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.
Click here
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