Altercations with men in public, Part 1
London, 1999
When I moved to London at just 20 years old, I was an exceptionally confident person. Not necessarily about my looks or anything, I just wasn’t afraid to speak my mind. My mother had taught me not to take any shit and I’d grown up seeing her confront bullish people over the years when the need arose, so it never really crossed my mind that I should be quiet or meek. But having lived in a small town with no pavements, being harassed on a city street was not something I had much experience of. In a small town, insults and leers are largely directed at you by people you know (or friends of theirs) directly to your face, or perhaps from a passing car, so walk-by harassment from strangers was relatively new to me.
At first, I was astonished. When a man grabbed his crotch and licked his lips as he passed me, muttering filthy things under his breath, I was genuinely concerned for his mental health. Had he wondered out of a nymphomaniac asylum on a day pass? Where were his handlers? But then perfectly normal, sane-looking men started doing it too. Men in suits holding newspapers, men in leisurewear holding beers, men in work clothes holding tools, and even boys in school uniforms holding books, going about their days just like me, commuting from A to B but with some sexual harassment thrown in. I guess to spice up their day? Who knows. But it wasn’t long before I grew tired of doing what I saw most other women around me doing when they were subject to the same treatment - look away, smile tersely, and remain silent. Who did these assholes think they were? Were we supposed to just accept this and pretend it wasn’t happening?
I remember very clearly the first time I confronted one of them, in a train station car park. Two of them, actually. They were tradesmen sitting in their work van, eating pastries with the windows rolled down on a warm summer morning. The Sun newspaper spread across their dashboard was open to page three, where that day’s topless model bit her lip at the camera, tanned back arched. As I walked past, one of them shouted ‘Show us your tits!’ and I whirled around to glare at them. They laughed, egged on by my reaction. And though I knew why we’d been taught to ignore these men, since most of them did it to see if they could get a rise out of us, I was unwilling to be quiet that day.
‘Ooh, what a great pick-up line!’ I crooned sarcastically, walking right up to their van and peering in the open window. ‘Did your mother teach you that one, or did you come up with it all on your own?’
Their eyes widened momentarily, quickly replaced by nervous smirks. I could tell I’d surprised them by responding, knocking their harassment routine off balance. I’d exposed their weak spot - a witty comeback - and had to strike again, quickly, while their underbellies were exposed.
‘Were this lass’s tits not enough for you?’ I asked, pointing at the paper. ‘Did you want me to phone your boss and tell him you are clearly not able to work today, what with your busy schedule of shouting at women? Because I’ve already taken down the company phone number and your reg plate, so it wouldn’t be much bother for me. I could do it now, if you like?’ I said, pulling out my mobile phone.
The younger of the two, the passenger, sat with his mouth gawping open like a fish and looked away. He was clearly not going to say anything else. But the older fella, the driver, looked at first embarrassed and then angry. His cheeks flushed red and I saw his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. Through clenched teeth he said, ‘Get away from us, you fucking cunt.’
By that point I knew the power had already shifted to me. They had only obscenities and swear words in their arsenal, issued from the safety of their van, while I had a large vocabulary and a smart mouth, with the guts to use them to their face. I had never felt so brave or so powerful in all my life. Fuelled by adrenaline and the double espresso I’d just downed, I was utterly invincible. Their humiliation was my reward, and I was on a roll.
‘Aww, I thought you wanted to see my tits! Why so grumpy now?’
Another woman walking past overheard our exchange and slowed, looking at me with that universal Are you okay? look that other women give each other when they’re potentially in danger.
‘Hey! These guys want to see my tits! Isn’t that the funniest thing you’ve ever heard?’ I threw my head back and laughed, pointing at them with one hand and clutching my side with the other.
The woman looked confused at first, then a bit scared, and then, finally, broke into a grin. ‘Yeah, hilarious’ she agreed. ‘Always my favourite joke at 8am on a Tuesday.’
We laughed even more when the windows were abruptly rolled up and the van peeled away, the men flashing middle fingers at us.
‘Ahh, you gotta love London’ she said, shaking her head in amusement. ‘That just made my day.’ We parted ways with no further conversation, just that shared moment that I’m sure neither of us would forget.
It’s true that humiliated men are more likely to get violent, which is why women are trained to placate and defuse situations like these. It’s undoubtedly the more sensible thing to do. But once I’d tasted that power, it was hard to hand it back. I still let things slide from time to time, of course. No woman in her 20s in London has the time to confront every man who harasses her on the street. But the more often I did it, the more incredible it felt.
That was my baptism into the holy church of fight-back feminism, and I was just getting started.