In the First New Dawn of Sunlight, Billy Ringo in the Dark

 I've heard men talk about the way women get hysterical in fear. That we overreact to threats. That we're too sensitive and too wary and too afraid. So tonight, I'll tell you about three such incidences for me. And y'all know, I'm no victim. God help the man who tries. I'm a big woman. I am a strong woman. I'm average size, for a man.

I've had two separate men who know me well say "You're not the victim type" and "he had no idea who he was fucking with." That does not mean that I don't feel fear. In a fight, the smaller person always loses. And more often than not, that would be me.

And that's what it's like to walk this world as a woman. We are afraid because we know what the dangers are. This is for the women who relate and for the men who cannot ever understand.

The first time I was ever really afraid wasn't that long ago. I was in Milwaukee with my husband. He'd gotten a bad case of food poisoning and I had to eat. Out I ventured on a Tuesday night in the cooler part of the spring, when they roll up the sidewalks at 8pm. I was downtown and could have taken the car, but I do so love a city I can walk.

I was in my parka. I didn't look especially good. I wandered around for an hour before I found a place open where the menu looked okay, within sight of our Air BnB. 

I went in and sat at the bar. Before too long, a man walked up and sat on the barstool beside me to my left. He began chatting me up. I was friendly, but clear that I was not at all interested. I kept brushing my hair out of my face with my left hand; the one with the wedding ring.

He seemed to get the idea. I ordered a tall beer. I ordered my dinner. I looked around the restaurant and spotted ole Friendly at a booth as close to me as he could get. And a chill ran over me. I was alone. I was in a strange city. No one really knew where I was. If I disappeared, no one would know where I was really or what happened. I could float down that river for a week and no one would find me. 

He didn't leave. I was tired. I lingered hoping I could wait him out. He came back to the bar and tried again. At this point, he was terrifying. None of the details about him even matter. He was frightening. He was nothing extraordinary. The usual kind who tend to try. Not worth my time.

I was so evidently chilly that I unnerved him. He kept saying he wasn't trying. Note: boys, if you say you aren't trying, we know you're trying and it ain't working.

It was getting late. I was tired. I wanted to go to bed. But there he was, over at that booth, too close. I asked for the tab. I didn't have a plan. I didn't have my tac pen and I didn't have my pepper spray. I haven't carried them for years. I was so rarely alone. I thought I had aged past the target. I thought I could not be the one. I thought that happened to younger, prettier, weaker girls. 

When the bartender brought the check, I almost said something. I didn't want to be the hysterical girl thinking something that was not real, a hysterical woman. We draw these lines between fear of perception and fear of the violence of men.

My answer was simple and sad. I took the bartender's Bic. Just the kind you think. I didn't tell him. I told myself I'd return it the next day. I walked the block to my room with that pen in my hand in the pocket of my coat. I was ready. I would have stuck that bitch directly into his eyeball. I think.

The second was so recently. I was out with my sister. We'd gone to a concert for my favorite band in my favorite city. I was home with my sister. My first love. We were on our way back to our hotel. It shouldn't matter what I was wearing, but it does. My jeans were too tight, my top was fully backless. I know that in court, these things will still matter. I had not had a drop to drink. That should not matter. That matters.

Someone drove by in an orange Camaro. A new one. It had a black racing strip. Motherfucker was not inconspicuous. I could have picked out his fucking car in a lineup. He catcalled as he drove by. These things happen. More often than I'd like to admit. It rarely scares me. He turned around and drove back by. It was a Monday morning at 2am. This time, he rolled down his window, hollered, and waved. My sister pointed out that he had been by once already. Then he did it again. I was afraid at that point. I was not alone. I was not drunk. It was late. I was underdressed. Why is that a thing we feel guilty about?

I did what I could. I called my friend. The person who makes me feel safe. Of course they were asleep and didn't answer. Of course. I hated myself for feeling like I needed someone else to feel safe.

We just kept walking. We were only a few blocks from our hotel to start with. As we stopped at my car to pick up supplies for coffee in the morning, that fuck drove by again. What a complete fuck.

The third incident was tonight. I walked to my car from my room. It was dark. I had been drinking. I was in loose jeans and a hoodie. A big hoodie. I was wearing too much makeup. Why do we think about these things?

I had made it down the stairs and noticed a man looking at me from a higher floor on the landing. He wasn't big. I could take him. What the fuck? He just could not see my aging ass from there. But some of them just want to scare anyone. It makes them feel powerful.

Then as I walked on, there were two, both staring like they had never seen a woman. That's when the fear flashed over my whole little lizard amygdala. Cold, trembling, stupid prey fear. I hate that feeling more than anything. I'd rather throw up than feel that. And I'd mostly rather die than throw up.

Of course, I texted that same person. I all but ran to my car to fetch my copy of Cold Mountain. I saw the film at sixteen and sobbed for my father, for that stupid Pisces I have loved and longed for my whole life.

I took a different route back to my room. These are the things we do. Just to avoid what could be an ambush. To avoid what might be danger. What might be nothing. But the risk that it might be something is enough to make us behave differently. 

Then the worst thing happened. I couldn't get into my room. I hate feeling like prey. I was afraid. I was  still and kind of cornered and afraid. I hate needing to be rescued. I do not need that shit. But I always will. And that infuriates me. 

The only thing I can hope is that I've raised a better generation. He's the one. He will do better. Sweet, gentle, good, kind boy. He knows about consent and what it means. He knows about fear. I hope they are all that way. I believe.