Misadventures in the city
By Beth Connors-Manke
Sometimes persistence is not a virtue. And this guy had it. The first time, he pulled up next to me in a way I could easily ignore as coincidence. When he then did a U-turn and honked at me, I started to get it. My ire flared, but I figured that the complicated maneuver of following me the wrong way down a one-way street would deter him. The issue would be finished.
Nope. He did a two-block loop so he could approach me again as I walked down N. Lime. “Want a ride?” I didn’t say a word, but surely the look I gave him was scathing—I couldn’t believe that he was trying to proposition me a third time. In street language, I’d already given him a negative twice. The only thing that saved him from pepper spray straight in his face was that he was old—like retirement home old. Like double-dose of Viagra old. Like grandpa old. His age probably didn’t warrant the break I gave him; after all, plenty of old white lechers are dangerous, partially because they’ve spent many years thinking they are entitled to what they want from women (or children). What else but entitlement could account for the fact that he tried to pick me up three times in three blocks? He thought he deserved my attention.
(By the way, Old Lech John was driving a four-door dark sedan; license plate 869 DAC. If that’s your grandpa, tell him to stay the hell out of my neighborhood. If I see him again, trying to solicit sex from me or anyone else, his eyes are going to need more than cataract surgery.)
***
The same week I met Old Lech John, I accidentally saw a picture from the ridiculous State Street riot-party that occurred after UK’s victory over Louisville in the 2012 NCAA tournament. In it, a woman has pulled up her shirt and is publicly groped.
Truthfully, I wish I hadn’t seen the photo. Blondie Coed is up on some guy’s shoulders; around her is a sea of mostly male faces and a smattering of raised male hands. Some are pointing at her, or signaling “we’re number 1,” or both. Two men are taking her picture with their phones; another has ahold of her thong. Two more are reaching toward her, and one male reveler has grabbed her breast from the side. That actual moment—in real time—is a nightmare for someone like me who needs the streets to be a safe place for women. That photo—the pressing of the image onto public memory—pushed me toward anger, aggravation, and some despair.
Clearly, there’s a big problem with Blondie Coed thinking it whimsical to bare herself to a drunken mob of UK basketball fans. But the real gravitational pull of the photo for me was the young black hand groping her breast. That glimpse of entitlement kept tugging my thoughts back to the image. What made him think that, just because he could see her breast, it was his prerogative to touch it? I tried to imagine the situation reversed. If some dude dropped his drawers to celebrate, it wouldn’t occur to me to yank on his private parts. Sure, he’s mixed up drunkenness, rejoicing, and sex (just as Blondie did), but that doesn’t mean his body is public property.
In this case, sexual entitlement seemed to be about a direct line from seeing to taking. See something that arouses you? Grab it. Never thinking twice that it’s not yours to grab. Never taking the time to consider that the arousal is yours and the body is hers (or his)—and there’s a whole lot of personal, social, and legal distance between the two.
***
To top off a bad week, I received my third warning about the car flasher. In this case, the indecent exposure was on the male side of things. Evidently, a curly haired guy, supposedly Middle Eastern, is driving around near the UK campus, asking gals for directions in order to show off his pride. While his persistence resembles that of Old Geezer, his entitlement seems to be of a different ilk. It’s more along the lines of “Here’s what I’ve got, and it’s your duty, because you’re a lady, to affirm that I’ve got it.” No doubt his psychology differs from Old Lech John and Young Basketball Groper, but here’s what all three (white, black, brown; young and old) have in common: they believe the public space of the street is the place to assert their masculinity—and women are made to be part of that rite.
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