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I was on the 53 in Woolwich and some old bloke told me that if I kept touching myself (referring to my hand on my knee), he’d miss his stop. I told him to f**k himself.
I work in a college where there are young students, mainly between the ages of 14-23, largely from underprivileged backgrounds, council estates and disenfranchised areas. I work as a senior manager, always dress professionally in a suit, button up shirt, dark tights and low heels. I unfortunately am one of the youngest people in the organisation, despite my status as a senior manager.
I frequently have students catcalling me in the corridors, as I pass between meeting rooms. It is disgraceful if it happens once, but for it to happen constantly, despite my demure appearance is ridiculous. My policy (depending on how urgent my meetings are), is to deal with incidents then and there, professionally, using the student policies designed to support and protect staff.
Unfortunately, the last (and potentially worst) situation happened last week. I was not only catcalled in the corridor, but was followed back to my secluded office up the stairs by 3 male students, who cornered me in an office, making me feel as if I was a piece of dirt, a piece of meat- IN MY WORKPLACE.
After being chased up the stairs, I ran into the closest room, screamed, locked the door and called security straightaway. The students were inevitably suspended, but following an investigation, with findings that the male students had a good academic record, and no previous disciplinary sanctions and on the grounds that NO assault occurred, they were let off with a verbal warning.
I am furious, totally furious, and cannot face going back to a workplace that puts harassment above the safety of their staff.
I know that harassment in the street is common, but in the workplace, its deplorable and inexcusable.
Do I need to be raped before it becomes serious enough to be dealt with????
I was walking through London yesterday, and a man in a van shouted out, “Nice tits, love!”. I gave him the middle finger and continued walking, and he proceeded to stop his van and roll down his window and say, “Whack ‘em out! Come on, babe! Whack ‘em out for me!”, whilst he and his friend were laughing and making sexual gestures. I shouted at them to leave me alone, and the man who drove the van got out and proceeded to come up to me angrily. I was so scared, I was shaking. The man got right in my face and said, “I was only having a bit of fucking fun, sweetheart. No need to get rude is there?” His tone was so aggressive, I went home and cried for hours. He could have raped me. I could have been a rape victim. It’s all that keeps going through my mind.
“Fat ass”. And when I didn’t stop running or turn around, there it was again, “Fat ASS”.
I’ve been living in New Haven for about two years and was nicely surprised by the lack of harassment received from builders on the street, men outside pubs and bars, white van drivers, and the like. I’m from England: in my home country, these kinds of men are often more liberal with their commentaries. So when I’m running in New Haven, whatever does come my way resonates that little bit more strongly. And there is a difference between receiving a wolf-whistle or a car horn honk: non verbal appreciation can at least be explained away by me into more positive categories of admiration. As a runner, I find some of the street responses come from a genuine respect for a woman who runs in all weathers, as when a car horn honks at you during a downpour and gives you the thumbs up. That’s fine.
But “fat ass”? Really? I’m turning the corner, I’m sprinting, I’m wearing lycra because it’s more streamlined and comfortable and warmer, necessary for that time of year (January). And this guy yells this at me. And repeats it. Louder. And what’s worse, I don’t know if it’s a compliment and he likes the butt I have, or its derogatory, in which case, he might consider that running would help it. Either way, my ass is not fat, and it’s not for his viewing pleasure or censure either.
I was in Bournemouth walking back to my hotel with my friend, these guys in a car parked up start leaning out going ‘hey girl come into the car with us’ I went ‘as if’ and had a go at them.
This sort of thing has happened to me 100’s of times, the worst was 11 years ago when I was 16 years old and it was millennium new years eve, me and my two friends were walking back to Euston to get the train home and as we walked past a side street a guy came out and picked me up by my waist from behind and tried to take me down an alley, luckily I started screaming and my friends came to my aid.
I set up TeenBoundariesUk, to re-educate young men and women on sexualized bullying. I am so glad Hollaback exists we need more people to fight this cause its so widespread!
Me and 2 friends were walking to a bar in Leeds about 10 o’clock at night, when we passed some guys hanging around by a car. As we walked passed we got catcalls like ‘oi love, how much?!’ and ‘phwoar I’d do you one!’. We weren’t scared as such, we just tried to ignore it walk away as quickly as possible. All the time I was thinking why? Why is it just because we’re women, that we have to put up this? Men don’t have this problem, it doesn’t make us feel ‘special’ or ‘complimented’ or ‘attractive’ it just makes us feel uneasy, embarrassed, and awkward.
I was studying in Cairo for the summer, trying to improve my not-so-great Arabic. A few weeks into our time there, my roommate and I decided to go for a shop in the marketplace in the middle of the day.
Both of us had been making a conscious effort while in Egypt to dress conservatively – loose trousers, baggy shirts, nothing “provocative” by Egyptian standards. (Something that quite a few Western tourists never bother doing). In our naivety, we assumed that by dressing in a culturally respectful way, we would be treated respectfully.
Anyways, we were walking through the marketplace when this man began following us, muttering sexually suggestive phrases in Arabic at us (never imagining, I’m sure, that both of us understood full well what he was saying). We ignored him, darting in and out of shops to try and shake him off. He just hung around outside them, waiting for us to come out.
Eventually, he came up behind me and began rubbing his pelvis against me, and groping my butt. I managed to shake free of him, and then he did the same to my roommate. Unbelievably, he came up behind me AGAIN to try for another feel, at which point I elbowed him as hard as I could in the stomach. As I turned around, I saw him looking at me with this expression of mingled fury and hurt – as though somehow, he’d been doing me a tremendous favour, and I was the one behaving outrageously.
Another time, early in the morning, I had a guy follow me for about an hour. He followed me all the way to my classes, leering, catcalling, calling me a whore in Arabic – all at 8 o’clock in the morning. All I had done was hold a door open for him as I went out of a coffee shop.
I’m sure everyone now is aware of just how bad the sexual harassment problem in Egypt is, but I just want to go on record as having said the following: it doesn’t matter what you wear, it doesn’t matter if you speak any Arabic, it doesn’t matter how many people you’re with, and it doesn’t matter what time of day it is. If you’re a woman in Cairo (particularly a Western woman), men will follow you, make comments, and call you a whore – and it has to stop.
I was walking along Greenwich High Road a couple of days ago, it was the hottest day of the year so far but I wasn’t wearing anything particularly revealing (jeans, t shirt and cardigan) when a guy stopped in front of me and said “Hey, sweet tits!” I ignored him and walked past. A couple of minutes later a different man, who was riding a bike on the other side of the road, cycled over to where I was, got his penis out and waved it at me, then cycled off (with it still flapping out!) I didn’t really know how on earth to react to that, quite honestly I was wondering how he managed to do that while cycling and imagined what what happen if he fell onto the crossbar which quite frankly I think he would deserve.
So I come in to work one day prepared for a lot of builders to be hanging around as we were having a room refurbished. It was a really hot summer and I still wanted to wear a dress so I chose one that came just past my knees as I didn’t want to attract too much attention to myself. I feel it’s important to mention that I am only 18 and do look a lot younger.
As soon as I get in to work, one of the builders appears to ‘take a shine’ to me. He made a lot of small talk and being as polite as I am, I chatted along with him (trying to say as little as possible). There was something strange about it right from the beginning and I felt pretty uncomfortable.
Later that morning he said he was going to grab some snacks and wondered if I wanted to go with him. I told him I didn’t but it didn’t seem to knock his confidence and he just asked if I wanted anything fetching, to which I again said I didn’t.
Around lunch time he came in to my office covered in white paint. He made a jokey remark about how dodgey it must look that he’s coming in to see me with white stains around his crotch (I’m sure you know what I mean by this, hardly very amusing..). I just laughed nervously and he asked if I could show him where the cleaner’s room is to get some sheets to put on the floor. I went to show him where the cleaner’s room is (there’s barely enough room for one person to stand in there) and pointed to the sheets which were on a really high shelf. He said “Can you get them for me?” I was so freaked out, I didn’t know what to say, I just reached up and got them and he said “You know, you look incredible in that dress, the things I’d..” and I bravely stopped him there and said “I feel pretty uncomfortable now” and he apologised for making me feel uncomfortable but said he still meant it.
He then started to make more jokey comments towards my manager (she’s in her late 40s and hardly very attractive and he was only in his early 30s). She absolutely loved the attention and thought it was brilliant. She couldn’t shut up telling me about the things he’d said to her. I never told her what he’d said to me.
Later that day he asked what time I finished as they needed to know what time I leave. I told him and he asked if I’d be here by myself to which I stupidly replied “yes”. He asked me if I wanted to go out after work and I said that I had plans.
Now I always take a day’s holiday when I know he’s going to be in again. My manager on the other hand like to put on a bit of extra make up and wear her nice earrings…
It was wet, and cold. I was carrying 20 lbs of cat food, and my cell phone was dying. I wanted to be off the bus and go home. Wet and rainy Los Angeles is a dismal place, everything misses the sun. As usual, I read Jezebel and Reddit for a bit on my phone till it died. I had ignored the other passengers until then, so when I put it away, I looked up. There, in front of me was a scene that made my skin crawl.
In two seater across from me was a young woman desperately looking out the window. Uncomfortable and visibly upset. The reason was obvious. A drunk man was whispering to her. His voice got louder and is words were clear.
“Oh? You can’t talk to me? You should talk to me. I don’t like white women. You’re pretty. I like black women. I’m just trying to talk to you before I go home to my black woman.”
He was touching her. Actually touching her.
“You should tell your boyfriend he’s messing up,” he said, ever closer.
I looked around to my fellow passengers, and many were upset. They weren’t doing anything though. No one was doing anything as the woman shrank into herself before my eyes. Smaller and Smaller. Bit by bit. Was no one going to help? Did anyone see?
I looked at him angrily. No, of course not. Everyone would hope she could handle herself. Don’t make waves, you could drown.
Well, fuck that nonsense.
I know how she felt. I know how you feel like if you just scrunch up and look unhappy, they’ll leave you alone. They won’t follow you home. They won’t hang outside the gate. I wished many times someone would stand up for me. The least I could do, was stand up for her. I wasn’t unafraid. He could have had a knife, but weapon or no weapon, I couldn’t sit there while she endured that.
“You got a problem, sister?”
He turned towards me, rheumy eyed. I felt bad for him in a small way, someone loved him once. I thought briefly of my family. Anger burned away that sympathetic comparison.
“I do,” I said in a tone I reserved for the three year olds I teach on a daily basis. “You’re making her uncomfortable. It’s not polite, to talk to people the way you’re talking to her.”
“Well, what-” he started.
“Well, nothing,” I finished, a familiar voice creeping into calmer tones. “She is very uncomfortable and you need to leave her alone. You are GOING to leave her alone. You have no right to talk to her like that.”
I heard my mother echo in my voice. The reproachfulness of my grandmother. Fear ebbed away, and adrenaline took its place.
“I’m going to let you finish,” he said, leaning towards me. As if that was a gift. Letting me finish. In the meantime the woman slid from her seat with the help of an older woman. She passed him with ease, because he had found a new target: Me.
“I AM finished. You needed to leave her alone. She was unhappy, and didn’t want to talk to you.” I turned and let her scoot past into an empty seat next to the driver. “Sit over there Momma and don’t worry about it.”
“Where you from?”
“New Jersey,” I replied easily. “Not that it matters, I barely got out.”
“New Jersey? FUCK New Jersey. I’m from Watts. I’m from Compton. You don’t know nothing. Let’s take this outside. Where’s your stop?”
Now I really was unafraid. He wanted to take this to the street, well, fine. “I don’t care where you’re from brother.” Now the tones I used were cold, and my eyes narrowed. I didn’t back down and I didn’t flinch. “You cannot talk to a young woman like that. You have no right to make her feel that way. You have no right to talk to her that way. And you certainly don’t have a right to talk to me. So you need to rethink what you’re saying. My Momma taught me manners, and so I’m not even going to answer you like that.”
“Hey, Jersey.” Beside me was a solid woman in fatigue pants and boots. She smiled down on me, and I knew her instantly. One of the owners of Panpipes. Her presence was an added boost.
He got up and moved to the front, cursing me out and telling me off as he went. He was going to do all sorts of horrible things to me.
The bus driver tried to drive and tell him to calm down. It didn’t work. He got worse. I set down my bag. Clinched my fists. Wondered if someone would hold my earrings.
“You’re going to leave her alone,” the woman fatigues said. In one moment, there was a little bond, and it spread. We were ready for a fight. He was going to lose.
“Did I do something wrong?” The woman he had originally harassed looked unsure, guilty.
I smiled, “You didn’t do anything honey. He has no business touching you. He has no business talking to you like that. It isn’t right.”
At that he set off again, and the bus driver calmly said, “Sir, this is your stop.”
“No, it isn’t,” he replied, the slur in his voice gone due to anger.
“Oh. Yes. It. IS.” And off the bus he went.
He gave me the finger. We all waved.
Stand up for someone. Make waves. Someone else may help you swim.