Fearless

I like to think of myself as fearless. Untouchable. Someone who no one can mess with on any given moment. This might sound odd to those of you who know me since I am 5’4” (0n a good day), weight about 110 pounds, and have blonde hair. I am a tiny blonde girl who is about as non-threatening as one could imagine. I have been told that when I wear my dark purple lipstick I get about .2% more threatening, but even then its not in a way that awards me any kind of safety. Especially as a woman. 

To be completely honest, I have no idea where this idea that I am untouchable comes from. I have been put into plenty of situations that definitely prove that is not true. I, like many women, have been harassed at bars, at work, walking down the street, and so much more. I have been denied for jobs because I am female, and I have been told terrible things for being female. I have never won a fist fight (never even been in one) or even really done anything physical that means I am somehow superior. I am not overly impressive in anyway that would make me untouchable. 

If I wanted to get psychological, I might say that one reason I feel this way is because I have so many weird health issues. My nerves don’t fire correctly and my endometriosis tries to kill me on a regular basis. And since I have survived surgery, countless blood draws, a million tests in whirring machines, and ER visits so numerous the intake nurses knew me by name, I am invincible. How could anybody come at me after what my body has dealt with? What it is actuality dealing with as I type this out? There was even a small part of me for awhile who assumed I was doing this to test the universe and see if I really was untouchable. But one night scaling Chicago for a lost drunken roommate was more than enough to reassure me I did not under any circumstances want to test the universe. 

I have done things that definitely should have gotten me murdered, and the worst part is it revolves around doing the thing women are never supposed to do: be alone at night. I have ridden the train home when I lived in Chicago at various hours of the night. A friend and I went on a walk down to the lake in Chicago at night, knowing full well what we were doing. I have walked home from the bars alone, slightly intoxicated, and through parking lots where girls were later attacked doing the same things. On the surface it seems like young adult recklessness but the real kicker here is that I knew exactly what I was doing and the risk involved. And a part of my mind kept telling me that it was ok. I was safe. I wasn’t going to be a statistic. I was talking with a friend recently about this idea of being untouchable and all the stupid late night walking I have done, and she cleverly pointed out that my fearless attitude was my way of basically not being told what to do. I didn’t want to have to find walk home with someone. I didn’t want to have to feel afraid getting into an Uber alone. I wanted to be able to take public transportation at night like any guy would. I wanted to live on my own terms (as I usually do) and not be governed by the fact that I can’t simply because I am a woman. 

I still think it is wholly unfair that we live in a world where women have to carry tasers and pepper spray to feel safe, that we have to keep a close eye on our drinks, that we have to always make sure there is one of us who is sober enough to stay on the look out, or that there are men in our group should we be out at night. Should we be out at night drinking. There is no way to explain how powerless this feels. There is no way to explain how good it felt to feel like I was standing up for myself when taking the train home alone that night, and how accomplished I felt when I sauntered into my apartment unscathed. But for every single one of these triumphant feelings, there are at least five (if not many more) feelings of dread and terror. Like that one time I got grabbed at the bars so hard he tiny little finger shaped bruises. Or once when I was at work, reaching up to put clothes away on a high shelf, an unknown man grabbed my butt with hands and whispered something awful. Or when I was wearing a skirt and a tank top one day out in Chicago and a police officer informed me I shouldn’t be surprised when I get raped. And last but not least, the minor infraction that still stung; the guy at a bar who asked me to go home with him, and when I told him no, he informed me I was a “fucking slut” and “not that cute anyway”. 

Those are the ones that come to mind immediately, but there are many more. And every single woman in this country has stories like that. Cat calls, leering, grabbing, assault, terror, and ultimately anger. Because why cant we just grab a drink with friends without having to worry if we look too slutty  or if that man over there is looking at us or leering at us? It’s enough to make a woman throw a two year old level temper tantrum shouting “ITS NOT FAIR!”

And it really is not fair. I write all of this in light of yet another rape that was brought to court, and yet another judge saying that this “young mans life” shouldn’t be ruined over a “mistake at a party”. No one takes into account what that young women is feeling, and how she will struggle for the rest of her life. What it ultimately comes down is that if women ever want to feel safe, and feel valued in this country, if we ever want to truly be fearless, then the government we reside under needs to start taking women and their safety seriously. Without that we will forever be stuck. 

This post started out very different, and was mainly my thoughts on some reckless things I did and why I chose to do that knowing the consequences could be dire. I hope you enjoyed this little spiral I went on. It has been something brewing for awhile. 

Madey 

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