Last week I went running wearing cropped leggings and a sports bra. I didn't put on a T-shirt because I thought I would be too warm. And as soon as I stepped outside my apartment building, I heard men making comments about my body.
Ever notice how dudes run shirtless all the time and nobody hollers sexual comments at them? If you haven't, it's probably because you're a dude who has the privilege of not being harassed on the street.
From my personal experience with sexual violence, I should logically conclude that there is more danger to my body when I'm among friends and acquaintances, not strangers; most victims of sexual assault know their attackers. But your brain on trauma is not logical. Street harassment is troubling for all women, but having survived a sexual trauma, having dealt with panic attacks and paranoia, I find street harassment particularly difficult to deal with.
One night coming out of the subway station, I heard a man walking behind me and muttering things that were not intelligible. I turned around. I do this to assess the situation, to see if the person appears to be displaying any aggressive behavior toward me. He wasn't. He was just a man walking home with his groceries.
But when I turned around and looked at him, he said to me:
"Don't be scared, miss. This is a black neighborhood."
I don't ever want anyone to think I am treating them differently because of their race. I didn't feel afraid because this man was black, and I regret that he thought this was the case. But in my fight or flight state of mind, there was no way to formulate an explanation for my behavior. I wish I could have said, "I'm sorry. I'm a trauma survivor. I startle easily. I'm hyper-vigilant. I would turn around to see who was behind me no matter where I was, no matter the predominant race of the neighborhood."
But eloquent speech and fear do not go together. I turned and continued walking.
I'm a white woman living in a predominantly black neighborhood in Brooklyn. I'm quite certain that even if I was living in a predominantly white neighborhood, men would still shout unsolicited sexual comments at me. But when the men in my neighborhood, who happen to be black, call out to me trying to get my attention, I feel this inherent pressure to answer them or be accused of racism.
One time when I was in Bushwick, I passed a man standing on the corner, staring and making a heart with hands towards me. Two alarm bells started ringing in my head. The first was the This-Guy-Is-Bad-News alarm. The second was the But-What-If-I'm-Racist-For-Thinking-That? alarm.
Trying to reach compromise between my need for safety and my desire to combat racial profiling, I kept up my brisk walking pace as I went past, but smiled and waved. When I didn't stay to talk to with him, he proceeded to shout, "Oh come on, why you gotta be like that?" and "Yeah, you know you got a sexy ass."
The words "f*ck off" bubbled up from my throat, but I clenched my teeth and swallowed them back down, remembering the news story I'd seen about a woman who was stabbed to death by a random man after refusing to give him her phone number.
And this is where the issue of street harassment meets the issue of gender-based violence.
The man on the street could have no intention of physically harming me. The man next to me on the subway could have no intention of groping me. But I don't know that for sure, and my trauma brain is not waiting to find out. When I face street harassment, I go into survival mode. Survival is biting my tongue, pretending I don't hear them. It's giving a fake phone number, if necessary. It's walking with a friend, even better, a male friend. Because if a woman walks alone, her body belongs to the street. If she walks with a man, her body belongs to him, or at least it might, and that's enough to deter predators.
Every woman constantly struggles with the choice between asserting her independence and protecting her safety. This is where "the personal is political" comes in. What makes a more powerful statement: Taking a stand against a street harasser or surviving to see another day? Reaching for the rapist's knife, or complying in order to survive? Going home alone at 3 am, or just plain waking up the morning?
One of my mantras is to live in the world that I want to exist. It's why I keep my hair short and don't often shave my legs or wear a bra. But when it comes to safety, I more frequently have to compromise, pulling myself back into the world I currently live in, where I cannot jog after sundown without a canister of pepper spray in my hand. I have to make the choices which increase my likelihood of surviving.
But while I'm so busy surviving, nothing is changing. Men will continue to shout unwanted sexual comments at me. They will continue to accuse me of racism when I ignore them. I will continue to give no explanations.
I'm calling on every sensible man who might be reading this: Do not let other men get away with this behavior when you see it. You have the luxury of safety and power. The least you could do is use them to try to correct the system that has given them to you -- the system that has taken them away from women.
And I'm calling on every single person reading this: If you have a better solution to this problem, make it known. Because relying on men to fix a women's issue is a terrible strategy, but right now, it's the only suggestion I have.