Vulnerability

One unremarkable English class last year, our teacher asked us what made us fearful the most. Of course, we ran the entire gamut of shallow, insubstantial ideas and physical objects: spiders, insects, horror movies and bogeymen under the bed. One girl, one pretty, permatanned girl with dark, shiny hair, offered one simple word: Men. Of course, our long-suffering English teacher, eager to find meaning amidst a sea of silly and stereotypical suggestions, leapt at it and soon after got lost on her own tangent about media portrayal of the sexes and the gender-casting of the “stronger sex” as a dark and potentially dangerous element in modern society. Well, of course she feels threatened by men, N scoffed beside me, she’s gorgeous and desirable. And that, of course, soon degenerated into an argument over just how gorgeous and desirable this classmate of ours actually was, and the issues of fear, and men, and of fear of men, quickly fell to the wayside.

It wasn’t until tonight that I remembered that long-ago English class, and it wasn’t until tonight that I truly understood what exactly this no-longer-classmate really meant about being afraid of men.

It’s a funny thing, isn’t it, the way that we feel that our bodies are our own, yet are never entirely our own. We (well, me and so many other women like me) wear low-cut tops and high-cut shorts when we have the bodies to pull it off, push-up bras to improve on nature when nature fails to provide, lotions and creams and colourful gunk on our faces, in our hair; all to boost and disguise and to present the world with the best possible version of ourselves. Despite the vanity-inspired claims made to fit into the mould of a society hung up on self-actualisation and personal satisfaction – the I’m doing it for me’s, and the I want to feel good about myself’s – all it really comes down to is a matter of wanting to be noticed, appreciated, envied, desired. Hardly ever in an overtly sexual way, mind you, and not merely by member of the opposite sex either. We put ourselves on show in a silent plea for attention and the desire to feel valued. And when we get unwanted stares, the unwelcome lingering looks that just tip over the border of comfort, we’re quick to blame, to judge, to cry Wolf for the injustice of powerlessness and vulnerability against a patriarchal world. Some people (men, mostly) argue that it’s a double standard; and if it is, I say it’s a well-justified one. For who wants to be leered at by shadowy strangers? Who deserves to be groped by an anonymous hand? We put ourselves on show for a certain target audience, and it’s a terrible feeling to be noticed by those elements of darkness you try your best to avoid thinking about. It’s an unsettling powerlessness, knowing how easily the authority over your own body slips from your control.

I was on the train home tonight, early by a lot of standards but really rather a late hour for me to be on public transport alone, all things considered. I took a seat in a bay of four, wedged up against a window, avoiding eye contact and hoping to be left alone. I had lost myself to the fluorescent lighting and reflections off the window when I noticed a bit of a commotion in the six-seater bay beside me. Two women hastily moved off into the next carriage and the ticket inspector gave a harsh talking-to to a decrepit Asian man in seedy denim jacket. There had been some kind of an altercation; he had touched one of the women, I think, and she had rebuffed him loudly. I don’t know why I didn’t move then as well: I blame it on impaired judgement, and the hesitation to make a fuss. I thought he had left the train by the next stop and thought no more of it.

It wasn’t until about three stations away from my stop that he reappeared, reclaiming his place in the newly vacated six-seater bay. He sat for a minute in his original seat, and I could feel his old pervert’s gaze bore into me. I tried to ignore it, hoping that the three others in my four-seater would be enough of a buffer against his uninvited stare. But he shifted to the seat diagonally opposite me, and although I dared not look directly at him, I could see him staring unabashedly at my exposed shoulders, my low-cut singlet, from the reflection in the darkened window.

The businessman with his feet on the seat snapped the blue band on his wrist absentmindedly, and told the sunburnt youth about free tickets to the tennis, and the cutthroat corporate slog to the top.

I rummaged in my bag for my jacket, tugging it on and zipping it up to the chin. I regretted the two Coronas, the vasodilation and artificial warmth. (I’m a polar bear, I told Dan as he walked me to the station, a polar bear with a hopeless sense of direction and an irrational fear of the dark.) His stare held so much undisguised lechery that it made my skin curl back onto itself.

I got up to head for the doorway as the train pulled into my stop. As I tried to sidle past the old pervert as quickly as possible, he reached over and stroked the top of my knee. I slapped him, hard. Told him to fuck off. Knee-jerk reaction. Angry, flushed, aware of the whole carriage’s attention on me, I pressed down on the button until my knuckles turned white, until the doors finally opened and I was gone. I bumped into people; I powerwalked up the escalator and as I looked back I saw him risen from the seat, twisted around to glare at me – as if to burn my face into his memory – as I disappeared from view. I shoved the ticket into the turnstile with trembling hands, turning around every few seconds to make sure I didn’t spot his face amongst the commuters. I careered to the left, turned back again, glancing over my shoulder as I walked into people without noticing, checking again and again to make sure he was not there. A young man, when I accidentally walked into his path, must have seen such an expression of abject fear on my face he mistakenly thought was meant for him that he stumbled over his words to explain that he had only been trying to walk around me. I tried to explain – the train, a man – but I barely managed a grimace of reassurance.

Every man was an enemy. Every stranger a possible attacker. As I walked home under the fleeting illumination of the street lamps, my rapid footsteps pitter-pattered in my ears like thunder; my breaths came short and shallow; I palmed my keys with the jagged edges facing outwards and pressed the first anticipatory zero into my phone. When I got home, I went to all the doors and windows twice to make sure they were securely locked.

So sue me if I was being paranoid. So sue me if I overreacted. I don’t think anyone ever understands that nauseating blend of vulnerability, anger and terror until they experience it first-hand. I’ve never felt that danger before; I always assumed I’d feel stronger, safer, more in control if anything like that ever happened to me. I’ve always thought I could hold my own against the creeps on public transport. And sure, I retaliated; I didn’t let the bastard get away with harassing another blameless girl, but that, if anything amplified my fear. I was twice the size of him, and he was probably just another harmless old pervert, but the man could have been anyone; he could have been capable of anything – you just can’t know.

Of course not all men are lecherous potential rapists. Of course just because they’re men doesn’t mean they’re all driven, all the time, by base and primal desires. But it’s hard being young, and vulnerable, and noticed. It’s hard to have faith in the innate goodness of humanity. It’s hard, most of all, to try to understand and trust in the opposite sex.