I used to pride myself on being cool when weirdos screamed in my face about Jesus or making lewd remarks on Avenue A about my shape or whatnot because I didn’t want to be the kind of girl who was agitated and high-maintenance. And besides, they’re probably harmless anyway. Bye-bye to all that! I get a thrill crossing the street the second I see odd behavior coming. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.
This. Let’s take care of ourselves.
Three years ago, on a ridiculously hot Memorial Day Weekend, I was followed into my apartment building by a man in a ski mask.
I didn’t realize he was wearing a ski mask until later.
Back then, my friends and I all lived within six blocks of each other, and we’d parted ways at the cheezy 80s dance club in our neighborhood. We didn’t think to walk each other home, since we were practically home anyway. What was a few extra blocks?
So it was dark, 2am, and I was alone in the front hallway of my apartment building. I don’t remember hearing a noise and am not sure why I turned around. But for some reason I did, and saw a man standing at the other end, as if he’d just entered.
I had no idea who he was.
That wasn’t scary; I didn’t know any of my neighbors. I just assumed he was one of them.
What was scary was that I couldn’t see his face. He wore a sweatshirt and had the hood around his head, covering his eyes. (But, I thought, it was dark, and maybe I just couldn’t see?) Also it was odd he wore a sweatshirt, because it was a really hot New York night. Too hot for that.
In about two seconds, I processed all these details, and then I started running. As fast as I could. Across the courtyard, into the back building, up the stairs into my little studio apartment.
And here is the crazy part.
While I was running, what was going through my head was, I hope I’m not being rude to my neighbor.
And even when I heard footsteps behind me, and again up the stairs, stopping at my door, I thought, Wow, my neighbor must have forgottensomething. I hope he’s not insulted that I ran away from him. I’m a jerk!
I stood in my little studio, a tiny square box, thinking, Where do I go now?
There was nowhere to hide. My apartment was so small that my friend Heather, who once visited from San Francisco, still likes to explain the closet by putting her hands in front of her face, palms about six inches apart: “Thistiny!”
Nothing happened for a few minutes.
Finally, I heard someone go down the stairs and saw a shadow leaving the courtyard.
And that was it. Shockingly—at least with hindsight—my biggest fear at this point was that I’d been impolite.
It wasn’t until the next evening, when I came home from a dinner, that I felt the fear you’d expect. On the front door of my apartment building was a giant handwritten sign.
PLEASE LOCK THE DOOR BEHIND YOU LAST NIGHT AT 2AM I WITNESSED A MAN IN A SKI MASK FOLLOW A YOUNG WOMAN INTO THE BACK BUILDING. NO CRIME WAS COMMITTED.
And that’s when I got the chills, and all the fear I should have felt earlier hit me. My heartrate jacked up.
How cavalier I’d been. How not-seriously I’d taken myself. Or my safety. How unaware I’d been that a third-party was watching everything. And no wonder I couldn’t see the guy’s face.
I have no idea who left that sign, but thank you, kind stranger-neighbor.
I moved out the next day. Technically, I moved in with my sister and her new husband. They’d been married for three weeks at that point, and basically insisted I move in with them. I’m still grateful.
Which brings me to the point of this post. I still don’t feel unsafe in New York City. And technically, I was safe that night. I’ll never know if some drunk dude was being silly or something more sinister, though I still consider it a lucky night.
But I forgot some basics that every woman knows, like staying with your friends and walking each other home. And I hope that by sharing this story, one or two of you might recognize yourself, and be a little bit more vigilant. Even if you’re in your 30s, and living in “the safest city in the world,” like I was.
And know that if someone makes you feel the tiniest bit afraid, it’s OK to honor that voice telling you to get the hell away. Even if you think you’re being rude or ridiculous. Heck, especially if you think you’re being ridiculous. You’re not a jerk. You have your reasons.
I hate to make this a gender thing (though Gift of Fear, a classic primer on safety, backs me up), but we ladies often want to be nice-nice to everyone and in the process we are jerks to ourselves.
I was being followed by a man in a ski mask and my fear was that I wasn’t minding my manners?! I’m practically a parody of people-pleasing. Except it’s not funny.
I used to pride myself on being cool when weirdos screamed in my face about Jesus or making lewd remarks on Avenue A about my shape or whatnot because I didn’t want to be the kind of girl who was agitated and high-maintenance. And besides, they’re probably harmless anyway. Bye-bye to all that! I get a thrill crossing the street the second I see odd behavior coming. I don’t need to explain myself to anyone.
The good news is—especially if you’re a “nice” girl, it’s empowering to decide that you won’t put up with strangers making you feel fearful and that you’re going to take care of yourself. Even if it just means crossing the street or leaving a room or turning around abruptly without explaining yourself every once in a while.
And by the way, when I talked to the police to file a report (not the most rewarding experience—but that’s another post), I appreciated that they practically yelled at me for not calling 911.
“But I thought that was only for when your life was in danger!” I said.
I’d called 911 ten years earlier, when a college professor fainted. They called me back to tell me to never waste their time unless it was a life-or-death emergency. I’m paraphrasing. I explained that to the Lower East side cops.
“This would have been a good use of 911,” said the policemean. “We would have sent someone over.”
Noted.
Have a good, safe weekend, y’all!
From Jessica Mack ‘s (@fleetwoodjmack) excellent piece for RH Reality Check “What One Week on an Abortion Fund Hotline Taught Me About the Economics of Stigma”. Pairs exceedingly well with Lindy West’s “Rihanna Does Whatever She Wants With Her Vagina and for Some Reason That’s a Problem” in which West brilliantly concludes:
Women’s sexual behavior needs to be accepted so that women’s sexual health can be protected.
No republican said they wanted to outlaw birth control. If birth control is a reason to vote for Democrats, that confirms my suspicion that people who vote Democratic know nothing when it comes to economics.
Virginia Personhood law would outlaw birth control
Santorum says states should have the right to outlaw birth control
Conservative Republicans fight to ban birth control pills
Anti-abortion group in Florida announces drive to outlaw birth control pill
Montana judge rules birth control ban unconstitutional
Love your blog description, BTW. “This is a political blog, coming from a moderate/conservative perspective, supporting the established social norms, customs, and laws of the Western tradition.” Might as well just say “upholding and enforcing the patriarchy through passive-aggressive Tumblr posts.” Actually, upholding-the-patriarchy might be available as a Tumblr name in case you want to be more accurate.
-Jess
What patriarchy? Women don’t have to get married if they don’t want to. Nor do they have to save sex for marriage. My girlfriend takes birth control. I wasn’t aware that any of the personhood bills would affect birth control. But it doesn’t matter, the right to privacy is protected in our legal traditions, which includes the right to take birth control. It’s not a rational concern.
“What patriarchy?”
“What patriarchy?”
“What patriarchy?”
The patriarchy is not limited to “forcing women to stay virgins and get married,” and the fact that you don’t have a basic grasp of that proves that you have no right to be writing about politics in the first place. Fuck’s sake.
And how is it “not a rational concern” to worry about birth control being taken away when I just gave you link upon link explaining why it IS a rational concern? And don’t forget that abortion is a form of birth control. If you think THAT isn’t under attack I just feel bad for you.
-Jess
(Source: satanic--hispanic)
Dulce Pinzon-
Everyday heroes, mexican immigrants in New York doing everyday activities. Dulce Pinzon intends to show them as Superheroes.
AMAZING!
BAM
YERZ
(Source: feeling-art, via stfuconservatives)
As part of the LGBTPQ community, there are a few things I take into account when granting allyship:
1. When you say LGBTPQ, do you really mean gay? We’re not all gay and many of us are more than gay (i.e., gay and trans, lesbian and gqueer, biromantic lessexual, etc.) When you support the “gay” community and erase anyone who isn’t good ole simple gay, you are no ally.
2. Not all queers are white. Yeah, believe it or not, PoC can be queer. Even Chinese sweatshop workers, you douche. Oh, and if you blame the black community for homophobia, fuck off.
3. Allies may talk with us, not for us. NEVER tell a queer person what they are or how to be queer. They don’t have to do this or that to be a “productive member of the community” (straight people have told me this shit, yes). You are straight. The fuck do you know about what it means to be queer?
4. We know you are straight. Stop saying it. We heard you the first time. And the second time. And yes, even the fifth time. If you feel the need to constantly reiterate that you are straight, it gives the impression that you want us to know that you’re “OK” with us, but not eve one of us.
Okay, those are all I can think of right now. I’ll add more and I encourage fellow queers to add as well
Allies may talk with us, not for us. Well if this isn’t the universal truth.
(Source: mentalpopcorn, via racismschool)
Rookie and I are rarely on the same page (I mean, are you kidding me with the Girls fandom already?), but! amen to this:
The point is not to give girls the answers - and not even give them permission to find the answers themselves - but hopefully inspire them to understand that they can give themselves that permission, they can ask their own questions, find their own answers.
Conveniently, this fits in really well with my efforts to not fall into the trap of hating other women. Somewhere along the line someone got the idea that it was okay to hate on other women (or indeed other people) if they were were into things you found oppressive - traditional notions of domesticity, conventional ideals of physical beauty, reality tv. It is not okay. Live and let live.
It’s never easy to get across the magnitude of complex tragedies — so when Brenda Brathwite’s daughter came home from school asking about slavery, she did what she does for a living — she designed a game. At TEDxPhoenix she describes the surprising effectiveness of this game, and others, in helping the player really understand the story.
An antidote to the erasure I tumbld the other day.
Disgusted. Not surprised, but disgusted. Glad people are calling Wil Wheaton on this shit.
(via Condescending Wonka)
dreams-from-my-father:fredjoiner:
The Stories That Europe Tells Itself About Its Colonial History
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie breaking it down…
“She said once she was shocked that her son while being taught Belgian history, was taught nothing about Congo. She said “They teach my son in school that he must help the poor Africans, but they don’t teach him about what Belgium did in Congo.” Of course, all countries are evasive about the past for which they feel ashamed, but I was shocked by what seemed to me not evasiveness but an erasure of history.
If her son doesn’t learn that the modern Congo State began a hundred years ago as the personal property of a Belgian king, who was desperate to get wealthy from ivory and rubber, if her son doesn’t learn that the hands of Congolese people were chopped off for not producing enough resources to meet the king’s greed, if her son doesn’t learn that the Belgian government later led Congo with a deliberate emphasis on not producing an educated class, so that Congolese could become clerks and mechanics but couldn’t go to university, if her son doesn’t learn that more recently, even thought it was the Americans who installed the Mobutu’s dictatorship, Belgium was a major force behind the scenes propping him off, if this young Belgian boy, knows nothing about these incidents, then, at some point, they would perhaps no longer have happened because the past after all is the past because we collectively acknowledged that it is so.
This young Belgian boy would grow up to see Africa only as a place that requires his aid, his help, his charity with no complications for him. A place that can help him show how compassionate he can be, and most of all, a place whose present has no connection to Europe.
It is not that Europe has denied its colonial history. Instead, Europe has developed a way of telling the story of its colonial history that ultimately seeks to erase that history”
(via thescarletwoman)
