Ya wanna piece of me?

Chances are, if you're schlepping through life with a healthy pair of X chromosomes and a swagger lacking in butch, you are already all too familiar with the following scenario: You could be anywhere on the planet, in your hometown, or even on your city block. You can be in the basement laundry room of your apartment building, on the bus, walking past a café, crossing the street, or waiting for a drink in a bar. A man (or group of men) will make a sound or movement to capture your attention; judging from the quality of his voice or gesture, you either glance over quickly or pretend you never heard a thing. If it seems innocuous enough, you might look up properly, make eye contact, and either share a lovely moment with the other person, or regret it deeply if you cocked up royally and misjudged the situation.

His best response might be a kind smile and the proffered bottle of ketchup missing from your end of the counter for your fries. The worst response might be a burning, unblinking stare of unmitigated ownership stabbing directly into your being and stapling your lungs to your spine, a steady gaze that says, "You can't look away. Look at me, come to me now and I will take you home and do whatever I want to you. I will hurt you, I will silence you, and you will not run away. You are mine."

It is the singular moment of visual connection and recognition in the second scenario that terrifies me on the spot, yet simultaneously saturates my humming nerve endings with a mobilizing, shaking kind of rage. Instinct takes over and I look away subtly, instantaneously, and pretend he doesn't exist. If he continues staring or starts talking, I will keep doing what I'm doing or walk away, but not fast enough to show him he is affecting me, that he has any power to scare or possess me. Truly, however, all I want to do is to utter ~ in my lowest and most controlled voice ~ that he needs to fuck off and die, that I will hurt him very badly if he dares to come near or touch me.

In every sound or gesture preceding any incident, there are quiet nuances conveying intent; the trick is to read them correctly from the start so you don't find yourself caught in a difficult or dangerous situation. Sometimes, however, you simply don't have a choice.

Close to sunset tonight, I encountered my first suitor on one of the quieter back roads in my neighbourhood. He said something discomfitingly sexual with a casual flick of his head as I sped-walked past him with my daughter's overdue library DVD; I shut him out. Undaunted, he continued murmuring ~ then outright yelling ~ comments about my body and nasty things he wanted to do to me as I grew further away. (Mind you, I was wearing a thick sweater and an even thicker parka topped with a giant hood, but well, some men evidently aren't very picky.)

When he realized I had no intention of retracing my steps or sucking his cock, he loudly threatened to follow if I didn't turn around, but wisely stopped short. He wasn't huge or unusually strong, I assessed, and carried the faintly impatient demeanour of a semi-successful dealer waiting for an exchange or delivery from the sketchy Aurora, a few blocks down from where we were. I mentally reviewed the self-defence sequence engrained in my psyche from a seminar at my martial arts gym almost three years ago: Gerbil scratch the eyes! Double ear smack/Double-thumb eye gauge! Neckgrab/Elbow! Doublehand neck grab/Knee/Knee! Drop! Kick! Run! I quickly considered possible takedowns if he didn't go down with the sequence, and which Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu submission ~ offering the lowest potentials for failure and getting my ass sued ~ to attempt. Visualizing head-stomping finishes à la Erik Paulson managed to crack a good, solid smile across my face. Sick, I know, but immensely calming and satisfying all the same.

Fortunately, he must've needed the drugs or money more badly than he wanted my "hot/sweet/juicy cunt/coochie" (yes, charming!), and his odd, warbly voice finally faded out of range. Although I felt a surge of something ~ adrenaline? anger? ~ with this particular encounter, what seemed to permeate my bones most afterward was resignation. It was hardly pleasant, but it wasn't unusual, either. Strangers are sometimes confrontational or disgusting, and that's just the nature of mental illness and after-effects of terrible childhoods. This fellow wasn't overwhelmingly daunting because I felt capable of taking him down; he seemed more crazy talk than physical intent, and I had a feeling he was more concerned with contraband procurement than scoring himself a lay. As usual with these kinds of incidences, I'd actually forgotten about it about a block or two further down.

Stopping at the grocery store on the way home an hour later, I stocked up on my favourite yoghourt and some frozen treats for the kids, and was just about to take my receipt when I heard, "Hey! You!" Not sure if it was, "Hey! Me!" I ~ with pretty much everyone else in my line, along with my cashier ~ turned to follow the voice. It was a man in the checkout line next to mine, staring hard into my eyes. Feeling the weight of sympathetic chuckles and uncomfortable squirms around me, and I turned back to finish my transaction.

"Hey," he intoned, his voice low and urgent, and I turned to face him again, meaning to stare him down. His eyes ~ hard, unblinking across those eight or so feet, and almost angrily consuming ~ took me aback. The utter conviction in his gaze stated blatant and unrelenting intent, and sucked the breath out of my system; the only word that came to mind was ownership. Pure and simple, totally deluded ownership. For the first time in my life, I accepted "help out" to the upper deck exit with a bagger, and he was asked to go through the lower exit. This second suitor petrified me on an unprecedented level compared to the first buddy; this guy was serious and intense. My sixth sense was screaming at me to get the fuck away from there, posthaste.

As I pounded my way home as quickly as I could to avoid his running up to the second level and following me, I remembered a realization from my high school history and social studies classes: If I was born into any true patriarchal culture or era where women had no voice or rights, I might well be long dead by this chronological age because I would fight like fucking hell. I would not shut up. I would not be submissive to any abuser, and I would beat the shit out of any man who would dare to try and enslave me, any other female, or child.

And we would run.

Sometimes, Chef Boy asks what my issue is with men, and while I still have great difficulty articulating my avalanche of mixed feelings, I can clarify that I don't have a problem with men per se, but there exists enough of a very bad few to really muck things up for the general population. If a catcall or pick-up attempt seems innocuous or friendly-enough, I'll smile kindly, quietly laugh it off, and carry on my way. The same can not, however, be said about outright verbal and visual assaults that carry with them the unshakeable weight of latent violence.

Do I worry about physiologically and emotionally overreacting to a perceived threat, especially if I feel it carries menacing sexual undertones where it might not necessarily? Absolutely. I don't want to be a bitch or act paranoid, but if I don't know you and you physically corner me without explaining why, I'll probably try to escape or totally freak out; I'm sorry if you only meant to tell me my shoelaces were untied.

However, my childhood was one where I was wholly powerless, terrified, and physically abused. I got away from that, and I never want to find myself in that place ever again. My fight-or-flight instinct ~ and ability to quickly intuit people and shifts in emotional energy ~ is hard-earned and finely-honed for my survival, and I'm trying not to feel defensive about it. If it successfully fires me up with enough adrenaline to fight and run as if Cerberus and his starving brethren were hell-bent after me, so be it. At least my kids will still have a Mommy to tuck them into bed at night and see them through college.

Thus, sometimes all I can say to Chef Boy is he needs only to possess three holes down below to understand the abject powerlessless I feel for himself; to understand the fear, the anger, the anger for feeling fear, and the anger for even having to feel fear... just for being a girl.




(photo credit: British Booty snapped this goofy shot during an impromptu photoshoot in a back alley during her birthday weekend in Victoria, B.C. This was one of the tamer ones.)