FIGHT OR FLIGHT
In the very first store I entered, H&M, I was approached by a man who asked me for a cigarette. In my 28 years here on Earth, this is not one of the worst pick-up lines I've heard, but it's certainly one of the most frequent, especially here in Paris. I politely said no and moved away to continue perusing the clothes.
Undeterred, the man followed me around the store, commenting on the sweater I was holding.
"C'est jolie, non?" he said. He didn't even attempt a smile, he just felt the sweater's sleeve and stared at me. He was too close. I was done with this game.
"Laisse-moi," I said curtly, gesturing for him to leave me alone. I hurried off to another area of the store, pretending to be absorbed in the racks of fast fashion rushing past, my heart pounding in my ears. I could sense that he was in pursuit, so I made a quick dash out of the store into the open space just outside to see if I could shake him.
Not two minutes later, as I was coming around a corner, convinced I had successfully dodged him, he appeared, smiling, in my path.
"We meet again," he said in French, holding out his hand in a gesture of guiltless surprise.
I ignored him and brushed past, making a beeline to another store where he might feel more out of place and therefore give up the ruse. A makeup store. Perfect. I darted into Marionnaud and immediately took great interest in a set of hand lotions, keenly aware all the while that the man had also entered the store and was pretending to examine merchandise not ten feet from me while keeping his eye on my whereabouts.
At this point, I didn't know what to do. I had politely declined his advance, removed myself from his proximity, told him in no uncertain terms that I did not wish to be around him, and now found myself not only pursued, but blatantly so. My brain was on fire, so I quickly Googled how to say "This man has been following me" and "Leave me alone" in French (just in case I'd gotten it wrong the first time—though Google confirmed that, even under pressure, my language skills had held strong). Unsure of where to turn, I spent an inordinately long time examining every piece of makeup in the store, convinced that if I couldn't outrun him, I could at least outlast him. Even creepy people must find the chase boring eventually, if the prey isn't running.
After twenty minutes of studied perusal, keeping one eye on the makeup and one on the door, I assessed that the coast was clear and moved toward the exit to continue my day of (now shattered) relaxation. But just as I was about to pass the final kiosk of "last-minute gift sets for all the ladies in your life," I saw him walk past the window, peering into the store to find me. Once he had continued past the window and out of view, I darted out of the store in the opposite direction, hurried down two escalators and into another store, where I wedged myself all the way in the back to make sure that I blended into the crowd.
The rest of my shopping trip passed uneventfully in theory, but in reality—with the rushing blood in my ears and the thrumming in my chest—I was shaken the rest of the afternoon. This certainly isn't the first time something like this has happened to me—I've been chased onto metros, propositioned in grocery stores and, even at the tender age of seven, trapped in a children's bookstore aisle with a man who was fondling his genitals through his sweatpants, staring at me the whole time—and it's by no means the worst thing that has happened to a female at the hands of a creepy man, but it's enough. It's all enough. And it needs to stop.
The biggest problem is not that there are predatory people in the world—men and women—who don't take no for an answer. The biggest problem is that we've been trained as a society to give the prey no out. I couldn't fight—though punching the guy in the face sounded great, it most likely wasn't going to defuse the pressure, nor would it have been entirely appropriate, considering he only spoke to me twice—but I also couldn't fly. I tried to dart, feint, dash and run, but nothing worked. Not even confronting him face-to-face and telling him to get lost made him back away and think better of his actions. So what's a person trying to keep the peace but also keep her sanity to do?
I contemplated telling one of the many security guards who were stationed in each store, but when faced with the language barrier and what was sure to be my muddled mind, I wasn't sure I could adequately explain what was happening without sounding like a silly tourist, or worse, a racist white woman scared because a black guy talked to her. (Yes, I think about these things.) What I wouldn't have been able to express in my frazzled French could possibly have gotten me laughed at, even chastised, maybe helped, but I didn't want to take the risk at the time. Getting panicky will do that.
But what gets me the most is this: I have lots of friends who carry pepper spray—one even carries a small keychain shaped like a lance—lots of us have taken self-defense classes, we practice in our heads what we would say or do in the event of feeling threatened, we've even discussed our stories of violation so that we feel less alone and less like we somehow brought these idiotic incidents upon ourselves. We're all so prepared to fight the enemy—who could be anywhere at any time—that it becomes a way of looking at the world. Our fight or flight reflexes are constantly on alert: where would we run? who would we call? could we punch hard enough? would our screams be heard? The issue of safety inequality has certainly gotten plenty of media attention through the years (#yesallwomen; rallies to advocate; speeches to ignite or shame; "girls shouldn't be taught how to avoid rape, boys should be taught not to rape"; the list goes on), but despite all this speechifying, all this babbling, all these facts and figures and findings, this is still an everyday occurrence. And it's frustrating as hell.
So when is enough enough?
#
