Moments Men Stole
“Nice dress” some older man declared as I walked by him. Actually, sir, it’s a nice jumpsuit. I knew he wasn’t really commenting on what I was wearing on my body as much as he was commenting on my body. Reflexively, I muttered a bored “thanks” that I instantly regretted, kept walking, and felt anything but nice about the exchange.
When I was a kid, I flew for the first time by myself as an “unaccompanied minor.” Which only meant that I got to board first and the flight attendants were to keep an extra eye on me. As I sat in the last row of the plane, waiting for everyone else to board, the flight attendant leaned down with some instructions for me that ended with “and just push that button if anyone creepy sits with you and I’ll take care of it.” It was the first time it occurred to me that someone could direct their creepiness at me.
I rarely had phone service on the subway. That day, as luck would have it, I had enough to receive an air drop delivery request of an image of a fish. Amused, I declined. A few moments later, a new phone vibration delivered the same image of a fish. Decline. Another buzz. Decline. I looked around to see if anyone looked frustrated that the ambiguous “iPhone (1)” wasn’t accepting the fish. The full subway car looked bored. And I sat there declining fish after fish after fish. About a dozen fish in, there was even a couple of new fish varieties rotated into the incessant attempt to air drop these images. About 75% of me found it really funny that someone was likely so annoyed that they couldn’t get their precious fish pictures to successfully deliver to “iPhone.” After all, we know how proud men are of their fish photos. But 25% of me worried the fish was a euphemism— a precursor to another kind of unsolicited image. That the next time my phone buzzed, I’d look down to a different kind of slimy member and look back up to find a creep getting some weird amusement out of the fact that he managed to hold me and my phone captive with his unwarranted subway deliveries. I wish it could just be fully funny.
I’ve always had a bent for adrenaline-inducing activities. On a class trip, my senior year of high school, we were ziplining. I had ziplined a handful of times before and was eager to zipline upside down as I had in expeditions prior. As my classmates and I were standing in line, I bugged the attendant about letting me go upside down, trying to convince him I knew what I was doing. He finally agreed on the condition that I’d go in tandem with another zipline worker. With both of us hooked in, we launched off the platform and I flipped upside down. The zipline worker took that as an opportunity to mime humping me— when I had no control or way to separate myself from him. When the zipline was over, he acted like nothing happened. At the end of the platform, my classmate’s mom smiled big at me, asking me how it was, also acting as if nothing happened. My classmates who were behind me in line started to join me at the end of the zipline. My girl friend came straight to me and asked if I was okay, signaling that something did indeed happen. I was embarrassed and confused. Next, a close guy friend ran up to me, laughing, declaring that I “just got violated.” I tried to smile, play it off, and act unbothered. The next several male classmates started to rave about how fun that zipline worker was. The rest of the day, I watched my classmates buddy up with that worker and even tip him extra. I was devastated and confused. From my perspective, I was just publicly sexually harassed and objectified in front of many of my classmates that I’ve known and trusted for years. But, these classmates were unbothered and even entertained by it all. They continued to joke about it to my face. I blamed myself for pushing to go upside down. I struggled to identify what exactly happened to me. Was it assault? That felt like too strong a label. Harassment? That didn’t feel strong enough. But I did know I felt wronged, not only by the worker, but by all of the people I trusted who had witnessed it and didn’t say or do anything to support me or acknowledge my experience. I was shaken for months.
I ordered a sandwich and drink at my regular coffeeshop and sat down to wait. I sat there as I had most days of the week, scrolling Instagram, awaiting my order when a woman approached. “I’m going to walk you to your car,” she said. “That old man has been taking pictures of you, so I’m going to walk you out to make sure you’re safe.” Caught off guard, I stared at her and then over her shoulder at the man she was referring to. “Oh, thank you,” I managed to say. We awkwardly stood there, facing each other in silence for several moments until my order was ready. I didn’t know what else to say to the stranger, but I was appreciative that she was looking out for me. I was also mad because I was intending to hang around, but that man ruined it for me. She made sure I got to my car safely. I thanked her again. She made a jab at creepy men. For the rest of the day, I thought about and tried not to think about what those images would be used for. Sometimes, it still crosses my mind that nonconsensual images of my face exist somewhere out there, just a few finger taps away for that man.
As a woman, you’re told to lie when men randomly ask you questions. No thanks— I have a boyfriend. I’m not alone. I’m actually meeting someone. I live with roommates. But I’m not a great liar. I was standing on a street corner in New York City, biding my time before a show. A man appeared to be doing the same when he struck up conversation with me. His first few questions felt benign. Ever the optimist, I’m not one to spurn the potential of a wholesome interaction with a stranger. Yet, it quickly became clear his intentions weren’t wholesome. I cut off the conversation, lying about being late to meet someone, and briskly walked in the opposite direction of where I was going. Constantly checking over my shoulder, I had to circle the block and avoid any potential pathway that could’ve crossed with his. I wasn’t thrilled that I got stuck walking way more than planned, almost making myself late to my actual plans.
The first time I was catcalled in my hometown, it felt different. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been catcalled before, but something about the obtrusive experience in a place so familiar was more alarming. I was crossing the street and a man yelled at me from his truck. Surprised, I craned my neck around to see who yelled. When I turned forward again, I made eye-contact with another man who was walking out of the shop I was going into. His face was conflicted, telling me he just witnessed what happened and knew it wasn’t okay. He didn’t say anything. My hands were trembling. I’ve never crossed that street without thinking about it since.
Most of the way through my summer in the big city, I marveled that I hadn’t had many offensive interactions with men. Of course, this jinxed it and within the day, a man said something so offensive to me that it made up for a whole summer of absence with just one sentence. The thing is— I can’t actually remember what he said. I vividly remember how I felt and immediately texting my friend what happened. The scene of the subway that day, the features and outlines of my fellow MTA riders, and the feeling of violation is seared into my memory even though I lost the words.
That moment of my life, like so many others before and since, was stolen from me.
Written in February 2022. Updated February 2024.