Insight

Men need a lesson on how to treat women

ZOË   WILLIAMS
williamz@mscd.edu

At the end of my days I take the bus home. Juggling school, work and trouble making is a stressful endeavor, but nothing compares to my commute home.

Every day when I stroll up Colfax or hop on the 15 line I am terrified. I am not afraid of people in general, just the males. The males are the ones who appear to believe that they have no obligation to treat me as anything more than an object.

A drunken man stumbles up. "You are a hot little slut, aren't you?"

My heart is racing. My palms are sweating. Every inch of skin on my body is crawling. Suddenly, all the males around me appear to be a threat. The man asking for the time and the friendly bus driver double the rate of my pulse.

Men treat women this way-like objects for the ogling and taking. Until they confront this in their own communities I am unapologetic in my general statements.

"Nice rack," the man sitting next to me on the bus says.

I am a cat in a corner and this kitten has claws. My purse has become a miniature arsenal. There's the pepper spray, the kubotan, the lighter that doubles as a fist pack and my knife-should things get hairy. I find myself debating which item is to be my weapon of choice.

"Have you ever considered that women do not want to be talked to like that?" I ask in a spurt of confidence.

"Then don't dress like that," my current harasser replies.

I am wearing jeans, a tank top and a sweater. I wonder if things would be different had I adorned myself in a burqa.

As cars roll past and people walk by I am getting yelled at as if I were a statue-an object and nothing more. These people do not realize how afraid I am. It hurts to exist in a time when sexual assault is not only a reality; it is imminent. After all, one-in-four Colorado women have been sexually assaulted. I struggle to name a female friend that has not experienced sexual assault.

I do not know where the line is between street harassment and sexual assault. I do not comprehend the boundary in men's minds that differentiates the sexual entitlement of yelling at me with no consideration of my feelings and the sense of sexual entitlement socialized in males that creates rape.

A male colleague recently told me to take everything as a compliment and laugh these guys off for being so pathetic. Long after I have locked the three bolts on my front door I may be able to squeeze in a laugh.

Perhaps when I talk to my father or my male friends and am reassured that some guys do understand and are willing to forfeit privilege for humanity I can shrug off the idiocy of those yelling at me. When I am on that bus or street corner I am preparing to fight for my life. Call me tightly wound, but I see nothing humorous in that.

Upon arriving home, I pour a cup of coffee and start writing this column. My fear sheds as I type, transforming into rage and passion. I am not an object. I am a human being.