Napping Kittens

When I was 20, I spent a semester in Barcelona.  It was an incredible time of discovery, making friends, and sponging up as much culture as I could.  The city was filled with the melting architecture of Gaudi, the smell of chocolate croissants wafting through the air, and the rumble of La Ramblas street, filled with people dancing to their own beat. I was enchanted with how much living happened outside. There were young hippies playing music and sharing beers in the squares, and flocks of elders playing chess and meeting friends. The moment my feet hit those cobble stone streets, I knew I was in love. Barcelona, the land of surrealist art, Gothic architecture, cured ham, and wine.

For all there was to love however, there was one thing that would eat at me daily. It was the incessant hissing, cat calling, tongue clicking, staring, whistling, and nimble groping that would occur nearly every moment you were out. You couldn’t walk down the street without feeling like you were in the crossfire of a thousand bows aimed right at you. You'd dodge and weave, do everything that you could to avoid the man walking right at you. He’d come hissing at you with his face a few inches from yours, a mist of spit spraying onto your lips. Or maybe he’d play defense and stand directly in front of you not allowing you to walk past, without him taking a few sporty jabs at you first. “Hola Chinita” “Tss Tss Tss”  and grab your ass as he walked past you and then disappeared into the crowd. The catcalling was so thick it was suffocating. I was mentally tormented by it all. I didn’t know what to do, how to defend myself or how to take the higher road and stop to have a come to Jesus conversation with the perpetrators. I wanted to be good, to know that I could have a positive impact. I went so far as to try and rehearse a script (as my Spanish wasn’t so good then) to try and talk to these men and redirect their behaviors.  I wanted them to see me as a person and not some piece of ass or some carnival game that you could pelt with bean bags and win a prize.

Eventually I grew weary. They were too fast. I couldn’t stop them for a conversation. They wanted the cheap thrill of a reaction, or to get a longer look and once they got it, they’d give a self satisfied snicker, beat feet and be gone. I became tired of dodging and weaving; walking in a zig zag like I was escaping a gator in Florida. It was exhausting. I wanted the audacious luxury of walking in a straight line, directly to my destination without needing to get out of some gawking heyena’s way.  So I started punching them. That’s right. I’d punch them. Right in the gut. If they inched my way, didn’t let me pass, pressed their face into mine, hissed at me or spoke vulgarities under their breath, I undercut them in their stomach and kept walking. If they tried to touch my ass as they walked by, I turned around, threw the first guy I saw to the ground, and kept walking.  I didn’t feel good about it really.  I went from wishful goals of emulating Mother Theresa to being Mr. T on a cock crushing crusade. A far cry from my original sentiments of shepherding some wayward souls to a Shangri-La of equality and respect. But violence was just easier. They were my small victories amongst a lifetime of harassment. 

These were the simpler days. The every day. Unfortunately there were worse days.

As a young, independent female, I prided myself on being strong. And I was. I had a gymnast body, an appetite for adventure and a fearless disposition. I wasn’t going to let anyone tell me what I should and shouldn’t do, and I made a point to prove it. If I wanted to go to a club alone, I would. If I wanted to walk down a dark alley alone, I would. If I wanted to ride a motorcycle up a muddy hill in the rain alone, I would. If you hadn’t guessed it, I did a lot of shit alone! It was part of my creed as the independent, lone wolf. Unfortunately this also made me more of a target.

On certain dark nights, I remember being hunted and chased by men, feeling their eyes locked onto me like cold blooded vampires going in for the kill. Their gaze sent freon shivers down my spine. There was something vacant and animal in their eyes; an evil thirst.  I had to run through crowded bars, out back doors, into other crowded bars and beg strangers to hide me. I took every note from my times of watching Animal Planet and looked for safety in large herds (usually at the watering holes) until I finally lost them.

Another particular late night when I was walking home, a man seemed to casually walk behind me like a shadow. I started to pick up my pace and so did he. I crossed the street, and so did he. I crossed the street again, and there he was, both of us now running until he finally grabbed me. All of my knowledge of how to get out of a wrist grip suddenly vanished. I struggled to use leverage, but I couldn’t break free. Then I tried screaming. You know those blood curdling screams that you hear in horror movies? Those high pitched shrieks of utter terror? Well, that wasn’t me. Oh how I wish it was. No no. Mine came out more like a verklempt Mr. Belvedere. You see, I have this super low, weak and raspy voice. I am physically incapable of screaming at that pitch. I earnestly wish I could. Strangely it would make me feel more feminine. Like some priss yelling at a sporting event. But I’m more like the beer guzzling Dad that can barely get worked up enough to say a single “atta boy.” So tried as I might, I was left to very loudly saying “Ayudame! Ayudame!” “Help me! Help me!” on a street filled with apartment complexes, but no one turned on a light.  I fought to shout again “Ayudame! Ayudame!” over and over again, struggling to find that shrill pitch while battling to break free. And still, the street did not wake from its slumber.  Detached from the herd and with no defense mechanisms, by evolution’s standard I should have been dinner that night. But out of some sheer miracle, he finally ran off on his own.  Perhaps he was looking for fast food, and I was proving to be more farm to table. He wanted quick and easy and I was throw yer back out, hard labor. I’m not sure. And though he was gone, he had still left his mark; two perfectly bruised hand prints on both my wrists. Evidence that I could later weave into a story that I wasn’t strong. I was weak. And perhaps I have always, only been a naïve little girl. In that moment, I had never felt so abandoned and helpless. I walked home in the dark silence, looking up at the houses and all I could ask myself was “Where were you?”

But I was determined. I was determined to not be a victim. To not let fear rule me. To continue living my life with sheer wonder. To live as fully as I could imagine it to be. And some may call that brave and others would call it stubborn, stupid and arrogant. But I carried on, unwilling to be damaged fruit, and bought a ticket to Granada.

Traveling on a student’s budget means a few things.

1.     Eating hole in the wall gyro’s for every meal

2.     Getting loaded on piss beer and bladder wine

3.     Staying in the world’s sketchiest hostels

The sketchy hostel that I holed up in that night, was a big sterile room with 15 cots and a bathroom down the hall. It looked more like a refugee camp in an abandoned hospital than a hostel. But I didn’t care really. I threw my bag down, said hi to the 4 other Swedes in the room, and immediately took off to see the city.

I took the day to check some Moorish Castles and then headed up this hill, to find the deeply hidden flamenco bars, privy to locals only. You’d walk up a dark and steep street, see a small light, walk to some indiscernible door, descend a stair case, and there would be this incredible woman dancing flamenco in a tiny basement. There were families of people crowded around her clapping and cheering her on. I walked in alone, but instantly made friends. It wasn’t hard. Families practically fought over who could show the foreign, Asian girl a good time. I drank and drank and drank as families poured me glass over glass of velvet red wine. We would dance and toast to this wild and succulent life. The night became a blissful blur of  broken Spanish, and tearful laugher. When I finally left, I managed to stumble back down the dark hill, into my room and under the sheets.

 The next morning, I was slowly waking up to my hangover headache, when I started to notice the strangest feeling down south. Something warm and mushy on my privates. Deep in a hangover slumber, my mind was awake, but my body was made of lead. I felt like I was laying on the bottom of the ocean floor, unsure if I was still in a dream. But there it was, this warmth that seemed to engulf me. As I struggled to discern if this was real life or a dream, I started to become more and more aware that I wasn’t imaging it. It was really happening.  I forced my heavy lids to peel open and I looked down to see the top of some mans head. He had short, brown, curly hair and was indeed, eating me out. I was in a thick haze and was utterly confused. Who was this? Did I bring someone home last night? Did we hit it off at the bar and I forgot that he brought me back? My mind was racing trying to recall if I should know this man or not. As I quickly tried to rehash the events of last night, I could not scrape together a single memory of bringing someone back. Perhaps it was one of the Swedes? And I turned my head to the side but noticed the entire room was empty. It was just me and this man. But who was he? So I turned, tapped his shoulder and said, “Excuse me, Can I help you?”

Can I help you? Are you kidding me? I didn’t know what else to say. I was wildly confused. I wasn’t sure if we had met and I should be polite, or…or what? I didn’t know what else to think.

The man paused, looked up and said “Hi" in what sounded like a Hungarian accent.

ME: Hi, can I help you?

MAN: I saw you sleeping and you looked like a kitten

ME: What? A kitten? Ok. Did we meet last night?

MAN: No

ME: Excuse me? Wait, I’m sorry. Who are you?

MAN: I’m staying in this hostel today. I came in and saw you sleeping like a kitty.

ME: Wait, so we haven’t met?

MAN: No

ME: Ok. Well I... I... I need you to leave me alone. 

MAN: Ok. Well can I finish?

ME: Um, not here please. Go to your own bed.

And that was that. It was oddly calm.

He then finished on his side of the room. The acrid stench of wet pennies filled the air, and I ran off to shower, packed and left. 

I know it doesn’t look kindly on me to have not raised a fuss. To not run to some authorities, or kick him in the nuts, or dole some type of retribution for his invasive actions. I'm not proud of it to be honest. I will say though, that there were a lot of factors that contributed to that.  For starters, I was incredibly hung over with hardly enough energy to not hurl in bed. Second, I am strangely calm in crisis situations. I can easily get worked up about the small things, but can’t get worked up to save my life, for the bigger things. It just seemed easier to let it go at the time and not create it to be a bigger thing. But looking back now, I see the biggest culprit to my inaction. My female conditioning to deal and accept it.

All my life I was taught that females were to be subordinate to males. I blame that mostly on my Korean heritage. I was taught that everyone had a social rank, and that we always had to obey those above us. Even if they had refried beans for brains, and spit bologna as word, we had to shut up, and pay our respect. I was taught to squash my thoughts and opinions because it really didn’t matter what I thought. If I wanted to speak up, I was immediately cut down, because I was always the child, or I was female. So by nature, a rock that was older than me and identified as a male, deserved more respect.  I quickly learned to never speak up or contribute in any way. It was my job to shut up and know my place and I needed to accept that if I was to survive. After enough years of quieting your own voice, you forget that you have one. You forget what your real opinions are. You forget that you matter. 

My American conditioning prepped me for situations of sexual abuse. I watched cartoons like “Popeye” where Brutus was throwing Olive Oil over his shoulder and taking her to his cabin in the mountains. And without explicitly saying it, we all knew he was going to rape her in that cabin. And he threatened to do so in every episode, until Popeye came and saved the day. And Olive Oil was completely helpless. She had to sit and wring her fingers until some man saved her. I watched this theme over and over again with Betty Boop being kidnapped for her sexuality. It was both her power and her curse. Betty was going to be molested and most likely raped, until someone saved her. There were damsels being tied up on train tracks and cave women being beaten on the head and dragged into caves. I had become conditioned to believing this was just a part of the female experience. So when it happened in real life, I honestly didn’t know what to do. In the cartoons, some man always came in and saved the day. Where was the theme of self defense? Why didn’t Olive Oil practice Krav Maga? Why wasn’t Betty a total dom and whipped these drooling goobers into shape? Why was the whole world ok with watching these rapey scenes of helpless women for entertainment, but is suddenly surprised when women are saying that maneuvering a sexually predatory landscape is an every day threat? Why must we resort to #metoo for people to finally start believing, that every single female has felt the crushing hand of sexual harassment? Why must I be lead to believe that maybe I am the foolish one, for wanting to live my life freely and without fear. That if I was smart, I would be afraid of this world, and not walk alone at night or always have a man at my side. And why do we have to explain this every day impingement on basic freedoms, on basic thoughts, on basic considerations of how to live, to the male #metoo bandwagon riders?

I have been lucky. I have been lucky that I have only been abducted and shoved into a car once. That I have only been grabbed in the streets once. That I have only had a few strangers push themselves on to me and my body in ways that I did not condone. That I have never been in a situation so violent, I could not recover. I have been lucky. The spectrum of every day abuse that we females endure is vast. And perhaps that is one of our greatest strengths and weaknesses. Is that we endure.  Some of us have been trudging for so long, we lost our voice along the way. It’s hard to keep when the world is constantly trying to tell you where your place is. But we are finding it. And it may be quiet at first, so do your best to listen carefully. Now is the time to listen. Now is the time to believe.

BETTY BOOP "Old Man of the Mountain"
Proof of rapey-ness and people trippin' on some good shit back in the day.

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