She said, as I looked around.
There had been. I was sitting on the bench, reading my book, waiting for the bus when a male presence asserted himself to my right. There were grunts and groans as he settled onto the bench, leaning into it from behind, trying to get my attention.
I wouldn't flatter him with a glance. I wouldn't even dare give in to my curiosity. I closed my book and waged a mental war and sat up sturdy and watched for the bus. And at some point in my earnest attempts to pretend he didn't exist, he disappeared. The bus arrived and I stood up worried about my skirt clinging to my thighs, climbed aboard and appeared to be crazy in front of the bus driver. I looked left and right for that presence, ready to abate my curiosity, ready to see who I was angry at.
There's no one behind you, she said, with a hint of laughter on her lips.
My sunglasses were on and the difference between full sun and harsh bus lights gripped me for a moment too long as I tried to discern the moment that he'd left my side, given up on getting my attention, walked away. I walked down the aisle and passengers moved away from my lurching body, unwilling to be touched by my hips, my legs, my skirt.
For a moment I wondered if he was even there or not, if I'd imagined the whole thing, but I remembered that at some point, a man in a car listening to a blaring song with the line, "Players only love you when they're playing..." This man looked back at us, and yelled, "I love you!" I didn't respond. The man beside me grunted loudly at him, "What?" The man in the car screamed out, "I'm not playing," and then turned left at the light.
The point is, he was there. And when the bus arrived he was not. He did not intend to get on the bus. He simply settled in to observe me and for some reason, even though that was hours ago, I cannot stop feeling my skin crawl from that fact.
Maybe it is the neighborhood. The men of Humboldt Park are so different than men anywhere else. They not only seem to want to let me know that they like me with playful hoots or pleasant beeps of their horns, but are not satisfied when I do not respond. They do not just carry on and find the next girl to honk at, they seem to want to make me see them. And I will not speak to them, I will not encourage them. As the summer wears on, I find it necessary to wear tank tops and skirts. The sad thing is, my version of a tank top shows no cleavage, and my skirts fall well past my knee. This does not seem to matter. I am a woman, and I feel like they think I must want men to hoot and snicker and call out to me, so they gladly do so.
Last week, I took the long journey to the nearest laundromat. It is a distance of four blocks, which seems quite far with two giant duffel bags packed to brimming, rolling behind you in the hot sun. I have made this journey many times over the last six months, and what always amazes me, because the street borders a park, there is no end to how many men like to sit around and hoot and holler at women walking past. Even in the middle of winter I've been honked at, usually from behind, as if men are trying to say hello to my ass.
In that four blocks five separate honks occurred, the last of which was followed by a truck slowing down and the men inside trying to speak to me. I would not turn my head. As I was nearing the last block, feeling the weight of the laundry in my muscles, sweat rolling down my face from the sun, I noticed three men sitting near the corner where I was due to pass. They heard the wheels of the duffels scraping the sidewalk and turned at my arrival. Each of them made noises at me, cooed at me, but two of them gave up as I passed. One of them would not stop and even stepped towards me at which point I turned my head and raised my middle finger up. I don't think I've ever done that, no matter how many times I've wanted to. It scares me that my rage could circumvent my internal editor and make me do things I'm not proud of.
Today I wondered what a world without men would be like. If women were in charge of the U.N. would they really have a good cry, roll up their sleeves and clean things up, as Diane says? Are men only useful for expanding life beyond the current generation? Would I miss the world as we know it if every man was gone? Sometimes these imaginings are foolish and I'm not afraid to admit it. It's strange, feminism has done so much, yet sexism still remains. I feel like I can't walk down the street alone or sit at the bus and cross my legs because it will encourage a man to initiate some kind of contact with me.
And next time a man sits behind me just to stare at me, I'll get up and move.
