When I was 19, I visited a friend in Washington, DC for a long weekend. She was three years older than me and was doing a year of service at a non-profit there. Someone dropped me off near the metro station closest to my college in Virginia and I planned to take the metro to her apartment.
As I crossed the (covered, mostly empty) parking garage, a car pulled in front of me, cutting across my path. At this time I was a college freshman fresh from the Midwest. I was nicer and less cynical than I am now. I probably didn’t even roll my eyes at the driver who was now blocking me.
It wasn’t until the man driving rolled down his window and started talking that I registered something was off. I instinctively stepped forward a little, assuming that he needed directions.
“Hey,” he said, smiling widely. “Where are you going?” He looked like any one of my friends’ dads; a middle-aged guy with a mustache and glasses. His car was sensible and unremarkable.
“Oh, I’m headed to the metro.” I glanced at the station’s entrance that was less than 100 yards from us. People wandered in and out of the bus terminals, coming and going during a regular Saturday afternoon.
“Need a ride?” He smiled again.
I adjusted the strap of my duffel bag slung over my shoulder. “No thanks. It’s right there.” I pointed out of the garage. I looked around and realized he and I were alone.
“Oh come on! A pretty girl like you shouldn’t have to walk.”
My Midwestern habit of politeness kicked into overdrive. I tried to be a little sterner but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Really, I’m fine. Thank you though!”
“I’m not one of those weird guys. I just want to give you a ride.”
I nervously laughed.
“Well…thanks. I’m going to miss my train if I don’t go now.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. Bye.” I probably waved.
His face darkened. “I was just trying to be nice. Bitch.”
He peeled off and made a sharp turn onto the street. I didn’t start to run until I was sure he was gone.
My breathing slowed down only when I walked into the station. I called my friend and relayed the story to her. I asked her to stay on the phone with me until the train started moving.
Sometimes when I’m trying to make a man understand what it’s like to be a woman in the world, I’ll recount one of these incidents. Which one I tell depends on the man. If I want to shove my experience in his face, force him to engage in my discomfort, I’ll share one of my scarier encounters, like the time I was cornered mid-day at a gas station by two guys in a small rural town.
If I want my audience to just get a taste, I’ll probably explain why cat calling is assault and not a compliment. When the man almost inevitably bring up false rape accusations or questions my integrity (Was I sober? What did I wear? Did I smile at them? You know how visual guys are…) I’ll send him articles and books to read hoping he’ll listen to a professional. Missoula is a good one, and since it’s written by a man, maybe he will actually read it.
I wonder why I talk about it at all. Every man knows what happens. They’ve seen it play out. They’ve heard the jokes their friends tell, read the texts they’ve sent. Some of them don’t care until it happens to their girlfriend or daughter. Sometimes it’s women who reiterate these talking points, not wanting to be “one of those girls.” Misogyny is a hell of a drug.
I don’t know a single woman in my life who doesn’t have at least one story like mine. My friends who could be models. My friends who are average looking. My young friends. My old friends. My friends who haven’t fully realized what happened to them.
My friend who was sexually assaulted while we were on a crowded bus together. My friend who was catcalled wearing an ankle-length winter coat, so tightly insulated from the Chicago cold that you could hardly tell she wasn’t a walking blanket, let alone a person. My friend who was screamed at by her boyfriend until she begged him to stop. My friend who would call me while she walked home from her internship so men would be less likely to shout at her. My friend who was accosted by a group of men wearing clown masks on our poorly lit college campus at night.
My friend, my friend, my friend…all of us bound together by having our agency stripped from us by a stranger, a partner, or someone we called a friend, who never gave their own behavior a second thought.
I think of women I’ve never met: Sr. Dianna Ortiz, raped and tortured by Guatemalan men. Neither her American nationality nor her connection to the Church as a religious sister protected her.
Relisha Rudd, an eight year old girl who disappeared in 2014 from a family homeless shelter in Washington, DC. She was last seen with the shelter’s janitor whom her mother trusted as a friend.
Breonna Taylor, murdered while sleeping next to her love. Six bullets shot into her youthful body because police thought someone else lived in her home.
Delaina Ashley Yaun, Xiaojie Tan, Daoyou Feng, Julie Park, and Park Hyeon Jeong, murdered by a man who uses his Christian faith and sexual frustration to justify taking these mothers, friends, and wives from the people who loved them.
I want to burn the names of the men who assaulted, abused, raped, murdered, or disappeared every woman from my mind. I want to write women’s names in giant, colorful, neon letters and place them on top of buildings so everyone can see. I want to wrap every woman in my arms, anoint her with oil, braid flowers into her hair, and feed her airy lemon cake. Tell her that she is holy, that she makes the ground she walks on sacred simply by standing on it. I want to tell her that I don’t know if it will be okay today, or tomorrow, or in a year, but that I am here. We are tethered together in this terrible sisterhood that we never asked to join. It’s not safe here, but it’s home.
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