A Friendly Warning

I have made a new friend. I'll call her Ruth. She is from Nigeria, here in Akron to study engineering and get her college degree. We connected right away when she came to the writing lab for some help with her English and Public Speaking assignments. She has poise and calmness that make her seem older than her 26 years, but smooth, chocolaty skin that makes her look very young.

Yesterday I took Ruth shopping at the Goodwill store. Thrifting is my favorite kind of shopping; it feels like a treasure hunt, yet maintains a reasonable budget. Ruth's host mother had taken her to a Target store a couple of weeks earlier to get black pants and shoes for Ruth's on-campus job with catering services. For nearly the same amount of money she paid for one pair of pants and one pair of shoes at Target, Ruth purchased three large bags full of tops, pants, jeans, dresses and sweaters.

While we worked our way through rack after rack of clothes, Ruth asked me about Halloween. Scattered throughout the large store on Waterloo Avenue were headless manikins in costumes: a sexy cop in shorts with high-heeled black boots; a sexy witch in a ragged miniskirt with high-heeled black boots; a cheerleader's outfit; an OSHA-bright, skin-tight yellow jumpsuit with the Kill Bill logo at the plunging neckline. Wigs of every imaginable hue and texture transformed a wire rack into a hoary monster; crazy hats in the shape of chickens and food items perched on another rack in a disorienting jumble.

"What is this with Halloween?" Ruth asked me. "Why do you want to be scared?"

 I did my best to explain the holiday that only Americans seem to really understand. I told her how it used to be a Pagan celebration of the dead, and at some point in the Middle Ages, pagan rituals got all mixed up with Christianity, so All Hollow's Eve became associated with All Saint's Day.

"For me," I said, "it's really about acknowledging the presence of death in everyday life.'Even in life, we are in death;' that sort of thing."

Ruth nodded and seemed fairly satisfied with that, until we both noticed the slutty cop costume.

"It's also a chance for adults to dress up and pretend to be someone else for a night," I said. "And for women to dress like whores."

We both laughed, even as I defended this observation as being absolutely true. I, myself, have donned fishnet stockings and a micro-mini on more than one Halloween, simply because I could. Nowadays, I prefer to go the other way and dress in a man's tuxedo and fake mustache. But I completely understand the impulse to explore taboos on Halloween.

I just wish those taboos didn't always involve women being slutty.

After a full day of hunting for treasure and trying on clothes, I took Ruth back to her apartment near campus. We sat in my car in the parking lot for a few minutes and chatted. That's when Ruth told me about a very disturbing incident.

Just recently, she said, Ruth left her apartment in the early morning to walk the two blocks or so to campus. She was walking on the sidewalk when she noticed a man standing a few yards in front of, looking at her. He was fairly well-dressed and "normal" looking, but he was staring at her.

"I had this feeling that I should cross to the other side of the street," Ruth said. "But I also thought to myself, 'why do I have to cross the street? I am just walking to school.' So I just kept walking. And just as I got in front of him, the man opened his trousers and took out his…"

She stopped and laughed nervously.

"Oh my god, Ruth! That's horrible!" I said, putting my hand on her arm.

"I know!" she said. "I was so scared! But I just kept walking and after a few feet, I just turned to see if he was walking, too. But he was just standing there."

I was glad the man didn't follow her, but I feel so bad that this happened to her. We talked about listening to that inner voice that tells you something isn't right, about following the instincts that often sense things way before our perception picks up on them.

"Why do people do that?" Ruth asked, referring to the man exposing himself to her.

I hardly knew how to answer her. The best I could do was tell her about a similar incident that happened to me a few years ago.

I was at a bar in downtown Akron—a bar that no longer exists, though it has been reinvented several times as different kinds of watering holes and continues as a restaurant today—with my husband and two male friends. The place was crowded and noisy. As my friends and I talked, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. A man at an adjacent table seemed to be moving his one hand up and down rhythmically just above his tabletop. When I finally turned my gaze directly upon him, I saw that he had his penis out and was stroking it while he stared at me.

I was so shocked I didn't know how to alert the rest of my group right away. I remember feeling embarrassed, even though I had done nothing wrong. I also felt uncertain, as if I couldn't really believe what I was seeing. Could someone really be doing that here? Inside a crowded bar? Right there at his table?

I finally leaned over and whispered into my husband's ear that I wanted to move to a different table. When he asked why, I told him, "that sick f*#k has his dick out," and I got up and walked away.

My husband and our friends told the owner, who proceeded to eject the man from the establishment, amid his protests that he had merely been fondling the string on his sweatpants.

The most shocking part of my incident, still to this day, was how frightened and embarrassed I felt. I wish I had stood right up, pointed at the man, and yelled, "That man has his dick out!" I wish I had made more of a scene, called him out on his unacceptable behavior, embarrassed him. Instead, I demurred, whispered, walked away, as if I had done something wrong by noticing him. It is one of few regrets still nagging at my subconscious.

I told Ruth all of this, and we talked a little more about how difficult it is to be a woman in this world, how crazy people are, and how we have to be constantly vigilant about our surroundings. Then we hugged and I went home.

I am saddened and disappointed in my hometown over Ruth's run-in with a pervert. She has come half-way around the world to get an education and better herself, to try and lift her family out of poverty and create a better life for her as-yet unborn children. And what greets her in this land of opportunity, this new world of technology and civilization? Some jerk who can't keep it in his pants on a Monday morning. I had expected more from my city.

The behavior of both of these men has nothing to do with me and nothing to do with Ruth. Their behavior has everything to do with a culture that still sees women as little more than sex objects, as reflections of men, as things onto which men can ejaculate. Until all of us, men and women alike, stop enabling this behavior by saying things like, "oh , they're just crazy," the harassment and humiliation will continue. What these men displayed wasn't craziness but hostility.

Well, I'm not going to take it anymore. I could barely find my voice all those years ago in that noisy bar, but you can be sure I have found it now. And I will never allow anyone to humiliate me or any of my friends like that again. We should not have to fear for our safety when we walk to school or take the bus or simply exist in the world. 

So, look out, all you "crazy" men loitering downtown or around campus, looking for young girls to catcall or expose yourselves to or stalk or humiliate or embarrass with your aggressive sexuality.

The next time you pull that thing out, it may just be the last time. Ever.