the 'this is okay to do to sluts' line of thinking will say this no matter what I'm wearing. And displaying a 'non-slutty' outfit and proclaiming it as such just furthers the idea that there is a difference between a "good girl" and a "slut" and that they deserve to be treated differently. And I've been called a slut enough to know there's not.

If you want to tell me I'm taking things too seriously and should chill out, please consider that YOU are not ME. I'm sure you in your infinite hindsight wisdom would've handled this situation far better than I did, but you were not in this particular situation, in my mind, today. And believe me, I know this isn't the worst thing that has ever happened in the history of the world, but what it is is the worst thing that happened TO ME, TODAY. I'm allowed to display some emotions about things that anger me that JUST HAPPENED. No matter how trivial they may seem, they are MY FUCKING EMOTIONS. Okay? I'm not deciding what you should be upset about. Don't you decide what I should be upset about. Because I will gladly tear you a new one.

And something IS messed up, and will CONTINUE to be messed up until people figure out that it IS NOT OKAY to harass people--or do ANY of the things which harassment could lead to.

God, I sometimes wish I was part of a different species.

Tags: work, aggravation, feminism, assholes, WBR