I'm a Woman, Not a Piece of Meat

I should probably wait to start writing but I can’t help it, I’m angry. Today, walking down the street in broad daylight, an elderly man spanked me. Strike one, not a way to get on my good side. I spun around and said “No!” firmly and loudly to express that harassment is not okay. He winked at me with a cheeky little “I know you liked it” grin in response. Strike two. Good thing he didn’t hit strike three because I don’t think either of us would have liked the result.

This isn’t the first time I’ve been sexually harassed for the seditious act of walking down the street nor is it hardly a South Africa-specific problem. I’ve been stalked in Germany and Belgium, asked for three-somes from strangers in Swaziland, stalked by car in New York, felt up in taxis in South Africa, and held down and kissed against my will in Spain (twenty feet from waiting cab drivers, none of whom felt like helping). I’m sick of it. I’m utterly sick of swallowing it, walking on, and pretending like nothing happened.

I have a high sense of self worth and am confident in who I am, my accomplishments, and goals for the future. But nothing brings that down faster than having all that I worked so hard for ignored for the shell of a body I walk around in—to be grabbed, spanked, felt up by strangers like I am nothing more than an object. I weary of carrying pepper spray with me every time I head out the door. It’s small and light but the implications of why I need it are heavy.

There’s a shame attached to harassment that keeps us quiet, like somehow it was our fault. It kept me quiet, but it’s reached the point where I just can’t any more. Since I was young its been taught to me that covering up is an essential part of being safe—a rule I ardently stick to. I’m sick of this culture, of clothing or time of night putting blame on the girl when it was someone else who initiated the action of disrespect or violence. Please, someone, have the audacity to ask me if I was wearing a skimpy dress or shorts any of the times I’ve been harassed. We talk to our daughters about covering up, but how often do we talk to our sons about respect?

Maybe I’m crazy for dreaming of a world where women don’t have to walk alone with fear or where “It’s a dress, not a yes!” posters aren’t on third grade classroom walls. Until then, I’ll carry my pepper spray but I won’t stay silent any longer.