The bus was 15 minutes away. I paid for my bagel and headed to the bus stop. My reflection stared back at me as I walked along Manners Street. I have a habit of staring at myself in the windows and mirrors that I walk past, analysing how I am being perceived. I don't necessarily think people notice me, but I am aware of my presence as a woman in this world. I remember wishing I'd put more effort into my appearance because I felt dishevelled at work in comparison to my co-workers who always look picture-perfect in their corporate pantsuits. The bus was ten minutes away when I reached the stop. All the seats were taken. A teenage schoolboy stood nearby; I leant against a tree, two or so metres away. I'm not exactly sure why, was I afraid to take up space, or was I hyper-aware of the feeling of being crowded? The bus was seven minutes away. I was reading my book. A loud honk caught my attention, I looked over to see three people crossing the street, causing a car to break considerably. They were talking loudly; I went back to my book.
The bus was five minutes away when the man approached me. I could tell he was looking at me even though I couldn't see his eyes, I felt them. As I looked up, he was walking towards me. He stood in front of me and started talking. I took my Airpod out and said "Sorry, what did you say?". The bus was three minutes away. He stood close to me, he was taller than me. "What do you have there" he leered. I mumbled out some sort of response. He started rambling about god knows what, I can't recall the specifics. I do remember him sticking out his hand, asking to shake mine. His hand was rough, calloused and large. The bus was one minute away. I looked around me at the other people at the bus stop. Did the schoolboy know why that happened? Did the boy with the tote bag understand why I felt obligated? Could they hear my beating heart? Of course not, I remember thinking. The middle-aged woman who was sitting on the seat looked over at me, I bet she knows I thought. The bus pulled up and I sat near the back.
A harmless interaction. No cat-calls, propositions or lude comments. There were six others at the bus stop. Why me? Existing as a woman is to exist as an object.
I am an inherent people pleaser. I'm not sure there has been a time in my life when I have stood up to a man (excluding my dad and my brother). I can't think of an instance when I have expressed my opinion, where I have said stop, where I have stood my ground. Honestly, men terrify me; I think they always have.
I am afraid of voicing my political opinion to my friend's dad who baits me into conversations, I am afraid when a family member picks me up and pinches my sides, I am afraid of the men who walk behind me on the street, I am afraid of the men who grab at my body in the club. I am afraid of the men I've been on dates with, I've been afraid of voicing my thoughts, I've been afraid of not making it back. I can count on my hands the number of men I feel have treated me as an equal, and who have truly respected me.
In many of these instances, there was no need to be afraid. Yet I am constantly aware of the power imbalance. But do they know? Does my friend's dad know I feel belittled by him, that I feel unable to speak up? Do the men on the street know that I am hyperaware that they are stronger than me, that they could attack me without much effort? Do the men I talk to know that I mask my opinions to avoid conflict with them? Do the men who touch me without my consent know that I let them, because I am more afraid of what would happen if I spoke up? Did the man who called me a fucker in the supermarket queue because I ignored his advances know that I stood there frozen in fear? Did this man, at the bus stop, know that I would shake his hand because I was afraid that if I didn't, I would be sworn at, harassed or worse? Do they know and use it to their advantage? Or do they just not know?
The first time I was catcalled, I was walking to the beach in Papamoa, I was eleven. He wolf-whistled and said I was sexy. I wore a striped shirt and a pair of shorts from suprée that I had just begged my mum to buy for me because I wanted to wear 'big girl clothes'. The first time a man stopped me on the street I was twelve. It was dark, I had just left a physio appointment and was waiting to be picked up. The man told me I was beautiful and asked if I wanted to go with him. I ran.
Do they know how they make me feel? Do these men know their entitlement and use it to their advantage, or are they so unaware of the privileges they are afforded that they do not recognise their power? I imagine it is probably both.
I know that there are courageous and brave women out there who do not take shit from men. They will swear, yell, argue and make men respect their boundaries, their personal space, their opinions and their bodies. I am not one of them.
Two minutes into the bus ride, I was angry at myself for shaking his hand. I did not want to, it made me uncomfortable and I felt belittled. In those moments I feel under a spell; I feel small and my body does not feel like my own. I am a puppet who moves in command when asked. It is a performance. I wish I felt stronger, I wish that I knew how to stand up for myself.
I have internalised my existence in this world. I have become a beautiful doll who does what she is told, exists for and within the male gaze, and makes herself small to fit the expectations of this role.
I remember waking up that day and opening the curtains, I was surprised by how beautiful the day was. Bright blue skies, perfectly still air, the day was unusually warm for late May. Alone, in my room, I existed only for myself.
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