Illustration by alvarotapia and used under a Creative Commons licence.
I make no apologies for the fact the Rolling Stones are one of my favourite bands. And one day when I was walking to the bus stop and a total stranger aggressively groped me, I realised “Paint It Black” perfectly epitomised the all consuming rage I feel whenever I get harassed by men in the street. That day I pulled my headphones out and screamed “HOW DARE YOU GROPE ME, YOU DISGUSTING MAN!” and surprised myself, having previously been silent and embarrassed when it happened. A man two metres in front clocked the situation and shouted “What are you doing? How would you feel if it was your sister?” The groper looked shocked and ran off, when seconds before he’d smugly had the upper hand.
I can’t help but shout at street harassers now. The gropers, the leerers, the shouters. Previously, I’d been silent. No one had talked about how to deal with this. Walking home from school one night when it was dark, still in uniform, a car pulled alongside me, crawled along the kerb as the occupant told me to get into his car, calling me all manner of names. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t get confident, I grew tired. Utterly world weary. Every time someone commented on your “tits” or proclaimed unsolicited that they would or wouldn’t fuck you, declared you fat, thin or just generally lacking I wish they’d be ejected into the sun.
When I started cycling and running, the abuse increased tenfold. I’m not sure if it’s a fear of strong women or the hope you’ll have rushed past before you can wallop them that increases the torrent, but every female runner and cyclist I know reports the same. I decided I wasn’t going to take this shit, mostly because if I remained silent, I spent the next few hours festering and rehearsing lines I should have shouted.
In my experience, men don’t harass women in the street when they’re feeling confident – they clock when strangers are nervous, despondent and vulnerable and lash out accordingly. The point of street harassment is it’s designed to intimidate, and show you who has the power in any given situation. Especially in enclosed spaces like the tube, when someone gropes you it’s difficult to speak up: there’s a short period where you try to work out what just happened, then whether you should respond. When I’ve paused, and not called someone out for being a creep, grabby sleaze, I’ve spent all day feeling utterly dejected.
So, now I don’t wait. My reflex action is to loudly call them names, and shout about what they’ve done. “You pig, how dare you grope me!” shouted in a tube carriage usually leaves the over-entitled perve beetroot red as eyes bore into him. And the look of shock when you answer back often counters the anger and embarrassment you feel at being subjected to this crap yet again. Strolling to the station the other day, I clocked a bloke walking towards me slap the backside of a nearby woman. I shouted “What a dick!” at him, and he looked terrified. The woman smiled at me and looked a bit less shocked. Hopefully I ruined his night.
Sometimes, meeting a grope, leer or twattish comment with a volley of blue language is more cathartic than throwing darts at a picture of Martin Amis. I heartily recommend it.
