Times, sadly, haven’t changed

I had been walking home from the library one warm, spring evening not long before summer.

The sun hadn’t set yet, but the sky was drawing its curtains around the orb’s shoulders and drawing it inside for the night.

A car slowed down and kept pace with me along the sidewalk.

The men were loud and boisterous as they forced themselves out of the passenger-side car windows and into my consciousness.

“Hey baby, wanna take a ride? We’re going places!”

They pounded on the side panels of the sedan and hooted for effect. It was 1984. I wasn’t even halfway through my teens, and I knew these old boys were nothing more than a quartet of circling jerks trying to entertain themselves.

Street harassment, as they described back then, was just an example of boys being boys … even when they were grown, men.

My harassers were in control of that moment, and they reveled in my discomfort.

Any adult in my life would have called the behavior harmless and told me to ignore them. Ignore them, they would go away.

A truth that allows a person to hope and believe that what doesn’t kill them makes them stronger. When in reality what doesn’t kill us leaves us with a sense of dread and anxiety and a sick feeling in the pit of our stomachs.

Those things stay with a person long after a racing heart returns to a normal rhythm.

In fact, it never entirely goes away.

So that every car that slows, every stranger who demands a smile, or acknowledgment, or even a second of your time for their momentary entertainment, is a potential threat.

My daughter hasn’t experienced this yet. Or so she tells me.

“I passed a construction site once, and I felt like everyone was looking at me, but the guy who yelled out just told me it was safe to use the sidewalk. That was kinda helpful.”

I am relieved. Though I know times haven’t changed.

Maybe it’s the result of living in a small town where the most robust river of pedestrian traffic flows past families inspecting vegetable booths and the wares of soap sellers at the Farmers’ Market.

Or maybe it’s just that the opportunity hasn’t presented itself. She hasn’t yet been to the mall, or the grocery store or even a Target without her mother in tow.

Street harassment hasn’t gone away. It is still out there, waiting for its chance.

When it happens, I hope she feels safe enough to look that person squarely in the eyes and tell them she thinks they are deplorable. Or rude. Or that they should be ashamed of such behavior.

Anything that takes her sense of control back.

And then I hope fate smiles on her when she turns on her heel and walks away, taking dignity along with her on the high road.

As fate smiled on me so many years ago when those men tried to speed away from the scene of my harassment.

Just a few yards away, their car sputtered and died. I kept walking, maintaining eye contact, as I passed.

I certainly had the last laugh.