My name is not Samantha. That’s the name I give out to people whom I don’t want to know my real name. When I arrived at the bus stop it was 5:22pm. I was pleased to see that the bus should be there in 8 minutes. I hate waiting at that bus stop. I hate that it’s slightly residential, slightly run down, and a block away and ’round the corner from the big intersection with the bustling people and the metro stop and the cops. I hate that stop. I hate the H2,3,4 stop on 14th and Columbia.
And I hate you.
I hate that you came around. I hate that you got off the bus, and I hate that you so cleverly pulled my guard down. You see, when you said “Damn girl you’s looking straight through me like ice” I thought to myself “Oh shit. I did it again.” I was standing there with my Irbid face. I was standing there in a power stance, pretending to look through my phone, shooting daggers out the sides of my eyes, and cutting down anyone who dares look at me. Ready. To. Fight. Apparently it’s now my home base. But here’s the thing: I don’t want it to be my default face. Which is why when you pointed it out, I did what women are taught to do from birth: Apologize.
I said “Sorry.” I hurridly explained that it wasn’t you, it was me. That I was in a bad place last semester and I’m like that with all men. You told me I should get help. I told you I was. And that’s when I smelled it. Only after I’d smiled at you, engaged you, fucking fist bumped you, did I smell the alcohol on your breath.
I wasn’t feeling threatened, yet. DC is chock full of drunk men near bus stops making random conversation. You’re nothing original, or special.
But every time I stepped back, you stepped closer. When I answered “International Relations,” you went off about starting a global utility company that would run off satellite “anywhere in the world.” (That, by the way, is a moronic idea). I coolly replied, “I’m more into the politics.” And this is where you can go fuck yourself. Your response? “Don’t get into politics. They’ll RAPE you over there. You won’t make no money…” Etc. Etc. Et. Fucking. Cetera.
I stared you down. My mean face was back. I said “Do NOT use that term.” I don’t care that you’re “keeping it real.” I was done keeping it real with you and guess what else? You’re not keeping it real. Rape is not a joke. It’s not an expression. It’s not what your football team did to the other team. It’s a heinous crime and you’re sick to make light of it.
In case you need further evidence, I continue.
You told me that your “friends were right around the corner” and that if “[I] wanted to make some money [I] should fuck with [you] instead.”
Was my “NO” not loud enough for you? Was my body language unclear?
You said I could tell you to leave. I told you to leave. You asked “why?”
You turned to the girl next to me, assumed she was Hispanic, and proceeded to harass her in Spanish. Very impressive, you know how to be a bilingual fuck-up ass hole.
You tried to block me from getting on the bus.
You tried to get a high five when I got around you and onto the bus.
You made my Irbid face permanent. I’m done being nice. I will not apologize. I’m done letting my guard be wiggled, coaxed, or yanked down. I will forever look mean. I will make a point of being scary. I will terrify men. I will kill you without a second thought.
Oh, and to the other man who got on the bus after me, you know who you are. The one who told me I “should have called the police” and that you “see that guy around here all the time,” I say this: Why didn’t YOU call the police? Upon seeing that I was compromised, why didn’t you whip out your cell phone? Why didn’t you come over? Why didn’t you try and intervene? Distract him? Threaten to call the cops? ANYTHING? If you see him all the time, and think he’s a problem, why didn’t it Cross. Your. Mind.?
Don’t tell me what I “should” have done. I shouldn’t have to be scared at bus stops. I shouldn’t have to be angry for the rest of my life. I shouldn’t HAVE to be mean.
This post originated yesterday as a Facebook status about what should have been a pleasant and normal afternoon in blue sky, chilly D.C. Thanks to the positive response from friends and family, I’ve turned it into a blog post in hopes that it will offer another voice to the chorus of voices of thousands of women who experience street harassment as they go about their days. It helps me to write, and it helps others to read. I hope that we may all help each other in making our world safer.
LivOnAMission 