SAM
Downtown can be rough. It’s not as though it isn’t safe to walk the streets at night; the center of downtown is actually pretty nice – full of people laughing, running to a movie, a date, a show. But then you turn a corner, and there’s always one block or another that just feels different, night or day. Not clearly unsafe, but it has something ineffable about it, something that makes you straighten up and bring your eyes into focus. There’s no one laughing on this street. There’s a little more trash on the sidewalk, dark stains that might once have been the shadows of needles. There used to be a needle exchange on one of these blocks, after all. There are businesses and condos moving in now, in an attempt to assimilate these streets into the greater safety of the downtown area, and some are succeeding.
There are people who return here, looking for what they remember. I’ve seen many of them turn away to find another street. But some of them see the humor in a brightly lit boutique where they once brought their needles. An even rarer few do something about it. They bring their “good humor” into the shops, the condos, the open, clean spaces.
For the first time living here, I met one of these people, a man who came into my workplace, not as a customer, not to reminisce. He wasn’t old enough to reminisce about much at all; he had known the space back when it was a needle exchange, a place to get condoms, and he thought that it was so funny to get in my space while he told me about it. He wasn’t going to be nearly as nice as the gentleman on the bike I wrote about here. He and his friend, who immediately moved behind me and out of my range of sight came in with intention; with purpose, and directed not at just anyone who would listen, but at me. He was there to make me feel small, unsafe in the neighborhood our store is in, unsafe in the environment I make my own every week, and to feel unsafe in my own skin. He looked at me and didn’t see the person I am, but a thing, a source of amusement for him and his friend. He was crude, stupid, but dangerous. In the way that men don’t understand when I try to explain, he was not the sort of person you want knowing where you work. And here I was, at work and less than two feet from him.
What did I do? I froze. For all the things people tell you later, to call the police, to call the manager, to move out of the way of the present danger, to act. I froze, I went to a place in my head that was made the last time I didn’t feel safe and was left all alone with someone this dangerous. I did the stupid thing.
I’m disappointed; I feel like my skirts and cute shoes betrayed me; like this wouldn’t have happened if I had been wearing something else, if I were less pleasant, less cracked, less visibly vulnerable. And I’m angry. I shouldn’t be adjusting my wardrobe and attitude so I won’t be “asking for it”. It shouldn’t be my responsibility to keep men from threatening me, verbally or physically.
I’m more than disappointed. I hear stories like mine from every woman I meet – it’s that common. I carry them with me every day, and it feels heavier every time I step outside. For me, this was one more straw – too much, too heavy.
I’m looking for another street. I’m not the one to fight him over this one, and I’m not going to risk him and his friend remembering me and coming back. The cost is too high.
I promise to have better news soon! I’m thinking of making Apple Cinnamon Buckwheat Oatmeal this weekend, and I’ll post the results. With any luck, I’ll never have a post like this again. ♣
♥ Momo