The street is brightly lit and busy.
Cars are getting from A to B. People are doing the same.
Restaurants, cafes, newsagents are still open.
It’s cold.
The bus may be a while yet.
Home is just 10 minutes away.
I start walking.
(I’m 17. My male friends insist on walking me home. I protest the need, but I’m grateful nonetheless.)
It’s novel; I can walk home, at night, at 1:30am, on my own, without worrying about my safety.
(I’m 13. An older man in a market tries talking to me, even though my father’s by my side.)
Couples walk past me, women walk past me, men walk past me, alone and in pairs. None of us interferes with the other.
(I’m 27. I’m walking with a female friend. Two men separate around us. “I’d shit on that,” we hear mumbled at us as they walk past.)
“Hello, lady.”
(I’m 30. A man is ignoring my patient explanations as to why his advances as I walk past are unwelcome.)
My body tenses. I drop my head, my gaze. I keep walking in my direction. He keeps walking in his direction.
I’m fight or flight.
Keep walking.
A man on the other side of the road, standing outside a pub, catches my eye. Can’t put my finger on what or why.
Keep watch of him on my periphery. Try not to make eye contact.
Just in case.
Keep walking.
(I’m 19. There’s a car driving slowly behind me. I’m the only person on the night-time street. I ask the local kebab guy to walk me home.)
The man moves.
The man crosses the road as I walk past.
The man is walking behind me.
Keep walking. Faster.
Turn to see if he’s still there.
He’s still there.
Reach the top of my road. Keep walking across while I glance down it, towards home. My road is quiet. Empty.
The man is still behind me.
Keep walking, past my road, to the McDonald’s nearby, still open, still busy. Maybe I’m being paranoid.
Go in, sit down.
The man comes in behind me.
The man sits down two tables away from me.
Queue for food.
Turn. Don’t see him. Move towards the exit. Relieved. I was being paranoid.
See him now. He’s standing. He moves in my direction.
Go back to queue for food.
See him walking towards me.
See him walking past me.
Head to the exit, and out.
Turn around.
He’s not followed me out.
Head back to my road.
Turn around.
He’s not behind me.
Reach the top of my road. It’s still quiet, still empty. Turn into it.
A car pulls into my road at the same time.
The car has slowed down.
The car has stopped by me.
(I’m my brother having to walk after a man who’s purposefully and suspiciously followed a woman down a dark and quiet street. My brother wants to make sure she’s okay. My brother’s presence seems to put off whatever the man is planning.)
The male driver has rolled down the passenger side window.
The male driver is talking to me.
I can’t focus on what he’s saying.
I ask him to keep driving.
He keeps talking to me.
I ask him to consider how I must feel.
He offers me a lift home.
I say no, of course I don’t want a lift home.
He keeps talking, and I say I think someone’s been following me and now he’s stopped and is inviting me into his car, and can he please just drive away and leave me alone, and he’s still talking and offering to get out the car to talk to me from the sidewalk, and now my voice is shaking and I’m just about keeping my shit together and I walk back to the safety of the high street but what if the McDonald’s man is there again and the man in the car is finally driving away and he’s leaving and I wait until he’s well past my house and I head back home and I get the key into the door and I make it up the stairs and I’m shaking and I’m home.
(I’m 31. I’m crying in my partner’s arms, explaining the crescendo of incidents on my walk home that night. He feels helpless and angry.)
***********************************
We shouldn’t have to be calculating: “Best case scenario, I’m being paranoid. Worst case scenario, I’m tomorrow’s local headline.”
And so. And so. Here are some things that would help me - and people like me - be on the street without having to wear the armour of a scowl, the tenseness of perpetual vigilance, and the fear of “what if”. These are just from me. Other women may have different suggestions. Listen to them.
- Don’t mutter at us as you walk by. Don’t say anything to us as you walk by.
- Don’t openly stare and keep your eyes locked on us, turning your head as you walk past.
- Don’t touch, or grab, or pat us.
- Don’t say hello, or use any other greeting, unless you actually know us, or have something very specific you want to ask (such as where is the library).
- Listen to what we’re saying. If we’re telling you to leave us alone, or explaining why we feel uncomfortable, walk - away. Don’t make up excuses, don’t ignore us, don’t do anything but be respectful of our wishes.
- If you’re walking behind us either at night or on a quiet road, and we speed up our pace or keep looking back behind us at you, your closeness to us may be making us nervous. Either slow well down to give us space, or cross the road.
- If you see or hear us obviously being harassed by someone, and the person is not leaving us alone, do what you would do if you were witnessing a hate crime. Approach us, respectfully. Ask if we’re okay. Don’t expect our number in return.
Two days later, I’m still thinking about those three men on Saturday night. I guarantee they will have forgotten about me as soon they moved on. Years and months and weeks later, I can still describe countless incidents that have happened to me and my friends, ever since we’ve been old enough to say, “Text me when you’re home”. I guarantee the men that inflicted those incidents on us will have forgotten about us as soon as they moved on.
I’ve started trying to explain to men who harass me on the street how it makes me feel. None of them have listened.
And so it goes. But it doesn’t have to.
