Street Harassment Will Always Get You Nowhere

Remember that Wednesday not too long ago? When it poured like crazy? According to the Capital Weather Gang, it was a record-breaking rain storm. If you’re as sick of precipitation as I am, the rain was unwelcome and made me quite grumpy. And you guys know me: I’m quite the grump even if it were to be 70 and sunny in mid-July (around here?  Hah!).

Anyway, I tried to avoid the rain as best I could that day. IP and I took the bus in the morning (and were soaked in the process nonetheless thanks to Metrobus’ stellar track record of never showing up on time, especially in a rain storm). My work is kind enough to provide a shuttle, so I took that instead of walking. On the way home I again took the shuttle and waited for the bus—while my pant legs were going to be soaked anyway, I’d rather spend five minutes in the rain instead of 20.

So on said way home, I boarded the bus and sat in an empty seat with the row all to myself. Once comfortably ensconced, I took out my iPhone and proceeded to check email, Facebook, Twitter, all that good stuff. It was then that I heard a clearing of the throat, followed by a question.

“Excuse me, what time is it?”

I glanced up briefly to see a guy giving me his most winning smile, trying to be as charming as all get out. Raising an eyebrow, I responded with 6:27 p.m., the guy thanked me, and I then turned back to my iPhone. The ride is short, but I like to keep busy.

“Do you speak Spanish?”

I hesitated, looking up again. I hate this question, especially coming from men around my age or younger. It’s almost always a way to begin hitting on you and it rarely bodes well. You can tell by the looks they give you and the way they try to lower their voices by several octaves (never quite accomplishing the low voice of my beloved IP, by the way) when asking the question. In my experience (remember, anecdotal here), they believe that speaking Spanish creates an affinity (it does not) and establishes a cultural norm that makes it okay to proceed to say what they want (again, it does not). For some reason, though (fucking stupid politeness ingrained by society), I answered that yes, I spoke Spanish. D’oh.

The guy then proceeded to ask me all kinds of questions: Did I ride the bus often? (No.) Did I live in Silver Spring? (I’m not telling you where I live.) How long had I been in the States? (Since I was a kid.) Internally rolling my eyes, I asked the same questions back, not really listening to the answers.

“So you don’t take the bus?” he asked again.

I sighed, shaking my head, then not-so-subtly brought up my left hand to flash my emerald engagement ring and Sholdt Twisp wedding band (not that being married should matter—he shouldn’t be harassing me, period, but it is a way of showing that I’m definitely not interested). He eyed them for a second, but was undeterred. “My husband and I walk a lot,” I answered, also undeterred.

“Oh. That’s why you have such a beautiful body,” he commented, giving me the slimiest smile I’ve seen in a good while.

I gave him a look, one that I hope conveyed disgust and suspicion and absolute derision for his clumsy attempts at trying to charm me. Newsflash, buddy—I don’t care what you or anyone else thinks about my looks. That has never been the way to get to know me, and those kinds of tactics get you nowhere. I’ve yet to see a woman who was told she had a bangin’ bod fall helplessly into the arms of her seducer. As women, we’re treated like objects all the time—you think by sexualizing yet again me you’re doing me a favor or offering me a compliment? Oh no, no, no.

The biggest thing that was attractive about IP when we first started dating? He listened to me. He didn’t immediately dive in with stupid compliments, try to touch me without my say-so, and he didn’t presume to think that flattering me was the quickest way into my pants. One of the best early conversations we had was about books and analyzing them—this guy could never hope to match that in a million years.

It was then that the bus arrived at my stop. For a split second, I debated not getting off there—what if he followed me?—but I decided to take the long way out (I usually sit toward the back to make a quick exit through the second door) and walk by the driver. If he followed, I’d turn to the driver and let him know the guy was trouble (after all, he’d told me where he lived, so why was he  getting off at this stop?). I bolted out of my seat, still giving him a dirty look, not returning his good-bye.

My only regret was not saying anything. Like, “What if some guy said that to your mom or sister?” or “You have no right to say that to me!” or “That is not a compliment nor flattering, ass.” I know that could’ve caused more trouble, though, and I was so absolutely disgusted that I was shocked into silence. I mean, who says shit like that!?

I rushed home, furious with the guy and with myself. Jesus H. Christ, way to make a shitty day shittier.

The addendum to this story: On Sunday, when returning home after my race, IP and I were offloaded at Takoma thanks to track work on the Red line. While we waited for the next train (supposedly seven minutes away—it was more like 15), I noticed a guy who had also been offloaded watching us. While we waited, IP warmed my face with his hands, pulled me close, and we were generally all lovey-dovey—not in a terrible PDA way, but in our snarky, sarcastic, playful kind of way. Throughout this, the dude watching us kept on circling closer and closer, until he was nearby us when the train came. I wasn’t sure that he was the guy from the bus, but he sure did look like him.

The train came, we boarded. When we got off at our station, I caught the guy looking at us again. It was then that I thought, yeah, this was the guy, and he was definitely trying to get me to notice him. To what effect, though? Strike up a conversation with IP and me? I was disgusted by him when I last saw him on the bus. It’s not like I hadn’t told IP about this guy—I didn’t point him out at the time because I wasn’t sure what the deal was, but when I told IP later, IP cheerfully said he would’ve offered to beat him up for me. So that wouldn’t have gone well for him at all.

Here’s hoping I don’t see him again.

And a note to guys who make these horrible comments to women thinking they’ll get somewhere: this doesn’t work. Ever. It’s insulting and demeaning. We’re not here for your entertainment or pleasure, and we’re not weaklings who swoon at being told we’re good looking. We’re people and we deserve respect. No forced conversation. No comments on our looks. Nothing. If it’s clear we don’t want to engage, leave us the hell alone. These types of comments are unwelcome and that makes it harassment.

STOP.