MY STREET, MY BODY, MY RIGHT

Responses and Clarifications

aelis — Fri, 23 Mar 2012 18:36:00 -0400

If you have not read the essay yet, it is posted on the next page.

Thank you for all the responses. For the women who’ve related to or commiserated with my experiences, thank you truly. A sincere thank you also to all the men who’ve taken the time to read and weigh in on this—the discussion can’t move forward without you. Your comments are appreciated.

I’ve read through the comments from those redirected from Andrew Sullivan and Reddit and realize that there are some disagreements with what I’ve said. That’s great—it keeps the discussion going. I’m responding to some common arguments below:

You’re a coward for not standing up for yourself
You wouldn’t have minded if the street harassers were more attractive
You should take it as a compliment
I’ve never seen street harassment, so you must be exaggerating
Street harassment is free speech

You are sheltered/timid/a coward who is at fault for not being more aggressive to deter street harassers. You just want to be saved. Women should stand up for themselves if they want respect.

I structured my essay, which starts with my experiences as a 14-year-old and ends with my experience just before leaving to college, so that it would build from my fear as a young teenage girl to understanding how to handle myself as a maturing woman. The very reason I wrote it was to encourage women to do exactly what you are suggesting—stand up for themselves and call out their harassers in public—and to encourage others to stop accepting this kind of behavior. If you read through to the end, you’d see that.

I’m confused as to how writing an essay to draw attention to the issue of street harassment and encourage young girls to fight back counts as “complaining” or “asking to be saved.” Moving on.

Do I still stay silent when I’m insulted in public? No. Ironically, fending off street harassers for years made me a stronger person. But I’m not embarrassed to admit that I did not know how to deal with these encounters as a young teenage girl, especially when first they started happening. And especially when they “hit and run”—make the comment really quickly, then disappear before you can respond. By all means, teach your daughter to fight back in public; raise her to stand up for herself. But if she’s afraid to yell at a group of much bigger, older men in an isolated area, or nervous about making a scene in public, don’t call her a coward who deserves it.

This argument parallels a similarly cringeworthy comment by Katie Roiphe in the NYTimes on sexual harassment in the workplace:

the majority of women in the workplace are not tender creatures and are largely adept at dealing with all varieties of uncomfortable or hostile situations. Show me a smart, competent young professional woman who is utterly derailed by a verbal unwanted sexual advance or an inappropriate comment about her appearance, and I will show you a rare spotted owl.

The core of the problem is not teaching women to respond. It is stopping the insults and advances in the first place. This logic simply doesn’t hold up in any other circumstance. I suppose you would also tell a gay teen facing bullying on a regular basis at school to stop being a coward and stand up for himself, and that it’s his fault he doesn’t “take away the power” of his bullies. I suppose you would also tell a black person who hears racial slurs to stop being a wimp and that if he were tougher nobody would disrespect him. If so, you are the one who is sheltered—you have clearly never a) met people who are not deterred by this behavior and b) felt the exhaustion of parrying comments like this over and over when all you wanted to do is pick up some takeout.

I ask for no one’s pity. Originally, I posted this essay on Facebook for my circle of friends and their friends to read. The hardest thing about writing it was admitting that sexual harassment had hit me hard emotionally and psychologically, because I usually don’t let people see that side of me. I had hoped it would help convince my friends who do know my personality by showing how much this issue in particular affected me. But to all the wonderful people who insist on calling my former self a coward and a timid little mouse—congratulations for smearing a 14-year-old, who you don’t know, on the internet.

You’re only upset because these were unattractive men. You wouldn’t have minded if they were attractive men.

No. I’ve seen street harassers look like they’re in their 20s or 30s, and I’ve also seen street harassers who at the least did not look unattractive. You are mistaking differences of attractiveness for differences of consent. If a 50-year-old unattractive man tries to make advances on a 15-year-old girl, he should be fairly certain he is not welcome. Especially if he starts touching her and whispering in her ear. If it was an attractive 30-year-old instead, I would have felt less disgusted on a visceral level. But the most upsetting part would have remained—the knowledge that a stranger felt entitled to touch me and insult me.

It may be more likely that a man’s advances will be welcome if he is attractive. But the rudeness of a gesture has nothing to do with who is making it. It has to do with whether it is welcomed.

Street harassers are only trying to pay you a compliment.

Once, I was walking home when a man a few feet away from the sidewalk exclaimed, “Wow! You got some style, girl. Keep doing your thing!” Was I upset or offended? No. In fact, it brightened my day. Another time, a guy came up to me in a Starbucks and started a friendly conversation. In the middle, he complimented me on my appearance. His tone was nonsexual, he did not leer at my chest or my legs, and he did not make sexual comments. Again, I was not upset or offended.

Comments which are not meant to be complimentary are made in a setting where they might make the receiver feel intimidated, disgusted, or uncomfortable. That’s the difference between sexual harassment and a compliment.

Not all men are like this. You’re exaggerating.

1. I look forward to the day when no one feels threatened by a discussion on women’s issues because they realize it is not an attack on men as a group. Some of the few people I have felt comfortable talking to about sexual harassment are in fact my father and my boyfriend, both of whom I love dearly and who have made me a better person. I never claimed that all men, or even the majority of men, are evil perverts, as some comments seem to assert. It is the minority which continues to make street harassment a problem.

2. I used to think that sexual harassment in public wasn’t such a widespread phenomenon too. I thought it might just be my own neighborhood. Then I actually looked into it and found out how wrong I was.

It’s free speech. Everyone deals with annoying things in public.

Who said anything about legality? Granted, some people want street harassment to be a punishable offense, and that’s certainly a conversation to be had. What I’m talking about, however, is culture and society: why is street harassment considered normal and accepted, even a “compliment” by our society? How can we make it known to young girls that they have the power to stand up for themselves and that they won’t be considered uptight or neurotic for it? I certainly would have appreciated that when I was 14.

To compare something like being subjected to unwanted comments and touches on a regular basis to having to see panhandlers in the subway is absurd, although I guess it’s easy to say from someone who has never had to put up with this sort of “annoyance,” as they describe it. A more accurate comparison is one which captures the element of discrimination, or intense discomfort rather than mere irritation, or frequency over a long period of time. Imagine having to hear epithets on the street when you least expect it, directed to you because you are of a certain race or sexual orientation, all the time, for 5 years. The only difference is that we’re talking about gender and the offender isn’t trying to press his body up to yours.

Again, I’d welcome any negative or positive responses, but I ask that you keep your remarks civil. So try to refrain from calling me a coward ad hominem. I’d like to have a productive discussion.

I’m fourteen, running late for Global Studies. Breakfastless, I bolt out the door to catch the...

aelis — Tue, 20 Mar 2012 20:01:00 -0400

I’m fourteen, running late for Global Studies. Breakfastless, I bolt out the door to catch the six. Instead of turning right as usual at Lexington Avenue, I take the shortcut to the station. They’re sitting at the front stoops again, right where the houses end and the deli begins. It’s humid, but I’ve put on my baggiest sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, so maybe today they won’t say anything. I look down at my feet and try to look preoccupied, or sad, or unapproachable, or something. And I walk faster. But they turn around and stare, all of them together, and don’t move, blocking the sidewalk. They make me push through them. I can feel them, bigger, older men, looking down at me as I approach. My entire body is tensing up, dreading an unwanted touch, a crude word. I want to crawl into a hole.“Hey, come back, China doll,” one says. Something in his voice makes my stomach turn. I wish I had simply woken up on time.

I’m fifteen and sweating under the June sun. The subway ride home was sweltering, and the ice cream truck beckons. Naturally, I order a vanilla milkshake. Then—a touch to my back, an ugly whisper: “you’re so sexy, baby.” I freeze. Was that someone’s breath on my ear, or just the heat? I turn around and see a fat, balding man strolling away into the crowd. As though he had done nothing wrong. My skin is crawling everywhere. Instinctively, uselessly, I am rubbing my ear, but I cannot get rid of his awful, lingering presence. He’s taking his time walking away, and I know that he knows I am watching him and that I am too scared to say anything. I hate myself for being a coward. I hate myself for being scared. Families around me chatter and laugh, enjoying the beautiful day. The ice cream truck lady leans out. “That’ll be $2.25.”

I’m seventeen and plastic bags of bai cai are killing my arms. My mom and I speed-hobble downstairs at the Flushing station, only to find that the train isn’t leaving for ten minutes. Dropping our groceries in an empty car, my mom pulls out the weekend World Journal and I turn to my copy of Life of Pi. A man boards and sits across from us. He immediately begins staring at me. Intently. Willing my mom not to notice, I read. And he stares. He stares and doesn’t stop and I’m trying to muster the courage just to look him in the eye, but I’m afraid. What if that encourages him to do something else? What if my mother sees? I wish that he would just look away, even for one second. But he doesn’t. After a few minutes, I put down my book and look up at his face. He is old, older than even my father. I expect him to put his hand on his crotch, to grin obscenely, or to lick his lips, or maybe all three. Instead he just stares. Should I be relieved? People start filtering into the car. Eventually, he looks away.

I’m eighteen and refreshed from an afternoon run in Central Park. I’m calling my boyfriend to let him know I’m coming over. The man walking across the street towards me is leering pointedly in my direction, but I figure he won’t say anything since I’m on the phone. I’m wrong. He makes a point of brushing past my arm and sneers: “I like the way you show off them legs.” For once, I react quickly. “No, it’s just hot.” I’m walking away as fast as I can, trying to put distance between us, when he yells, “fuck you, bitch.” I turn around. He looks angry, surprised, embarrassed. I should be angry also, but all I can feel is satisfaction, an unfamiliar and fervent satisfaction. “Say it louder!” I scream across the street. “I don’t give a fuck.” I’m aware of how stupid I look and everyone is staring at me, but it’s true.

Finally, I just don’t give a fuck anymore.

How many leers, how many unwanted comments and touches does it take to take away your right to walk on the same sidewalk, to ride the same subway, as anyone else? How many times must you watch the smile on a stranger’s face widen in perverse excitement at your revulsion? Once a month? A week? More? If my experiences were limited to the above encounters, perhaps I would know.

I was sexually harassed on a regular basis from the year I turned fourteen until the year I left for college. I tried so hard, every day, to ignore it. But I couldn’t. It changed me. The irrepressible nervousness when a stranger approached. Being afraid to look any man on the street in the eyes. Worrying I was being followed. Not wanting to leave my house unless I had to. Crying. Not crying until I got home, then crying. Hating myself for crying. Playing the faces of dozens of men back in my mind—I remember them all. Wondering what would have happened if I had bumped into them in a deserted area. The rape nightmares.

But the worst part was how it warped my own view of myself. Maybe it was my fault, I thought. Maybe I was asking for it. It was because I was small and weak, I thought. I hated myself for my own helplessness. Hated myself every time the snappy retort, the “leave me alone,” the “stop,” bubbled up furiously in my heart only to wilt in my throat. The tiny, illogical, and unshakable fear that no matter how hard I worked, I would never amount to anything more than a body. That my feelings—my disgust, the anger and loathing written all over my face—would deter no one because they simply did not matter. That it would only get worse as I grew older. That my only worth was sexual. That I was less than human. That I was nothing.

I have never shared my full experience with sexual harassment before. I didn’t tell my parents because I didn’t want to burden them. I didn’t tell my friends because I didn’t think they would understand. And I didn’t tell anyone else because I didn’t think they cared. As a result, I believed that I was alone in how I felt, that I was “overreacting” to normal, socially accepted behavior.

I am sharing my personal experiences now as part of the first-ever International Anti-Street Harassment Week in the hopes that it can inspire people I know, and people of my generation as a whole. As a child, I felt completely helpless about my own situation. I hope that today, I am at least able to encourage others to treat sexual harassment in public as a serious issue, and to take action to protect themselves and those around them.

If you are a woman, especially a young woman, who has had similar or worse experiences, know that you are not alone. Do not keep your problems to yourself. Reach out and talk to loved ones. There are many resources and organizations which offer better advice than I can; they are listed below. The movement to report, protest, and ultimately end sexual harassment in the public sphere is springing up all over the world.

If you are someone who is unfamiliar with this subject, thank you for reading. If you support safe streets for women and children, please share this link or comment below. I’d be happy if I could reach just one person with this message.

Further Resources:

Got Stared At
Stop Street Harassment
Hollaback!
Men Can Stop Rape
The Pixel Project
Slutwalk Toronto
Make Delhi Safe (India)
Harassmap (Egypt)
Young Women for Change (Afghanistan)
Collective Action for Safe Spaces (Washington, D.C.)
RightRides (NYC)

Facebook pages: SlutWalk, Freeze the Tease, Zero Tolerance Campaign, New Yorkers for Safe Transit, L.A.S.H. (London Anti Street Harassment) Campaign

Alice Xie is a a New York City native. She is currently a sophomore at the University of Pennsylvania.