The Power of the Pavement Men

I was 12 when I first experienced street harassment. It was a warm day in Adelaide and I wore shorts and a T-shirt on my walk to my local video store. My stroll was interrupted when a car sped past with a guy leaning out the window who yelled at me, “Nice legs, baby!” I never wore those shorts again.

Almost a decade later and street harassment has become a daily reality in my life. Whether it is catcalls as cars whiz past, sexually charged comments on the footpaths, or inappropriate touching, the effects of the harassment stay with me throughout the day. Firstly, I feel disgusted that my body or my clothing has provoked these pornographic thoughts. Then, shame floods in and I question the choices I had made that morning when I dressed myself. After these moments of self-doubt, anger erupts within me as I realise the unfairness of this disgusting treatment.

This weekend, a night out with the girls was ruined as countless men harassed me in the city. I was called a slut, I was applauded – and I mean literally applauded – for being “so sexy”, I was wolf-whistled at, and I was even gyrated against as I walked to find a taxi rank. Feeling humiliated and furious, I burst into tears and climbed into a cab.

I wasn’t always so disturbed by this treatment. It happens to every female, right? Why should I care? Isn’t it just something we have to deal with? It wasn’t until last year, as a girlfriend and I walked through the city when things changed for me. A group of five or six men (although muscle-bound giants would be a better descriptor) followed us down the street, calling out names and grabbing my arms. Our tactic was to ignore it, with the occasional, “Fuck off!” when they came too close. Then, one of the men ran behind me and grasped my hips, putting one hand under my skirt to feel my thighs. At this point, I spun around in horror, ready to defend myself, but what I saw in front of me made me stop with my mouth wide open. These huge men were standing there, arms crossed, smirks slapped across their faces. The realisation hit me like an electric shock – I can’t do shit about this… and they know it. If I yell at them, they’ll laugh and call me a crazy bitch. If I ignore it, they’ll just continue. If I try to physically hurt them, I’m potentially putting myself in danger. I am stuck. Thankfully, my girlfriend stepped in during my moment of enlightenment and thwacked the shit out of these guys with her handbag, so not all was lost.

Since that incident I have not taken street harassment lightly. Unfortunately, there’s not much us victims can do about it. Yes, legal prosecution is technically possible, but since the incidents are usually so transient, perpetrators can rarely be caught. So I have been searching my soul for the answer, for the best way to stick up for myself and for my fellow female comrades. I am yet to find a perfect solution, but for now a quick and simple, “Stop harassing women!” seems to do the trick.