As I was getting on the bus, he said, “You know, you could get off at Broomfield instead.”
Oh wait, let me explain. I was heading home. I usually time it so that I can catch another bus that will deposit me pretty much directly in front of my house. But I had missed that bus, which meant having to walk from King Charles Road – about 15 minutes from my house. Not that a fifteen minute walk is bad. In fact, I actually enjoy fifteen (and more) minute walks, and more often than not, I choose them over the bus.
But it was dark.
“It’s a bit shorter walk from there,” he said, knowing that I was wearing heels and wasn’t particularly looking forward to a long trek.
“Is it well lit?” Those were the first words out of my mouth. After dark was not the time to go exploring on my own.
It’s depressing that I even have to think about that, but it’s typically the aspect that holds the most weight when it comes to making a decision like this. Because when I say, “Is it well lit?” what I mean is, “I don’t feel safe.”
And I don’t. Why? Because I’m a girl.
No, I’ve never been approached by a threatening individual while walking home by myself, let alone attacked by one. But I know the numbers, and I don’t want to end up a statistic. So every time I get off that bus and it’s dark and I’m alone, I walk quickly, eyes straight ahead, ears alert, and praising the good Lord above for the streetlights that make me feel a little safer. My heart races when I hear a rustling behind me, and I cross the street if a group of scary-looking guys is coming my way. I go through imaginary situations in my head: determining how quickly I could dial the police; whether I’d knock on the door of the nearest house instead of leading him to where I live; where I’d run if I had to; how hard I’d fight if it came down to it.
I realize all of this is incredibly depressing, but I would find it hard to believe that I’m the only girl who has these thoughts.
Whenever some creepy guy honks at me or hollers as I walk by, it doesn’t give me an ego boost or help my self-esteem. No. Usually it makes me want to scream, “I’m not just here for you to look at! I’m a person too!” Other times I just want to curl up in a ball and hide, because I feel disgusting and ashamed…despite the fact that I haven’t done anything wrong. And then I read articles about rape t-shirts and erotisizing violence, and (of course) The Sun, and my chest tightens and my throat constricts in a swirl of anger and frustration and indignation and terrible, terrible sadness.
Because the truth is that, regardless of how far we’ve come as a society, there is still this pervasive idea that while mothers/sisters/daughters are worth loving, protecting, and even respecting, there’s a whole mess of other women – usually those with whom we have no personal connections – who are nothing more than boobs and butts. It might not always be explicit or conscious, but it’s certainly there, and it leaves its mark.
Look, I know that not all men are creepers and rapists. On the contrary, I am blessed beyond belief to have so many amazing, supportive, kind, and caring men in my life – men who believe in me and encourage me and remind me that I am valued for way more than just my looks. And I also know that women (myself included) are often just as guilty when it comes to judging worth solely on physical appearance.
It’s just that when I got online this morning, Google informed me that today is International Women’s Day. However, unlike so many other days honoring a particular group of individuals (e.g. Mother’s Day, Father’s Day, etc.), it seems that International Women's Day is not primarily celebratory. It is combative. The theme of today is not the celebration of women and their accomplishments, but rather the ending of the gender-based violence of which they are so often victims. Did you know that up to 70% of women in the world report having experienced physical and/or sexual violence at some point in their lifetime? Or that there are over 600 million women who live in countries where domestic violence isn’t considered a crime? And before you start formulating images of far-off, distant, and culturally backward lands, consider that one in six American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape.
These statistics were still fresh in my mind when I saw a man reading The Sun on the bus to work this morning. Staring up at me was the Page 3 Girl, in all her topless glory, reminding me that despite my opinions and interests and my master’s degree; despite my right to drive and vote and run for office; despite my living in a ‘progressive’ and ‘egalitarian’ society, it’s apparently still entirely acceptable to reduce me to a pair of breasts. And not many people would even bat an eye. It got me thinking, Then it got me writing, which is how this long-winded post was born.
So while I’d much rather write about fluffy, sunshiney, chocolate-covered things, this is currently weighing heavy on my heart, and I needed to get it out. It ended up turning into a full-blown essay. If you’ve made it this far, I’m impressed.
Thanks for listening.
