a secret code between women: are you safe? in a contact of eyes. i’m here if you need me, the littlest shift of a skirt, of an inclined head, of watching the man who is asking you to smile, bitch. you aren’t alone on the walls of restrooms, i was where you are too. the quiet doling of emergency numbers, the shelters. the space between two women in a largely empty train station. the waiting game of two women strangers who walk, quietly and quickly, to their cars in abandoned parking lots, who watch to be sure the other leaves safely. text me you get home safe. the tally marks of drinks on hidden wrists, carefully disguised as other things ever since men picked up on what it meant and used it to target the “weakest link.”
my father tells me we have nothing to worry about. last night he sent me one of those email chains that say at the top “Safety Tips For The Women In Your Life!!!! Don’t Let Her Die!!”
me, and the stranger on the train. she is asleep and the man is asking me who i am going home to. i feel tears pricking the sides of my eyes. i am 13 while he towers over me. he reaches out one hand, and while i don’t know how she knows, she speaks up without opening her eyes: “If you touch my daughter, sir, I will murder you.” Whatever he grumbles is lost in history, because this moment I am so grateful for the existence of other people that I cannot breathe.
I am 19 and on my phone when i become aware of a 13 year old girl is smiling nervously at a man who’s saying disgusting things. I grab her arm. “There you are, cindy,” I say, and then look at the man like he is bile. “Do you need something from my sister?” i ask, and i walk away with her. she cries later.
this is the way of things: a silent, secret web. our promise to each other that despite our differences, when it comes to the wire, we become family, instantly. the unspoken promise. i’m here. i’m watching. i’ll witness.
,A few months ago, I witnessed an altercation in a parking structure. A man and a woman parked next to one another. Her sensible grocery-getter was parked correctly. His gleaming Mercedes was way over the yellow line. He slammed his door open so fast and so hard that it put a sizeable dent in her passenger door.
She pulled out her phone to call her insurance company. He… objected.
While he actually never touched her, he did all of those things that men do to frighten and intimidate women. He loomed. He got right up in her face and shouted. He gestured wildly, his hands clenched into fists. All because a tiny, tiny black woman had the unmitigated gall to insist that a John McCain-looking wealthy white businessman take responsibility for the damage that he alone caused.
Several men averted their eyes and rushed past. Then I was walking by them.
Now, me? I’m barely five feet tall with shoes on. I’m on anxiety meds. I’m terrified of conflict. My officemate getting testy with the bank over the phone has sent me running for the bathroom until I can stop hyperventilating on more than one occasion. I cry when I get angry. I become incoherent when I’m afraid. In short, I am a society-tested, patriarchy-approved product of my There-Is-No-Greater-Sin-Than-Causing-A-Public-Scene upbringing, and I knew there was no way in hell I was going to be able to confront this guy on his level.
So I stopped, and I stood there, literally at the woman’s back, squarely in his line of sight, silently held up my phone, and started recording. And forced – and maintained – eye contact.
Another woman stopped next to me, pulled out her phone. Three more men scurried past us.
And Privilege McExecutivepants backed. the fuck. off. Suddenly, everything was a misunderstanding and he was willing to be reasonable. Of course he’d wait for the police. Insurance information? No problem. Well, he’ll just go sit in his car and wait, then.
I asked the tiny woman with the dented car whether she needed us to stick around until the police showed. They were the first words I had spoken to either of them. She said no, thanked me and the other woman, and I went to work. Where I promptly collapsed into a trembling, nauseous heap and shook for half an hour.
I’m trying to come up with a way to say this that doesn’t sound like humblebragging and I can’t, so fuck it. I didn’t do anything special. I didn’t. I’m a fat chick with early onset arthritis and knees that tend to pop out of joint for no goddamn reason. I can’t run. I can’t fight. I can’t jump or climb. I can’t overpower anyone. I can’t even use harsh language under pressure. But I also can’t walk away from someone who needs help. I won’t. So what can I do? I can scream. I can call for help. I can use my camera. I can use my ears. I can simply be there, one witness shouting without words that I see what is happening and I will not look away from it. And if I can’t do anything else, I can run to a safe distance and call 911.
And honestly? If you can’t do that much, I really don’t have any use for you. Is it a harsh benchmark for baseline humanity? Maybe, but I don’t give a rat’s ass? There are so many things in our lives that we can’t control, will never have any control over, but we can choose this. Because we’re all in this together.
Hi. I’m Sydney, and I’ve got your back. Got mine?
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theclumsiestninja 