Bolding my own. This is a very succinct way of summing something up I’ve been trying to explain to male friends for a very long time.  Male friends, who oddly enough, don’t whistle or make noises at women as they walk by because they wouldn’t do such a thing - and yet, don’t understand why women don’t like it when other men do.

I’ll tell you why.  Because the underlying threat is implicit.  Because if you’re going to take a moment of your time to stop what you are doing and stare me down - like an animal hunting prey - and take that one step further and actually make a noise that you think let’s me know you find something about me attractive, in my mind this triggers an instinctual response that ranges from “give him the finger” to “run for your life” depending on what my sixth sense is telling me.

In the summertime in NYC, there is nothing worse.

Two summers ago, every morning for a week a man would stop his construction job to tell me good morning, make a kissy face and not go back to work until I walked completely by.  It made me uncomfortable and nervous.  On the fifth morning, I snapped.  I stopped in front of him and screamed curse words for a minute straight.  He stared at me, mouth open, but didn’t back down, say he was sorry or retreat.  Instead, he called me “a fucking crazy bitch.”  ME!  I was the crazy one!! I was so incredibly angry I felt like my body was on fire.

And yet, when the adrenaline subsided, I was so rattled by the experience and his reaction to it, I took different way to the subway until the project was finished so that I wouldn’t be put in harm’s way.  Me who had done nothing wrong but stand up for myself.

I don’t condone hitting or violence, but if that’s the way to put these creeps and trolls in their place, it has to be done.  My only wish is that Kate didn’t just hit this man, but rather that she beat the everliving shit out of him.

katespencer:

I’m writing this on the R train as it rattles slowly along toward Brooklyn. I’m headed to pick up my 6-month-old daughter. I’m writing because I’m still reeling from what occurred on the Times Square subway platform a few moments ago. I was walking to the end of the station as I always do. I saw a man, a stout, balding, nondescript looking troll, staring at me as I walked toward him. I watched as he slowly extended his arm and fingers, in particular his pinky finger, so it would make contact with me as I walked by. I’m wearing a skirt. It all happened quickly, in seconds, as these things always do, and sure enough as I passed him his hand jutted out and stroked my thigh. Without thinking I turned around and hit him as hard as I possibly could. I didn’t even stop walking, nor did I say anything. I did turn around to look at him as I hit him, and his face was one of shock but not of surprise. He knew why I had hit him; he just couldn’t believe he hadn’t gotten away with it.

Ive been sexually harassed so many times since my adolescence that I’ve lost count, but I’ve never reacted like that before. Normally I think, process, choose my words. There was no brain power that went into the decision to smack this asshole; it was pure instinct. As I headed away from him I immediately regretted not verbalizing my anger and yelling at him too, but I imagine that choice was instinctive as well. Besides, I think he got the message.

I am not someone who condones violence. But I’m so tired of my safety and personal space being invaded over and over again. I am a 32-year-old woman. I am a mother. I am not someone you can fondle without my consent because you feel like it, nor is any other girl or woman. Not my friends. Not my daughter.

When I’ve explained sexual harassment to men in the past I’ve been struck at their confusion over why it is a big deal. How is someone whistling at you threatening, they ask? Here is what they don’t understand. Those moments, which may seem insignificant and small, create an unsafe environment in which women are forced to live. Last month, after I yelled at some men in a car who made kissing noises at me, I was terrified to then walk down a quiet downtown street out of fear that they’d circle around in their car and hurt me. These moments force us to operate in a state of fear. They define who is in control and who can have their control taken away. And I’m so fucking tired of it that I’m starting to snap. I’m now hitting people. Because as much as I want to believe my daughter will not have to live with this same fear 10, 20, 30 years from now, I know that she will. And nothing makes me more sick to my stomach.