Because that’s not what happened. They would have to take my stuff for it to be a mugging. I was attacked and sexually assaulted. That’s what happened. I couldn’t let my brain go there, right away, though. “Mugged” is a much easier word to wrap your head and your life around.
This happened a week ago. I was walking home, seething about the street harassment I experienced in the four blocks in the Mission it would take me to get to my doorstep. It didn’t seem practical or necessary to call a car to drive four blocks.
The harassment happens every day and every night, but that night felt especially aggressive. A group of men near the bodega. Another group congregated on the retaining wall. A wasted crust punk wants to fist-bump me in the crosswalk. I’d had it. I thought to myself, “I wonder if I can condense my rage in to 140 characters?” Perhaps one of the more San Franciscan thoughts I’ve ever had.
And then I saw them, in the last half-second, in the last block to go before the safety of my gate. Two men running at me full speed from the side. The harassment is infuriating for all women, but this is your worst nightmare. They never said a word as they picked me up and threw me on the ground, made a half-hearted effort for my computer bag and the phone in its pocket. They didn’t even notice my jewelry. They grabbed my crotch as I was pinned on the ground then ran to a waiting car as I spewed and screamed expletives I didn’t even know I knew. (And I know a lot of expletives.) I even chased them out of pure rage and adrenaline. (Stupid, I know. Save the lecture.)
But they had a plan. I’m only grateful I retrieved MY plan I’d gone over in my head my entire life, for any similar occasion. You learn that early on. You’ve got to have a plan.
Earlier that day, I’d been at the bank near my office in the FiDi. I went there to thank the branch manager for stepping in the day before. The previous day an older man harassed me as I stood in line, he in the process of conducting a transaction at the counter. He launched in to my appearance right away, then declaring, “I LOVE WOMEN!” and finally loudly singing, “I’M A GIRL WATCHER, I’M A GIRL WATCHER.” Bank full of people. My own fucking bank. Dude did not. Give. A. Fuck.
I went back to thank the manager because I was grateful and surprised he had stepped in. He physically put himself between the Girl Watcher and me, demanding that he finish his business and be on his way. That hardly ever happens. Oh, the irony, of what would happen later that night.
I knew already that most men don’t understand what it means to be a woman alone. I have wonderful men in my life. Enlightened, aware, empathetic males. And they don’t get it because they don’t see it. It doesn’t happen the same way when they’re around. And it doesn’t happen to them when they’re alone. Women do this every fucking day.
We hope the bodega guy doesn’t make a comment about our nipples. We hope the teenagers don’t block the sidewalk. We dump our cigarettes before the BART plaza because the old drunks will start in if we stand still for the last few drags.
I bet you enjoy a nice podcast on your way to work, my Dudebros. We wear giant headphones with nothing playing on them as a visual cue that we’re not going to react to unwanted conversations. But we also hope those headphones don’t make us a target. An assailant will assume we’re too engrossed in our Walking To Work Mix to hear him coming. We can’t win.
We hope we don’t have to get off the bus at a stop that’s not ours because someone won’t leave us alone. Do I stay on the bus with my harasser? If I tell him to stop, will it make it worse? Will anyone do anything? (Pro tip: probably not.) Do I get off and hope he doesn’t follow me? Because then I’ll be alone. How many people are around? How late is it? What businesses are open? How fast can I run? Shit, am I wearing heels?
That guy’s been staring at me on a near-empty train since Powell Station and we’re all the way at Duboce. Do I stay on the train as it becomes emptier and emptier down the line? Or do I get off in the dark at a different stop than mine and give him a chance to follow me? Do I go toward my house? But then I’ll go by the park. And then BEST case scenario he’ll know where I live, and that there’s no one there.
Get off the train a stop early. Fuck, he got off the train, too. Should I call the police? Is this even an emergency? (Pro tip: WE NEVER FUCKING KNOW.) Then I’ll have my phone out, and that’s bad. Fuck it, Friend lives right here. I’ll call them and bee line for there. No answer. The fire station is close. Go toward the fire station. If I have to, I’ll hit the baby dump buzzer and the firemen will come out.
It’s safer to take a cab or a car, right? Pre-transportation app revolution, I’ve had a cab driver try and kiss me. I’ve had a cab driver ask if he could come inside my house. I’ve had a cab driver demand cash and drop me off at an ATM in the Tenderloin because his “machine isn’t working.” Do you have any idea how great it is to get a female cab driver by chance? It’s like winning the Cabbie Lottery.
Here’s the ugly truth: another brave woman was assaulted an hour before me, just four blocks away. Different guy. Different M.O. Our attacks got attention beyond a map point on a crime blotter because we have resources. Many women don’t.
If we didn’t put ourselves in dangerous situations, we never go anywhere. Ever. Because we don’t know who’s a threat. We can’t tell. It could be the old dude in the bank or the suit on the bus. It could be the hobo with a shank or the coworker after hours or the men who ambushed me on my own block.
Can’t be sure. Never totally sure.
