There are few times that I feel as acutely aware of being a woman as during my first 24 hours in a new small town.
Word gets around quickly, especially since the first observation is a keen: “You’re not from around here, now are you?” I quickly understood that meant people would approach me feeling already acquainted, even if we’d never spoke at all.
So when a grandfather-aged man came over to tell me to enjoy my trip, I thought nothing of it. Thanking him jovially, I gestured to the place and saying “if everywhere is as nice as here, I’m sure I will!”
Then, he placed a $20 bill in my gesturing palm and, as I smiled graciously to thank him, went in to kiss me.
A mere two weeks into the trip, I thought this was a fluke. Surely, it was just a drunk old man who’d misjudged his boundaries.
And then, two days later I got out of my car at a gas station and a man leered out of his window, a long exhale followed by the words “hoooly moly.”
A pattern emerging, and one that’s thrown me for a loop. You see, I often exist in cities without men looking at me twice. The privilege of anonymity is not lost on me — I move through life without incident, not subjected to the harassment many women endure.
But in small towns, my experience is markedly different. Aside from the two experiences noted above, here are a handful of the things men have done (or said) to me:
- A man rolled to a stop while I walked down a street to leer, looking me up and down before saying “Howdy” and continuing on.
- A man started touching my ass when I leaned against the bar, trying to get a drink, before we’d spoken more than two sentences to each other.
- A man sidled up to me whilst playing doubles to tell me I “have a beautiful smile…among other things.”
- A man hit on me so aggressively, pushing his face up against my cheek so alcohol-soaked breath sprayed across my face, that the bartender sent me to the patio and had him removed from the bar.
- A man tried to make a bet with another man that he could do “f*ck her first,” while I sat six feet away on a picnic table.
I recognize there are a few things that separate me in these small towns, largely because I am not weighed down with the same baggage as women who do live there. I’ve never dated or talked with anyone that anyone may know. In fact, I don’t know anyone, period — so everything that follows when you live in a place where everyone knows your business can’t color my opinion of you.
Thus, I become infinitely more exciting, even to men who would normally never look at me twice.
But I refuse to recognize or condone that this exclusivity gives them license to push their boundaries. For in these moments, I cease to be a writer, a traveler, a photographer and artist and human being.
Instead, I become my body.
My mind, my personality, my experiences and dreams become secondary in the chase, and my input in the situation is disregarded completely.
I’m not here to make excuses for any of these men — or to say that this is all men, because the facts remain: for every man who does something vile, there are another five who are perfectly lovely. It does, however, beg the question: why won’t any of those five perfectly lovely men step in when another man is doing something shady?
The reality of femininity means I move through the world differently — I am conscious of the risks implied in solo travel, I am tentative when faced with strangers, and I am discerning in how and where I spent my time — but I refuse to be a silent partner in my degradation. It doesn’t excuse the behavior of men who forget all sense of civility when faced with a woman they don’t recognize.
The same civility that leads someone to treat a woman as a human being, regardless of her penchant for shorts and skinny jeans.
