‘The Testosterone Effect’ silently rules my life. This is not a menopausal symptom, new to this stage of life. Nor is it exclusively mine. All females around the world, no matter their age, skin tone or religion have ‘TE’ stories to share.
Yesterday I heard from a 12 year old girl who no longer walks home from her bus stop in the middle of the afternoon, along old tree lined residential streets thanks to not one but three encounters with creepy men. A young mom admits to keeping hawk like vigilance on the horizon for men lingering just a bit too long while her toddler daughter plays. Another savvy woman fears walking home alone at night thanks to being grabbed from behind by a guy a few years earlier.
Since the beginning of time, a percentage of men in the population have behaved violently towards women. Indeed these stories are not ‘news’. But just imagine what would happen if the stories sounded like this.
Yesterday I heard from a 12 year old boy who no longer walks home from his bus stop in the middle of the afternoon, along old tree lined residential streets thanks to not one but three encounters with creepy women. A young dad admits to keeping hawk like vigilance on the horizon for women lingering just a bit too long while his toddler son plays. Another savvy man fears walking home alone at night thanks to being grabbed from behind by a gal a few years earlier.
I’m betting the drug companies and scientific community would be burning the friggin midnight oil cooking up a plethora of creams, pills, injectibles and sprays to rid the menace of female aggression from the streets.
Here’s an editorial I wrote for our local daily paper last fall.
My mind was elsewhere as I walked home basking in the afterglow from attending an excellent performance of the Community Play Project.
Marveling. Yes, as I strode down the well-lit street, my stride confident, the night clear. I was full of admiration for my city and the hundreds of creative beings that call this town home.
I’m lucky. I live a short, pretty walk from the core of my small city. Over the years I’ve walked and rode the streets daily, mindfully, but not fearful. So when the late model black sports car pulled up beside me, and the tinted window electronically lowered I stopped, prepared to offer directions. After all, why else would someone stop a female pedestrian at 9:30 on a Sunday night?
Quickly, my Good Samaritan bubble burst. The thirty something male driver wasn’t lost. He was prowling the streets of downtown, looking for someone to hit on.
Or worse.
Disgusted I walked on, clearly disinterested in his rude offer.
Undeterred he tried again, perhaps stupidly thinking I was playing hard to get. This time I offered very clear directions for where I thought he should go.
With reluctance he drove off, slowly enough for me to burn his license number into my memory. Then, I bee lined home and called the cops. Turns out they knew who he was.
Ten months later, I was returning home along another well lit street. This time, my mind was firmly on the task at hand, getting home safely, acutely aware of my surroundings.
I can’t say for sure that it was the same car. But the vehicles tinted windows and slow speed tipped me off to potential danger. I crossed the street just as the driver did a u-turn and circled back my way.
As the car approached me from behind, I hurried up an unfamiliar driveway, and headed for the side door, hoping no big dogs were waiting to greet me. This was not my house but that didn’t matter. Slowly the car drove by, then pulled over on the side street slightly past the house, and then dimmed the headlights.
Carefully I picked my way through the dark, strange yard, crouching behind shrub after shrub until I was able to move beyond the driver’s sight line.
Then, with fear coursing through my veins, I ran like hell.
I arrived home, winded and wild eyed just as my neighbour pulled up on his bike. His smile quickly changed to a look of concern as I breathlessly told my story.
There was one other time when my heart lodged in my throat thanks to an unwanted, male shadow. I had missed the last bus after a concert while visiting Stuttgart, Germany. Unscathed and knowing my hostel was close I set out on foot. Given my limited language skills, I figured taking a cab might come with its own set of problems.
When it became clear that I was being followed, I took action. Turning quickly, I growled like a wild beast, waving my fists fiercely at the man who was ten steps behind.
The guy stopped in his tracks. Then he took off like a shot.
Just last weekend, returning home from the Film Festival, I noticed the man walking ahead of me had stopped. I had been trailing him for a few blocks, feeling no threat, grateful for his presence. But as he continued to wait and the gap between us narrowed, I tensed. “What nowâ€, I wondered nervously.
When I got within earshot he broke the silence. “Should you be walking home alone†he offered with sincerity? Relieved, my shoulders dropped. After a brief exchange we continued on together, talking about the perils of drinking and driving, the unusually balmy November weather and drudgery of cleaning our eve troughs.
No doubt some of you will think I am asking for. I’m not. Trouble is not something I go looking for. Rather, I believe all people should be able to walk in their own neighbourhood without fear. It’s part of a healthy community and a civilized society.
I’ve lived here for twenty-five years. Never before have I felt concern for my safety in my own neighbourhood. And suddenly in the last year, thanks to two creepy encounters, I do.
As a woman, I could change my habits and stop walking.
Or the men in this city who know better, could make sure that their sons, brothers and co-workers understand the importance of showing respect for women. It only takes one jerk to shift the comfort level of an entire community.
Besides dad, this creep’s next hit might be your daughter.
Sue Richards
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Sue Richards, regular Canadian gal, heats up as her reproductive Best Before Date expires.
