Archive | April, 2012

My Feelings on Street Harassment

26 Apr

My feelings, as you may have already presumed, are not good.  A few weeks ago, my friend Creating Carrie posted about an incident of street harassment she experienced while on her bike.  In the end of the post, she asked her readers to respond to a number of questions which were posed to the victims, the by-standers, and the perpetrators of harassment.  I had been planning on responding to this post since she wrote it but just hadn’t felt compelled.  Until right now.

I have, earlier in my thus far short blogging life, posted about two different experiences I have had with different types of street harassment.  One was verbal, one physical; one I took action that resulted in punishment for the perpetrators, one I still fantasize about what I could have done differently.  (I will not share with you some of the more violent fantasies.)  Each situation is different, the levels of safety are different, the time of day.  Is the harasser in a car, on a bike, walking down the street?  Is he alone or with buddies?  My immediate feeling, despite the scenario, is always the same.  Anger.  Intense, intense anger.  Sometimes people tell me that I should just ignore it but, honestly, I find that those people are usually men.  They don’t understand.  One night, walking home from a bar that my boyfriend at the time owned and worked at, (if you’re wondering what time of day it was, what I was wearing, and whether I had been drinking then I have nothing to say to you) I heard behind me, on the sidewalk, the crunching of bike tires.  Even though I think it is rude to ride a bike on the sidewalk, going the wrong way no less, I decided to just swallow my words, move aside, and let the biker pass.  I was a few yards away from home and it seemed silly to start something right then.  And then, it happened.  The bicycle rider, who turned out to be a food delivery boy (I use “boy” not in any derogative way but because this person was, or at least appeared to be, a kid) grabbed my ass and rode off.  I was livid.  I yelled, of course, but bikes are faster than legs and I knew there was nothing I could do but stand there and seethe and feel completely violated.  I walked into my building and the tears came immediately.  Not because I was afraid but because I felt so dehumanized, so disempowered, so enraged.  Ignore it?  How?  I tell people this story and sometimes they laugh.  I wonder what the hell they think is so damn funny.

When was the last time I was harassed on the street, you might ask?  About 20 minutes ago.  Here’s how it happened.  I decided today would be the day I would start doing some of the things I have been putting off.  I used power tools and I hung up a mirror.  I felt powerful!  Self-sufficient!  I said to myself, “self, today you are going to hang up that pendant lamp that has been sitting in a bag, swaddled in bubble wrap, waiting to be mounted on the wall or broken by marauding kitties.”  I got my things together and walked to the nearby Home Depot.  I looked everywhere (and failed to find) the item that I needed but in the process I passed a middle-aged man who said, in a whisper in my ear right as he passed me, “hello.”  Honestly, unless you have experienced this you can never really understand how creepy that is.  To have some dude pass you so close that you can feel his breath as he whispers something at you is one of the most unnerving things.  It is a complete violation of space.  I ignored him and kept walking.  And then I heard an automated voice behind me so I turned around to see the source and, unfortunately, he turned around at the same time.  It was like that scene out of countless movies when two people pass, find each other attractive, and then catch each other looking back over their shoulders and that’s the beginning of the story of love.  Only I wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at me, and I found him repulsive.  I knew I had made a grave error.  I decided to wander around the Home Depot a while longer, weaving around the store, making sure that this man who probably thought he got some invite to conversation, or who knows what, wouldn’t see me purchasing the box of 100 garbage bags I had settled on.  I left the store.  I was still walking down the driveway, a mere 100 yards from the entrance of the store, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye.  It was the man, in his car, keeping pace with me and staring.  It seemed more than just a coincidence that we left at roughly the same time.

“Hey sweetheart, you need a ride?”

Sweetheart?  Really? “I’m fine.”

“Where are you going?  You look awfully nice.  I bet I could get you there faster.”

All I could do was look straight ahead and say “get away from me” as calmly as possible.  Luckily, he listened to my stern request and said nothing.  The entirety of my three-block walk home I was looking over my shoulder, worried that he had parked in front of one of the semis lining the street I was walking up, waiting to try his luck again.  Thankfully, he didn’t but the point is that he could have.  The point is that he, like the other men who have harassed me, made me feel unsafe.  It feels especially invasive when it happens so close to home.  As Creating Carrie so wonderfully put it,

A harasser’s desire to harass cannot be allowed because of some mythical safety. Guess what? Harassment destroys my safety. Physical violence is not the only way to make a neighborhood unsafe.

Is the Home Depot now on the list of places that a woman shouldn’t go alone?  Oh, there are so many men there, so much testosterone-inspiring power tools that a woman is just asking for it.  Fuck that.  Me looking over my shoulder in response to an unexpected sound is not an invitation.  I was born with breasts (not literally, but you know), and a vagina, and all the other things that come along with being female but that doesn’t make me any less human.  So don’t tell me to ignore it.  Don’t tell me I am only making it worse.  Next time you see a girl and want to say something, just don’t.  And the next time your friend or girlfriend tells you a story of harassment, don’t laugh it off or suggest she do something different, just listen.  Otherwise, next time I am harassed in Home Depot I might heed my friend Cherie’s advice and grab the nearest nail gun, axe, 2×4….because, despite what people may think, we know how to use these things.

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Thinking About Jailing the Victim? Here’s Why Not.

20 Apr

This is a post I have been thinking about writing for about a week now.  The idea was to give my rage a little time to dissolve.  As any friends or frequent readers might have already guess, this was an exercise in futility.  On April 15th, the New York Times (belatedly) published an article about a 17-year-old rape victim who was detained in Sacramento County, California (either in violation of, or due to the existence of, Marsy’s Law) for failing to appear at the court case against the man who was accused of raping her.  She was, ultimately, held in juvenile detention for 25 days for failing to appear twice.  The judge on the case deemed that rather than continuing to hold her until her scheduled appearance on April 23rd (almost a full month after she was first placed in custody on March 27th) she would be tracked using GPS monitoring.  Apparently her appearance is necessary because her attacker has been deemed a threat to public safety.

I really don’t even know where to start with this one.  According to the Times article, prosecutors in the case believe this girl is the missing link to putting away her attacker, a man who has a long criminal record including one prior rape.  Fair enough.  But ultimately that decision, whether to go through the strains of a trial, should be in the hands of the victim and not the criminal justice system.  As my friend Carrie said in a recent conversation, it should not be about justice, it should be about her justice.  Having been the victim of assault myself, as many women have been and, unfortunately, will be, I can understand her apprehension about coming forward.  I never told anyone what happened because I was afraid it was my fault.  I felt embarrassed and ashamed.  I, also, was 17.  Now, 11 years later, looking back on it I wish I had come forward and said something.  Who knows what this person did later.  Who knows whether his actions escalated.  Who knows whether by my coming forward I could have helped save someone else from experiencing the same thing I did.  The thing is that when I was 17 I wasn’t the same person I am now, at 28.  I was more concerned with healing myself, moving forward with my life, my freshman year at college, than I was with holding him (offiicially) responsible for his actions.  Come to think of it, I don’t think I even fully recognized, or named, the assault for a long time after it occurred.  Sure, the thought of seeing that person again, with whom I had a lot of friends in common, made me really uneasy but I don’t think I truly knew why that was.  I blocked it out and it took a number of years before I had the courage to admit to myself what had happened.  And again, I felt a sense of shame.  I was a strong woman, an independent woman, I shouldn’t have allowed this to happen.  But the thing is, it had nothing to do with how strong or independent I was, and I certainly didn’t let it happen (or “ask for it” which seems the common vernacular).  It had nothing to do with me as a person at all, really.  It had to do with his power and my, simply by being born a woman, lack thereof. It had to do with the society in which he and I were both raised.  My point here is that I understand the desire the prosecutors have to put this man behind bars.  He is a reprehensible human being.  But putting the responsibility for the safety of an entire community, and the possible punishment of a career criminal, on the shoulders of a young woman who likely feels responsible for her own assault is just as reprehensible.  She needs to heal, in her time and in her way, she needs support, she needs to either speak out against him or not, she needs to do what she needs.  And, really, she is the only one who knows what that is.  But since they have jailed her, since that has happened, here are some reasons why I find it incredibly problematic.

1.  According to the Rape, Abuse and Incest National Network (RAINN) 54% of rapes and sexual assaults go unreported.  That’s a lot.  They even came up with this incredibly useful, and incredibly depressing, bar graph that pictorializes rape conviction rates.

Convictions

Source:  RAINN

  1. Justice Department, National Crime Victimization Survey: 2006-2010
  2. FBI, Uniform Crime Reports: 2006-2010
  3. National Center for Policy Analysis, Crime and Punishment in America, 1999
  4. Department of Justice, Felony Defendents in Large Urban Counties: average of 2002-2006

If one were to do a risk-reward analysis of the results of coming forward after a rape or assault, one would likely conclude that reliving a traumatic event in front of a group of strangers to most likely not succeed in putting someone behind bars is not really worth it.  It partially explains why so many rapes and assaults go unreported and also might explain why this specific victim decided against reporting to her court appearance the first two times she was required to do so.

2.  It is not, I repeat not, the responsibility of this 17-year-old girl, or any other rape or assault victim, to protect the community from his/her attacker.  Sure, it would be great if she felt compelled to do so and even better if it worked in her favor.  Clearly this man is a monster and shouldn’t be free, but to force a victim to face her attacker against her will is inhuman.  The prosecutors in this case can not know, even if they themselves have been assaulted in their lifetime, what this girl’s life has been like, how she might feel about her attack, the fear she might have of facing her attacker, the trust or distrust she might have towards law enforcement and the justice system.  No one but her knows how she is feeling and no one but her can make the decision as to how she would like to go forward.

3.  Back to the rape report statistics, why do people not have the ability to have a big picture understanding of things?  I get it, the prosecutors want to put this man in jail.  But how about the ways in which this story is going to impact other victims of rape and assault?  Do they really think that by putting this girl behind bars they are instilling any sort of trust in law enforcement and the justice system’s ability to handle cases such as this?  Do they really think that other victims are going to feel safe reporting their own attacks when the possibility they will be jailed for being afraid to appear in court is in the back of their minds?

4.  If you have ever followed a rape or sexual assault case that has garnered national, or international attention, then you will know that the woman is rarely portrayed as a hero for standing up to her attacker.  In our justice system, in media coverage, and in our society she is a slut until proven otherwise.  The victim-blaming runs rampant.  Press coverage, and casual conversation, is rife with questions and assumptions.  What was she wearing?  What was she doing out at that time of night in that area of town?  Where was her mother?  Had she ever lied on any document on public record because if she had, if she was capable of lying then, what’s to make us think she isn’t lying now?  How many sexual partners had she had previously?  Was she promiscuous, or perceived as being promiscuous, in her life?  How much had she had to drink?  You get the idea.  If the victim is not perceived as relatable and trust-worthy then the assault never happened.  She is forced to defend her past, her actions, and her personality as if she is the one on trial.  And then, as if that wasn’t enough, she has to look at examples like Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinsky in which he is respected and she is still, 17 years later, running away from the image of a semen-stained dress.  She is defined by her assault and he by his accomplishments.  With events like these to look to, who can blame a victim for not wanting to put herself through it?

Maybe it seems as if I have taken my analysis of this specific incident a little too far.  The point of the matter is that no unique rape or assault exists in a vacuum separate from all the rapes and assaults, and official responses to them, that came before.  Every single day women are in danger of becoming victims and, by jailing this young woman, Sacramento County has just taken, on behalf of the entire criminal justice system, a step backwards in terms of its openness to female victims of sexual violence.  We are further silenced, unprotected, disempowered, and victimized because of actions such as this.  And now this young girl has yet another trauma to overcome, the trauma of her own incarceration.

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What’s the Rub?

16 Apr

It all started out innocently enough.  It was a normal Friday morning.  I was exhausted, having worked the night before and stayed out until 5:15am talking to my weekly ride home about safety in the city and Dominican politics.  You know, the usual.  In bed by 5:45 am, exhausted and hoping to at least make it, asleep, until 10:30.  No such luck.  My stubborn body woke me up in the 9s and no matter how tightly I squeezed my eyelids it wouldn’t let me drift off again.  Oh well.  I had a busy day planned, anyway.  I shuffled down the hallway, brushed my teeth, and poured myself a cup of coffee, all in hopes of appearing awake enough for the friendly coffee date I had planned from 11.  Drinking coffee to prepare for coffee.  It always makes me think of how when I was growing up my mom requested that I clean up my room before someone came to clean the house.  I never understood that.  Wasn’t that what the cleaning people came for?  To clean?  It wasn’t until coffee before coffee that it really started making sense.  Anyway, I’m off topic.  Had my coffee, applied some of my favorite bright blue eyeliner to try and draw attention away from the massive bags under my eyes, and proceeded down the steps to meet my friend in front of my building to go drink some more coffee.  And more coffee we drank!  After 1 1/2 hours of hilarity, I was a little swimmy-brained from the excessive caffeine and also running late to my appointment in the city.  And this is where the story really begins.  Also, this is where Dad, if you’re reading this Dad, you should probably stop.  It might be awkward.

I have been going to the same salon to get waxed for 5 years.  They have some manicure tables set up in the front but I have never seen anyone use them.  The place is known for a great, professional, cheap Brazilian wax.  I have never taken them at their word and opt for something slightly less….bald.  Not only have I been going to the same salon forever, I have also been seeing the same lady.  Norah.  She is great.  We talk about her family, what she does on her holidays, I tell her about school.  This past Friday, as she was moving from the bikini to the lower leg, I asked her how her Easter was.  Her response, “not Easter, Passover.”  I never knew she was Jewish!  (I probably should have put that in quotes because I am fairly certain that is pretty much what I blurted out to her immediately, except change the “she” to a “you” and the “was” to a “were.”)  Anyway, she also didn’t realize I was Jewish.  We got really excited.  In the following moments of tribe-inspired glee, she forgot to put lotion on my bikini line to remove some of the stickiness of the excess wax.  I didn’t notice.  That is, I didn’t notice until I was walking up 5th Avenue from 34th street en route to 53rd street to meet my dad for an afternoon of hanging out and my underwear was chafing in the worst possible way.  I don’t even want to think about how I must have been walking.

Dad, you’re not still reading this, are you?  Because seriously, I would stop.

Panic started setting in.  I knew I was going to be out for the rest of the afternoon and evening because my father and I, along with my sister-in-law, Claire, and my boyfriend, Pete, had plans to go see a panel discussion on the integration of baseball (in honor of Jackie Robinson Day) at the Metropolitan Museum of Art where my uncle works.  I also knew I couldn’t possible deal with the discomfort for the rest of the evening.  Should I stop at a drug store and buy some Neosporin?  But then how would I apply it?  Maybe I could go into a cafe and sneak into the bathroom?   Then, my dad called.  I should meet him in 5 minutes.  Shit!  No time to enact the plan!  So, I met my dad on 53rd Street and he said to me the words I would normally love to hear but on this day nearly brought tears to my eyes:

“I was thinking we could just walk up to the museum.  It’s really not that far and it’s such a nice day and I really don’t get into the city that often.”

Sure, I said, mentally apologizing to my bikini line.  We started walking, slowly.  And then, a plan!

“You know Dad, I could really use a cup of coffee.  And, hey!  There is a cafe right there!  Do you mind if we stop in real fast?”

He didn’t.  I rushed across the street, nearly getting hit by a car in the process.  We got in line, I ordered the fourth coffee that I didn’t really need and then turned to my Dad and said,

“Hey Dad, I’m just gonna run and pee real fast.  Can you hold this?”

I then scurried off to the bathroom.  Shit.  No Neosporin!  Foiled again!  I tried to use some toilet paper to relieve myself off the excess wax, but to no avail.  I went out into the area with the sinks that was in between the men and women’s stalls (trying, unsuccessfully, not to think about all the germs that must be on the handle of the door leading from the toilet room to the hand-washing room) and wet a piece of paper towel.  Back into the stall.  Still, no improvement.  There was only one option.  I was going to have to go commando…in a skirt…and walk around the city…with my dad (who I imagine if he hadn’t heeded my advice earlier, has now stopped reading).

I stuck my underwear in my purse and headed out of the bathroom, trying to walk like a person still wearing underwear.  We carried on.  The day continued relatively uneventfully.  I was careful going up and down stairs and when sitting down and crossing and uncrossing my legs.  We walked through the Stein’s Collect exhibit (so awesome!) and a baseball card exhibit (not so awesome) and then met up with Claire who I couldn’t wait to tell the current state of affairs to, just as soon as my dad wasn’t in earshot.  It happened after dinner.  My dad and Pete shared a speedy walk towards the museum while Claire and I sauntered behind.  I told her the whole story.  She thought it was hilarious.

Fast forward after the panel discussion, after the not-so-great band that followed, and a round of drinks at a nearby bar.  We all parted ways.  Claire and my dad went to pick my brother up downtown and head to Jersey, and Pete and I hopped the train back to Brooklyn.  My bikini line still hurt.  I really thought I was never going to be able to wear underwear again.  The only answer, I thought, was ice.  So I took an ice pack out of the freezer, walked back to my room, laid down, and put it on my bikini line.  I then texted Claire the following:

“I am currently icing my bikini line.  Holy mother.”

I thought that was it.  But then, an email from Claire!

Friday was so much fun. Glad we did it. Also, I wanted to tell you that I got your text while driving, and we thought it may have been James responding, so I let Aaron check…yep, he saw your text and had the best reaction!!!! He didn’t say anything because your dad was in the car, but he definitely did not know what to do with that text, and said it served him right for reading my texts…too funny! I’m just glad it didn’t say anything about being commando around your dad!

Oh yea, Aaron, you probably shouldn’t be reading this either.

The Case of the “Robbed” Budweiser

9 Apr

Another day behind the stick.  Everything was going pretty much normally… Easter candy spread out in little bowls on the bar, box of matzoh sitting on the food table next to the bagels so no one felt left out.  A regular ordered a Guinness and, of course, the keg kicked.  I went downstairs to change it and had the usual Guinness-induced problems:  sticky sankey, keg too far from the gas source and silly me, not wanting to throw my back out.  So I went back upstairs to the bar to break the bad news to my customer – no Guinness for you – when I encountered quite the sight.  A man standing next to a bike which was balanced on its seat and handle bars, with ear buds in, clutching at his heart yelling “ow! Ow! Ow! Ow!”  I looked inquisitively around the bar and then asked the man if he wanted me to call someone.  No, he said, he needed a beer.  Alright then.  Not what I would want if I was having heart pain, but who am I to judge?  So I asked him what he wanted and the annoyance began.

Man:  Just whatever, anything is fine.

Me:  Well, you need to give me a little something to go on.  Do you like hops?  A lager?  A porter maybe?  I have a nice witte.

Man:  Whatever.  I’ll drink tomato soup.

Me:  Um…tomato soup isn’t a beer.  How about a Bud?

Man:  You got Bud on tap?

Me:  Nah, only in the bottle.

Man:  How about a Coors Lite on tap.

Me:  I have none of that shit on tap.  I have Bud, Bud Lite, Heineken, and Amstel Lite all in the bottle.

Man:  I’ll have a bud on tap (he simultaneously, and inexplicably, makes a triangle shape in the air)

I turned towards the back bar, rolled my eyes, fetched a Bud from the ice, and put it on the bar.  “That’ll be 4 dollars.”  He hands me a 50 which I check, twice, to make sure it is legit.  Then I go back about my business tending to customers, chatting, washing glasses.  I then look up to find the man staring at me.  And not just like a casual glance that I happened to catch, but like a for real stare.

Me:  Stop staring at me, it’s making me uncomfortable.

Man:  (staring) I’m not staring. (Starts laughing, still staring.)

Me:  I see you.  You’re staring at me right now.  And what’s so funny?

Man:  Nothing’s funny.

Me:  Then why are you laughing?

Man:  I’m not (insane giggles…staring)

Me: Okay, you know what?  Finish your beer and get out.

Man: You got to ‘spect! (I imagine he meant respect but I was slightly unclear.)

I continue washing glasses and realize that as long as this man is in the bar, I am going to have to be standing right there in front of him because I can’t trust that he won’t do something, or say something, crazy.  I then look up and find him still staring at me.  I look at my Guinness-deprived customer and acknowledge that he has been watching everything go on, including the man staring at me, through the reflection in the mirror.

Me:  Okay, I’ve had enough.  I’m giving you 15 seconds to finish up you beer and get out of my bar.

Man:  You got to ‘spect!  This is my beer.  I bought it.  I’m drinking it.

He then continues drinking the beer, ever so slowly, while staring at me.

Me:  Okay, out.  Get out.  This is not a discussion.  This is not a negotiation.  I have had enough of your staring and your bullshit heart attack noises.  Get the fuck out of my bar.

The man continues to argue with me then when he realizes that my stare is far more intimidating than his, decides to leave, taking his beer with him.  Oh no.  No no no no no.  So, I walk around the bar and chase him outside.  Luckily, my boyfriend and one of his friends is out there. My boyfriend tells this man he can’t have his beer outside and puts his hand on the dudes bike so he can’t get away.  I then walk outside and demand he gives me the beer back.  He says no, it’s his beer, he has a receipt (my bar does not print receipts).  So, I reach across his bike, grab the beer out of his hand and storm back inside.  So what does the man do?  He calls the cops on me for stealing his beer.  Seriously.  I have “robbed” – his, word, not mine – his beer from him which was, apparently, his possession even though he was breaking the law by having an open container on the street and making me responsible for a fine if the cops happened to come by.  Since it was about 5pm on a Sunday afternoon (Easter, no less!) none of the cops really had anything to do so within about 5 minutes up pulled 5 cop cars and one ambulance to respond to some crazy man screaming about how I had robbed his beer.  They blocked the entire 4 lane avenue for about 15 minutes.  After they decided that this man was, indeed, out of his mind and sent him on his way, a few of the cops stuck their head in and, jokingly, asked for a Guinness.  I was all out.

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An Open Letter to New York Road Runners

2 Apr

I wrote this letter last week after a discussion about race fees with two of my running friends at the bar in which I work.  One of those running friends, it just so happens, is also a blogging friend  — Grilled PB&J — and has also written a letter which can be read here.  For a little reference for those of you who don’t run, or who run and don’t race, or who run and race and don’t live in New York, the entry fee for the NYC Marathon this year is something like 240 bucks.  When I registered to run in 2006 it was decidedly not $240.  It was under $200…and I think under $150.  The details aren’t important really.  Just read the damn letter.

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a person who needs time alone, time outside, and time outside alone.  In this city that can be hard to come by.  Luckily for me, I am a runner who lives close to Prospect Park.  Upwards of six days a week I lace up my running shoes, forgo my headphones, and run a mile, mostly uphill, to lope around the park.  Most days, I don’t take my running too seriously.  It’s just something I do to work off some of my extra energy, to get some much-needed space from the honking of cars and the buzzing of my cell phone.  It’s a pleasure and a passion but not a conscious pursuit.  By virtue of sheer repetition, I have gotten faster.  I’ve watched my mile times drop, first by seconds then by minutes, over the years.  I’ve arrived back home, red-faced and proud because I clocked a time that only a year before I never would have thought possible.  And all of this is for me, because I love to run.

In your Mission Statement it says, “it is our goal to give everyone on the planet both a reason to run and the means and opportunity to keep running and never stop.”  I must say that is a very respectable goal especially since the reason a lot of people start running in the first place, the reason I did anyway, is that it is a cheap sport.  All you need, really, is a pair of shoes and some old gym clothes and you’re on your way.  Of course you can always buy other, more fashionable and high-tech things:  GPS watches, quick dry clothing, training books.  I must admit, as a four-season outdoor runner, I have a rather extensive running wardrobe.  But the essentials, a pair of shoes and some open space, are accessible to most people.

I’m not quite sure how to proceed to the point here so let me tell you a story.  I have this friend, let’s call her Sammy.  Sammy is a very talented, very motivated runner.  She has a full-time job but somehow, by utilizing her lunch break, she manages to run 100-plus mile weeks.  She’s been working hard for a long time in hopes of making waves, in hopes of getting someone to notice her talent.  The thing is, she needs to run races to get noticed and the races, well, they’re too expensive.  She’s a unique girl with the same old story:  endless promise but crushing student loans, high tax rates, New York rent.  Her ticket out of her situation might very well be running.  The thing is, that for a sport so cheap the barrier to entry is just too high.  And she’s just one of many.  We might all not have the potential to win a race, but we certainly should have the opportunity to try and run one.  We gritted our teeth as you raised the price of the New York City Marathon, over and over again.  We understood when you said the costs of permits were increasing.  But, we ask, why are the prices of races in the park escalating as well?  I guess what I’m saying is that if you want to give everyone the “means and opportunity to keep running and never stop” then you need to reassess what you mean by everyone because right now, you are leaving a lot of us behind.

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