Reader Caitlin sent in her video about street harassment and the very strange predilection for…
Tag: street harassment
By Guest Contributor Renina Jarmon (M.Dot) cross-posted from New Model Minority
Last Saturday on the way home on the metro platform I was tired.
I had been dancing. Bier was consumed. I spent the afternoon reading, and the evening posted up with my friend All Spirit and then the night dancing.
All Spirit bounced early, and he was my ride so I darted home on the metro. Looking back I should have asked another homie for a ride home.
By Guest Contributor Elizabeth Mendez Berry, originally posted at El Diario
Editor’s Note: An English-language version of this piece is available under the cut
Fui acosada por primera vez a los 13 años de edad. Dos hombres me siguieron en su camioneta por varias cuadras, vociferando unas vulgaridades de lo que me querían hacer. A los 18, un “piropeador” corrió tras de mí y trató de entrar a mi apartamento a la fuerza.
Mi experiencia no es única: el acoso callejero es un problema diario pero raramente reconocido. Según varias investigaciones citadas por Holly Kearl, autora del importante libro Stop Street Harassment, entre el 80 y 99 porciento de las mujeres han sido objeto de atencion agresiva y no deseada en la calle. Ella encontró que el 75% de mujeres habían sido perseguidas por hombres desconocidos y que el 57% habían sido manoseadas de forma sexual en la calle, algunas cuando tenían tan sólo 10 años de edad.
Esta epidemia tiene consecuencias graves. Investigadores de la Universidad de Connecticut encontraron que “la experiencia del acoso callejero está directamente relacionada con una mayor preocupación acerca de la aparencia física y la vergüenza corporal, y está relacionada indirectamente con un miedo elevado de la violación”. En un país donde una de cada tres mujeres es víctima del asalto sexual, estos temores no son infundados.
by Guest Contributor Fiqah, originally published at Possum Stew
[NOTE: This post was originally penned back in September. The police officer in question is obviously no longer a threat to my safety. However, because a lot of what I discuss in this post is triggering, it took me a while to get to a place where I felt comfortable posting it. If you have any bad experiences with police harassment or street/sidewalk harassment, you might want to skip this post altogether.]
Today I cried on a stack of lemons at the supermarket. I should note here that crying in public, much less on produce, is atypical Fiqah behavior. Public crying is embarrassing AND unattractive, and as a pretty and vain chronic sinusitis sufferer, I know that Puffy-Sobby-Wetface is NOT my best look. But today, that’s exactly what I did: stuck my elbows in a stack of sunny yellow lemons, buried my face in my palms, and sobbed. It was early afternoon, and the produce section was thankfully empty. I don’t know how long I stood there before I was able to collect myself, wipe my obviously-been-crying face, clean my smeary glasses, and make my purchase. I ignored the eyes of the cashier, the concerned and alarmed expression of the man bagging my groceries, and the fiery burning of my beet-red ears as I left the store. You fucking idiot! I thought as I made my way back home. You forgot he was there!
I guess now would be a good time to explain myself.
For the past month or so, I have been the recipient of the unwanted attentions of a cop. This officer, whose beat is at a park in my neighborhood, first approached me when I was coming back from running some morning errands. At the time, I was carrying a few large shopping bags and wearing ear buds blasting M.I.A. I didn’t see him until he was right next to me, grabbing one of the heavier bags right out of my hand and startling me stupid. The cop, a Latino man in his late thirties, purred a too-familiar “hello” and told me that he it looked like I needed some help. All this as he took off his sunglasses and frankly assessed my bosom. A chill had gone through my whole body as I’d smiled and stammered a nervous thank you, moving my purse around to from my side to my front in an attempt to cover my breasts. Read the Post Unreported
by M.Dot, originally published at Model Minority
Yesterday I was in the train station not feeling too hot. The outfit was fly, but I just was not in the mood for the juvenile attention that the outfit seemed to provoke. As if clothes provoke behavior. These young men all have home training, whether they choose to use it is something completely different.
As I stood on the platform, alone, as I just gotten off the express to get the local, a young buck, approximately 17 years old Black male, grazed my book and said “Why you touch me?”
“What? You touched me”.
Then he walked up on me.
Typically, I would be all for the teaching moment. Or even challenging him on some “Fall back ock.”
I had had a long day. Mercury is clearly in retrograde, as I attempted to go to a meeting, but it that was actually on Friday night, not Saturday morning. Then I went to brunch and I realized I left my wallet home. The wallet was in another bag and I failed to transfer it back over. I tried to put together a little “Welcome back M.dot” get-together for Saturday night, but I had to cancel it because of conflicts with schedules.
I was bummed out.
So yeah. I had had it and it wasn’t even 2pm yet.
But the day had improved because I got a few books from the library, one of which was. “Shadowboxing, Black Feminist Representations” by Joy James, which is what I was reading when the young man bumped into me. In fact, at the time of the incident, I was reading a sentence where Angela Y. Davis, was speaking on the need to eradicate the prison system as it exists today.
So back to the young man.
He walked up on me, and both I paid it mind, but then paid it no mind. I had been getting harassed all day. Sad to say, but I was partially desensitized.
He mumbled something, and I did my, “Why are you enraged, what’s the problem?” Looking back at that moment, he was slightly
pacing like a lion.
There was no one else in our area of the platform.
Then it changed.
He walked up on me again, and said, cocked his head, and said “Don’t touch me, I will do something to you.” Read the Post I Didn’t Want the Police