A Waking Nightmare

I wake up sweating. My restless sleep eventually gives way to consciousness. I’m annoyed before my feet can even touch the ground. My forehead is sweaty, but I’m clutching on to the covers curled into a ball. I let out a sigh so exasperated that my boyfriend stirs next to me. He pats my arm and groggily asks, “what’s wrong?” My frustrated and not yet fully formed thoughts mumbled about being attacked by a man. I leap into the confused details, but it is his turn to sigh. He has heard several different variations of this dream. I’m being chased, being attacked, being violated in some way. He sleepily rolls towards me with his eyes still shut as mine, alert with adrenaline burn into his eyelids. He innocently inquires, “Why do you have so many of these dreams?”

Belvedere Advert, 2012. 

My boyfriend is sweet, caring, and sensitive. He is an ally. He listens as I articulate the ways in which a woman has to walk in this world. He hears me. He believes me. He sympathizes with me. Yet, he has no idea what I am talking about.

He is lacking the context of the world in which I exist. Mine is a world that operates in the underbelly of his. He strokes my back when I tell him about being thrown and locked into a toilet stall by a man who liked the way I dance and wanted to lay claim on me, while an ex-boyfriend unknowingly stood outside the door…

Or about when my colleague grabbed my arm and pushed me onto a chair so that I was suggestively eye-level with his erect penis…

Or when an old high school flame pinned me up against a wall forcing his tongue into my mouth. The room, full of former classmates and friends, silently ignored my pleas.

I was 11 years old when a boy first grabbed my ass. He couldn’t have been older than eight, and I’m sure it was on a dare.  He smacked my butt and ran. Neither of us knew how to deal with the situation, yet we played our societal parts perfectly. I said nothing and he did it again.

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Working my way back to my pre-pubescent childhood, he has heard some of the dramatic stories that pepper my life.  He sees them as a collection of unfortunate isolated incidents. He doesn’t see the daily violations that link them into an unending reality. My reality is full of colorful incidents that are too exhausting to tell. The wandering hands and lurking eyes that make my skin crawl as I hug myself a little bit tighter.

Even our allies can’t understand that those incessant small violations build off of each other to create intangible and somewhat unidentifiable fear that lingers in every woman.  The subtle backhanded compliments that are meant to keep me quiet, while men flex their entitlement. The power that they’ve carried for centuries and rooted so deeply in their identity, they can’t see it. The comments that I actively try to immediately repress from my memory, because I have better things to concern myself. Yet, it is always there. It may be dormant for a while; it is always lurking beneath the surface. We can’t escape it.

I have to continuously, and carefully, negotiate my place in this world. I am constantly assessing my situation -- eyeing up the people around me, or calculating how much time I have before the sets, wondering if they will protect me if something happens. The sad truth is that there is not much that I can do if I happen to be on a quiet street and a man comes walking toward me. It might be nothing. It might be an ally. But, it might not. I’ve run into both. This is why I have trouble sleeping. This is my constant reality. There is a pervasiveness of sexual oppression and dominance over women, which bleeds my waking into sleeping consciousness. It is something that I can’t evade. It is my waking nightmare.

1945 Fleet Week.  
Sailor George Mendonsa: "When I saw the nurse, I grabbed her, and I kissed her."Nurse Greta Friedman: "I did not see him approaching, and before I know it, I was in this vice grip!"

In my feminist’s imagination, I sometimes fantasize approaching an unsuspecting man while I am walking with my female crew catcalling him, ‘hey handsome, can I talk to you for a minute?’ ‘Damn boy, lookin’ good!’ His face shocked, while the compliment washes over him before it leaves its mildew of violation all across his body. I wonder how many interactions it would take before he no longer wants the unsolicited attention - before he wants to hide from the world. Feeling vulnerable and on display like an animal at the zoo; their existence is solely for the pleasure of others.

I would like to think we women are better than that. But if history can tell us anything, it is that humans want to dominate others. We try to rise to the top by holding others down. I look at this election season and it more of the same. Somehow, people are shocked by predatory ‘locker room talk’. But if I’m really honest with myself, I don’t think women are shocked at all.  I think they live in the same world that I do. We live that reality every day. We feel those words assaulting our bodies, every day. It’s our dirty little secret that we carry heavy in our hearts. It is our waking nightmare that we can’t escape in the light of day.

You shoot me because you are scared.

Draped in a uniform of authority

Armed with a gun and reinforcements

Power in a twitch of an index finger;

You are scared of me.

You choose the bullet over backup.

I sit strapped in the passenger seat;

A child’s innocence shattering in the back.

Your gun is drawn,

But you are scared of me.

Even after the bullets fly,

I terrify you.

In you, I evoke a rush of terrible emotions,

Even before I can remove the safety belt.

These straps weren’t designed

To protect from this kind of impact.

From me, you soothe your conscience

Retreating to a narrative that restores your virtue.

I bleed out in the car,

Yet you curse me.

I bear the brunt of your bullets

And your blame.

You have not yet realized,

That you will not be punished.

Forgetting that your badge of honor

Will shield you from accountability.

You will not be asked  

To take responsibility for a black life

You are a man sworn to an oath

To protect and serve.

To protect you from you fear

And to serve a reminder

Of my place in society.

Run Free

I slowly tear myself away from the billowy blankets and sleepily get dressed. The sun just starts to creep above the horizon as I take my first stiff steps into the crisp air. The transition from night to morning holds a serene peace with it that inspires me to keep coming back.

I turn up my iPod and the beat of music eases me into the familiarity of my stride. This is my favorite time of day; the day still holds so much promise and possibility, and the streets are at its quietist. I know by the time I walk out my gates to head to work, everything will have changed. The solitude of the morning melts away and the air becomes leaden with responsibility.

 

A few scattered people scurry to their respective destinations wrapped in gabis. They barely take notice of me as I jog past them, lost in their own world as I am in mine.  I dodge a few trucks without much effort. A few of the regular runners pass me, gracefully displaying their superior Abyssinian athletic prowess. Most people run in groups, and it’s very unusual to see women. Nevertheless there is a sense of solidarity amongst those hitting the pavement in the early morning hours. A silent and knowing nod is the reassurance and encouragement that gives me additional incentive.

I pause to allow a car to pass and I see a lone runner head in my direction. Making a mental note but not paying much attention to him, I continue along my path, losing myself in the music and the beautiful sunrise. The man has caught up to me and is now running at my pace but is keeping his distance across the street. I see he is watching me, but I refuse to make eye contact and lose my rhythm.

He crosses the street towards me and sets his stride in parallel with mine. He forces my attention on him. He quickly mumbles words that I can’t understand. Staring expectantly at me, he tries again. Proclaiming his love for me, he proceeds to explain how he has been watching me for months. He inches closer as he speaks. Waiting for my appreciation and reciprocation, I disappoint him by keeping my eyes firmly focused on the pavement straight ahead. Frustrated at the loss of my personal space and morning serenity, I ask him as politely and sternly as I can manage while maintaining my stride to run on ahead of me. After negotiating my space, he finally relents and speeds away while I turn the corner, grateful for my renewed freedom. I turn the music back up and direct my focus on my shallow breathing. I absorb the familiar sights of a homeless woman wrapped up in a thin blanket with her baby, sitting against the crumbling stonewall and the street dogs wondering, still wired from their nocturnal activities.

A few minutes later, this lone runner has rejoined me. Feeling a bit more brazen and confident, he silently sidles up next to me. Jerked out of my solitude, he lists the places that he has seen me in the neighborhood. He moves so close to me that I can smell his cologne trying to cover up his musky sweat. My muscles automatically clench from the intimacy of the situation. I don’t remember the last time I’ve been standing so close to a man that I didn’t know. Then, flashbacks of a violent late night encounter course through my mind. Scanning the street, I am trying to will people to appear on the street, seeking protection in their mere existence. I decide to vary my pace to make it more difficult for him to causal run with me. As we reach the peak of the hill, I speed up but become quickly aware that he can definitely outpace me and has exceedingly more endurance. I take a hard unexpected right turn down a street with a few more pedestrians milling about. I slow down to catch my breath, taking comfort in the silent soldiers of my neighborhood watch.

Still by my side, his pleading carries a desperate tone. He knows his window of opportunity is closing. His hand creeps closer to my body, and I instinctively grab my pockets. Adrenaline pumps through my veins as I vocally assert my protest. My voice betrays, verging on near shrill hysteria.  After a few more imploring attempts from him and a few more harsh words from me, he throws his hands up in frustration, hissing “fuck you!” All of my muscles tensed up and my eyes clenched tight as I waited for the blow. After a few seconds, I peek my eyes open and see that he has turned the corner and is running in the other direction. My shoulders dropped at the realization that I am once again, alone.

Almost home, I am replaying the incident in my mind, thinking of how I should have reacted. This behavior has been ingrained in us. If someone, particularly a woman, is ever attacked, the questions almost immediately centers around the victim’s foolish behavior. I go through the same gambit of questions. Why was I running alone? Why didn’t I stop running? Why didn’t I stop someone on the street? Why didn’t I just go home after the first time he approached me? I never have adequate answers to those questions and they always seem ridiculous at the time. People are quick to provide “you should be more careful” advice. It somehow makes them feel like they are contributing to the situation but when pressed with specifics, they stutter some overly reactionary advice while secretly admitting that they would never follow their own advice.

I resolve to be proactive and change my route. I refuse to give up my morning sanctity and to live in fear. Yet, two days later, I peek out my gate, looking left and right. Feeling ridiculous and paranoid, I step out on to the street. Trying to shake it off, I surrender myself to the music. I am a little unsteady on the unfamiliar roads and cautiously navigate while my eyes scan every pedestrian. Periodically, I look over my shoulder which is a bit challenging while trying to dodge the random debris in the road. As I head back toward my house, I am feeling charged by the new route. I end all of my runs by going up a long set of stairs. There are often several people who do their own variations of a stair workout, but I can’t be bothered to do more then just make it to the top.

Feeling victorious, I stride towards the stairs. My heart drops when I see him there. He is stretching. He says something but does not attempt to run with me. When I near the top, I look back to see if he is following me. To my surprise and delight, he is still at the bottom. Taking several deep sighs of relief; I walk back to my house. It was all just a misunderstanding and I overreacted. I turn up the music and allow my thoughts to drop it.

As I unlock my gate, a movement in my periphery catches my eye. He is awkwardly stretching in the middle of the road. Hot flashes rush over my body. His eyes bore into my body. He knows where I live. We stare at each other for a few seconds and he walks off. I walk in the gate, frustrated and cursing myself for being so careless. I was so close to evading him. The questions return: Why did I go back to the steps? Why didn’t I just cut the run short?

Again, two days later, I cautiously peek out the gates. I step out on to the road. Not wanting to take any chances, I head in a completely different direction. In order to do so, I need to cross major roads. The serenity of my morning runs has transformed in a stressful exercise of fear: of getting hit by cars, of being followed, and of getting lost. My new route does not give me the same exhilarated feeling, as I am extra vigilant about my unknown surroundings. I meet everyone’s gaze with skepticism. My music is turned down low so that I can hear everything around me. All of my senses are activated, and I’m exhausted before I’m halfway through my run.

I finish my run without any sightings of the lone runner. My confidence is measured, knowing full well that he could appear out of anywhere. Refusing to be lulled into a false sense of security again, I survey everyone that passes. Nearly a week passes and there have been no sightings. Relieved, but not overly confident, I maintain my new route which keeps me far from my neighborhood. I gain a sense of familiarity with the regulars: the early shop keepers, the taxi drivers, and the old man runner. The music’s familiar pull gently guides me back into a peaceful feeling.

Feeling fairly reassured that the lone runner has forgotten me (and hopefully my address), I begin to reclaim my mornings one day at a time. While I am still cautious around my neighborhood, I feel confident that the incident is over. That is until one day, when I peek out of my gate, I see him there. Sitting across the street. Under no pretense of stretching or running, his gaze locks in on mine. Flustered and not sure what to do, my body moves automatically. I quickly walk out of the gate. The shop owner, whom I greet everyone morning, tells me to hurry back with a concerned look. Initially confused by his words, I surmise that he also sees the lone runner loitering around.  I am very careful to ensure that he is not following me to my safe route. When I return, he is still there. He makes no attempt to speak to me. He just sits there. Watching. And waiting.

No longer considering this guy as an annoyance but an actual threat, I am desperate for advice. Unsurprisingly, the advice is usually overly reactionary (read: keep a knife under your bed) or overly general (read: be more careful).  The next day, I decide to tell the shop owner.  The same man who told me to hurry back. He sits outside and knows everyone in the neighborhood. He sees everything. I hope that he will use his neighborhood watch activities to give me some insight on the situation and offer to talk to him. Community and social pressure holds strong influence over people’s behavior, particularly with respect to elders. This gives me confidence about the shop owner’s seniority to shut down the situation.

When I greet the shop owner, he can see that I want to speak to him, but there are other people around. I causally wait until the other patrons have secured their items and move on their way. Unsure of what to say, I stutter, “I don’t know if you’ve seen him, but there is this guy who hangs around here. He has been following me and…” Before I can finish, he cuts me off and says “yes, I tried to warn you. You have to be careful. There are a lot of mobsters and gangsters around here.” Blinking incredulously, I don’t understand what he is saying. Despite his perfect English, I could not absorb the information. There are gangs in Addis? How have I lived in this neighborhood for 6 months and not notice that this area is a cesspool of criminal activity? I try to describe the lone runner to him, but again the shop owner cuts me off. He doesn’t want to be involved. Lowering his voice, he tells me a litany of dangers from identifying any of these men. He describes the attempted murder over a watch outside my gate two years ago. I stand there dumbstruck. I don’t know what to say or do. I don’t want to hear anymore, as if the mere acknowledge me of it will validate its truthfulness. But he goes on, assaulting my ears with the retelling of these violent acts. He warns me that the police are useless and these men are persistent and prevalent.

So now, my question to you all - knowing what I know now, what should I do?

Femininity is NOT weakness

When Hillary Clinton was running for office, some commented on her fashion, or lack thereof. Hillary dressed in predominantly dark pants suits. She was trying to do everything she could to make America forget that she is a woman. Questions, comments, and queries regarding fashion were never directed to her male competitors.

Showing one’s femininity is considered a weakness that is not suitable for high powered positions. America was distracted by her lack of femininity while at the same time undermining her capability as a strong leader because her womanly proclivities. I understand her dilemma. I dare say that all women experience this double standard. Unfortunately, there are few prominent females that can serve as examples, and they always endure the harshest criticisms.

Respect is earned by working hard, but it’s naïve to think that is the only quality that is noticed. I always feel like I need to be twice as good to gain the respect men receive. Therefore, it seemed to reason, that the way to mitigate this double standard, was to dull the apparent differences between me and my male counterparts. I, just as Hillary Clinton, fell in to the same gender-neutral-clothes-wearing trap.   I used to have a visceral reaction to all things ‘girly’ or pink. It personified all of the things that I was trying to evade. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever owned or wore anything pink until I was in my mid-twenties.

Femininity is, of course, more than just what you wear. Unfortunately, it is often limited to intangible descriptions such as maternal instincts, tender-hearted, soft, etc. The strength in a woman’s power is in its subtleties that are often overlooked and underappreciated. It doesn’t have the same in-your-face aggressiveness which sometimes overpowers the testosterone-filled workplace.  It is more than a just complement to machismo that creates harmony.  But the very nature of its elusive qualities makes it hard to perceive in its own right, let alone appreciate it.

Over the past two years, I’ve had a change of heart of how I identify with femininity. When I look around me, I see girls unconsciously being forced to make the same decision – embrace their femininity or to be taken seriously.  It breaks my heart to see their path being chosen without them understanding its implications.

I choose both.  I no longer try to hide the fact that I’m a woman. (Let’s be serious, I wasn’t fooling anybody and attempting to do so was only harming myself.)  I realized if I don’t make a stand to change how femininity is perceived, then who will? So, I choose to wear pink while boxing; I choose to wear skirts when I’m leading meetings. I choose to let myself be me. Now when I pass girls on the streets, I give them a knowing smile and hope they find their way. There is strength in femininity, and we should feel empowered by that, not ashamed. 

A Letter to the Racially Curious Stranger

Dear Curious Homogeneous Stranger,

I know my mixed features and ambiguously noncommittal brown skin intrigue you. I can see your eyes running inventory over my features, trying to figure me out.  An astute observer can recognize fairly quickly that I don’t check just one box on census forms. Either way, we invariably play a sometimes-too-lengthy game of ‘what-are-you?-No-I-mean-where-are-you-from?-No- I-mean-what-is-your-origin?’

My ethnicity will be compared to any place home to vaguely brown-skinned people. I can see the curiosity building as you list off all of the countries you know. For good measure, you may even switch into a different language as if you might trick me into revealing my true identity.

I see the bewildered and slightly disappointed expression when you discover the truth. “But you don’t look Ethiopian”. I see you are trying to reconcile my face with your previous experiences with mixed race people, but I assure I do not look like the other mixed raced girl that you randomly met once at a coffee shop, nor am I related to her. Still unconvinced, you prod me into persuading you about the legitimacy of my ethnicity, demanding a family tree history, complete with names, hometowns, and professions. I do this in vain because I still won’t fit in your narrow conception of race. Please note that your curiosity is no longer mildly amusing but offensive despite your good or innocent intentions. Furthermore, please understand that the world is not always black and white, even though, ironically, I am.

Sincerely,

Racially Ambiguous