The last time I was sexually harassed on the street I grinned. It was all I could do. A tense, curt, close-mouthed grin that I hoped implied I was trying to be nice but also “don’t get too close to me”. It was late and I felt the fatigue in my body and I didn’t know if I could run. So I handled it the best I could. Truthfully speaking, there is no good way to handle street harassment. The outcome is based entirely on them. Are they violent? Sick? Embarrassed? The answer could shape the rest of your life. You have no control over it. Honestly you don’t have much control over your own response, as I’ve come to know.
The first time I was harassed on the street I couldn’t have been older than 12. Visibly 12. It was a man asking me for my number. Trying to hold my attention and avoid my mother’s gaze. I remember feeling scared but also something else. Like I had just brushed my teeth and drank a cup of orange juice and now my stomach was churning. I was too young to understand disgust then but that’s what it was. I smiled and tried to be polite. I think he thought of that as an invitation. So then I forced myself to ignore. The moment stuck with me and I felt too ashamed to talk about it. I just insisted on staying in the car whenever we were going to that particular Lotte location. I still don’t go there.
In 2017, I was 21. Visibly so. I was also mostly on campus. I had gotten a job and was taking two summer classes so I needed to stay on campus. Living somewhere walkable for the summer excited me but I found that I wasn’t able to walk much. They appeared out of nowhere. Groups of them rode around in cars. They followed me, desperate to get my attention. To let me know I look too comfortable outside. A man on a bike downtown came within inches of me. Another man, visibly sixties, asked to smell me. My reaction was different. I’d had enough, finally tapping into that youthful feeling of invincibility that had eluded me until then. I flicked the car off. I glared. I told men to back up. I felt like I was doing something. Instead something was happening to me. My bravery was fading. My anxiety moved in and set up shop. I was exhausted and while the harassment changed, it would never completely stop.
Now, I grin. As if pulling the sides of my mouth away from each other is some sort of activation. Grinning as a chemical catalyst that lets my body know that I have to be alert and ready. There is a culture online that seeps into the real world. A culture that says that women are a nuisances and need to be reminded of such. I’ve watched anti-women slurs form online, only to hear them spouted in real life. I lament my inaction in stopping it, while realizing I am too small to do so alone. So I grin for myself and warn other women when I can. Holding their gaze for as long as possible to signal to them or just outright saying, “Hey there’s a weird guy over there.” Or making sure I’m a witness, in case I’m needed.
But there is no good way to handle street harassment. No good way to address the misogyny we all wade through. No one person to blame. Just a sigh of gratitude when you get home safe at the end of the day. Or the feeling of satisfaction you feel at accurately remembering the street corners to avoid. Or getting a vibe and canceling your walk entirely.