Women Create

I know so many amazing women.

In time, I wish to be able to write about all of them. But in this post, I want to focus on two of my closest friends in Israel. Both women are brilliant, smart, motivated, multi-lingual and artistic. Both women are immigrants to Israel. Both women are independent and brave. Both women are mothers, both have triplets (all together now: Oy vey! Keinehora!)! Both women are artists, who began to create art after they had created new lives. They are recreating themselves in a way. I am so inspired by these women and I want to share their art with you.

Hilary is my honorary second mom/sista-from-anotha-mista from Kibbutz Saad. As well as playing several instruments and being instrumental in introducing me to her band, who allowed me to share a wonderful and musical year with them, Hilary is an acclaimed artist, as of the last few years. Several years ago, she took a class and that class turned into beautiful flower paintings and landscapes. Then came her abstracts- her use of color is amazing and the first 3 of that installment hang proudly in my living room. They lend color, depth and personality to the otherwise white blank slate room. They make me think of Hilary and her strength.

Hilary has 5 sons and a husband. That’s right, the woman has 6 kids in her house! I mean her oldest son helps a lot and her husband is a champ, but then she had triplets and God Bless Her, she then had one more just for fun. She is a nurse full time and over time, so she cares for people 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Her outlets, her music and her art are so expressive of her fun-loving personality, her kindness, her creativity, her open, adventurous side and her sensitive, feminine side.

Her latest installment of work is based on images of bamboo- the original piece was on request from a friend but as soon as friends and neighbors saw it, and the others- variations in size, color, negatives, neons, black and white- they began selling and going up in homes all over Israel, the US and Europe! Now, painting for fun is one thing, and it’s great- but on top of all of the other things to do in your life, to dream and act on a business concept, now that’s just fierce. But I understand her- I mean these pieces are good and they should be sold. I think that in the right markets, they could have serious mass appeal, which implies that her future work could have the same effect. I really believe in Hilary’s art and I love it. If you want to see more or get in touch with Hilary, contact me!

Marcia is a Brazilian queen, independent, strong, honest and kick-ass. Recently, she began designing clothes and, having been one of her first models I can tell you, this girl has vision, style and a serious understanding of how to make women look good. Her first two designs just hit stores all over Israel and I personally wear her wrap-meets-cardigan almost everyday. Marcia took this huge step- a new career, a new artform- within a year of just having triplets and building a new home. I don’t know anyone who would have the strength to do that. But she did. The first time I saw Marcia’s clothes, I already wanted one of each- they are flattering to all body-types and super sexy- dresses, tops, sleeves, oh my!

Marcia is the friend who met me at the airport when I made aliyah and helped me through the some of the hardest times of the past 5 years- and helped me celebrate some of the best times! Marcia has had quite an intense and amazing few years, she married a great man and gave birth to triplets! Yes, another set of triplets I am proud to know and love. With a big move and a broken leg, this woman has had her share of challenges this year.But she’s a champ and with her amazing family by her side, she’s kicking ass with her new clothing line!

Despite it all and with it all in her pocket, she still has the strength to start her own clothing design line, mass produce and market her women’s fashions. Her style is awesome, very feminine, very free-flowing, sexy, comfy but not shlumpadinka, curve-loving, beautiful fabrics and colors. Go here to see more and find a list a of stores, or contact me to get in touch with Marcia!

There are things we can all do everyday to support creative women like Marcia and Hilary- we can wear their designs and hang their art in our homes. We can talk them up, forward this post and other PR around to our friends and make sure we do our part to support these fierce women and their creations.

Go ahead, girls! Keep those creative juices flowing, we’re with you!

Quickie: The Rule of Go Big or Go Home

Go big or go home!

There is no way to succeed, make change or make a difference without putting your foot in your mouth a few times on your way there. Because the second you speak, or at least the second I open my big mouth, there is always a fair chance that I will say something stupid. In my family, we call this Foot In Mouth Syndrome, FIMS for short.

(Usually, here is where I’d put a picture of a little kid his foot in his mouth but when I searched Google Image for “foot in mouth” I got the most disgusting images on my screen. DO NOT DO THIS SEARCH IF YOU HAVE A WEAK STOMACH! I threw up in my mouth a little and couldn’t stay on the page long enough to get a picture. So no picture for you!)

FIMS symptoms include mumbling, stammering, insulting people to their faces, divulging secrets, saying things that are obviously false and saying the worst thing at the exact wrong time. Physical reactions include blushing, backing up towards the door and in the hours after the FIMS attack, smacking ones hand against their forehead, repeatedly screaming, “I am such a dumbass!!”.

The thing is, that in order to create change, you usually have to make a mess first. Change doesn’t usually come easily or smoothly- you gotta rock the boat, you need to take chances. You gotta start a revolution by making some noise. I’m not talking about violence, unless you consider explosive retardation violence. For me, every new job or new activist project I have ever taken has begun with 4-6 weeks chock full o’ fadichot- mortifying embarrassing moments. Granted, I work in my second language so I am no stranger to a consistent flow of blunders. But it never fails. When I take a step in a bold, new direction, I always come down with a case of FIMS at some point in the very beginning. I always recover, move on to be my eloquent, successful self but first, I embarrass the shit out of myself.

My usual FIMS flub is an unintended indirect insult in the form of verbal diarrhea. Like talking shit about a politician that my donor, who I am having lunch with, helped campaign for in his last election. Now, am I right about the politician being a douche? Probably, and in the long run it might even help my cause to have discovered their relationship. But in that moment, I just unknowingly insulted my donor and for days, I commence the head-smacking and “Dumbass!” proclamations.

The list goes on- including holding in my pee weeks into my new job, too embarrassed to admit that I still have not found the bathroom and not having asked in the first week, I fear it’s too late now. Embarrassing and bad for the bladder.

I’m not saying all of this to scare you- quite the opposite.  Go ahead, do something bold, get yourself a spitting case of the FIMS and then recover. Go big or go home- rock the boat, you’ll probably fall in at least once so bring a dry set of clothes! Don’t not do things because you might make a fool out of yourself. Do things knowing that you will definitely make a fool of yourself. Make a big ass fool of yourself because that’s how you roll- taking hits for your team in order to go places and do big things. I suffer from chronic, regenerative FIMS and you don’t see me crying about it- I keep on trucking, rocking, making moves, and taking names.

FIMS-  Nothing hurt, except your pride!

Strategy: Girls Scare Boys

Tired of being a strong, independent woman inside your apartment and then a shaky, scaredy-cat girl walking home at night?

Even in safe-city Jerusalem and especially in creepy New Brunswick, NJ I haven’t always felt self-assured on the streets at night. I’ve marched in some amazing Take Back the Nights- and it is so important to experience the unifying feeling of a women’s march against violence and rape. But we can’t always be lucky enough to be surrounded by hundreds of dykes while walking home from work (we should only be so lucky!). So I have taken two steps towards feeling stronger and more confident on the streets at night:

Step 1: IMPACT. Learn self-defense and IMPACT is the only way. It is a real life, real experience kick-ass course that builds confidence and teaches the moves while convincing you that you can do it. And believe me, I could if I had to. So find an IMPACT course near you and take it up ASAP (for Jerusalem and Tel Aviv go here).

Step 2: Act like a crazy lady on the street. It’s my new thing. I’m working out a way of scaring the scaries and freaking out the freaks.

Now, I know you might be embarrassed to do this but it works.

Case and Point: Last year, I was walking my dog at night in the field behind my house. The field is dark but my dog, Jersey, likes to poop there, so what can I do?I gotta go there. So, a young man comes up to play with Jersey and takes a step near me in the dark, invading my personal space and asking me if I live in this building. I can’t see the man’s face and I am feeling vulnerable to this potential threat. So I start yelling at him, like a crazy person. Using my IMPACT skills of telling the person violating my space that I want them to stop and walk away… but a bit loonier that they taught is in class. It’s my personal spin on the defense tactic.

He walks away.

A week or so later, two men walk by and the same thing happens- they play with my dog and then come up to me, asking where I live and why am I out here alone at night. I feel threatened, scared, so I started to yell at the guys. As they skulk quickly away in the shadows, I hear one console the other, “Don’t worry man, she did the same thing to me last week.”

Moral of the story: the roles are reversed now. I am the creepy neighborhood stalker now. I am the one who is freaking out the boys on the streets, late at night, skulking in the shadows. I love it.

Understand the tactic here: I am yelling normal, sane commands like “don’t step any closer to me” and “stop!”, “back up!”, but my eyes and my voice are conveying a slight crazy that implies a danger that women can’t always convey to men. Because, untrained, we are physically vulnerable, acting like a nut job gives us the necessary intimidating factor to feel safe.

It may not get you elected neighbor of the year or community prom queen but it helps me feel confident on the streets at night.

So walk that dog in your dark field, girl… just get you some crazy eyes and stay safe!

the breaking of a band

For over a year now, I have been singing in a band that I absolutely love. Loved. Great people, great friends, great musicians. The band is where I experienced my divorce- the sappy ballads that let me express the sadness, the hurt and the crazy, rockin’ love songs whose words I could at one point barely choke out. The band is where I met my new beau, sending secret text messages from across the room, before we ‘came out of the closet’ just a few months ago- the private jokes, the tension, the chemistry and the love songs that slowly took on a new meaning.

The music, the flubs, the laughs, the beats, the dancing, the flowing creativity.

I left the band recently, over a disagreement creative differences. It’s a loss not too different from quitting smoking, like losing a friend. I depended on those rehearsals, on the anticipation of a show or a potential gig. We played a few fun gigs but I wasn’t done. I respect the end, I know there wasn’t any other way. But I miss it. And I want to share it with the world via youtube.

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And now, a message from our sponsors:

BAND WANTED! Busty blond seeks band with heart and soul to rock out Jerusalem.

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Jerusalem of Trash

Holy Dirty Streets, Batman. What the fuck is happening in Jerusalem?!

The holy city is a mighty stinky this week due to a municipality workers strike, and as a part of that, a municipal sanitation workers’ strike.

The big green garbage bins, fondly referred to as “frogs” by Jerusalemites, are overflowing and their tadpoles and tadpole-mommas are overflowing too. I’m all for unionization but it’s all sorts of nasty up in the Holy City.

So we say no to a quiet, peaceful march for human rights, but we say yes to overflowing garbage bins? Oh, I see, we’re that kind of holy. Mayor Barkat claims the strike is an attempt to get two fired municipal workers suspected of  corruption back in their jobs. I say, two more corrupts assholes in that operation or two less- does it really matter? I mean the city is filled with fucking trash- and not just the trash sitting on the municipality council anymore, that was bad enough. Now it’s overflowing onto our streets. So we’re the kind of holy where political power struggles masked as fair-labor fights trump public health? OK, I get it now. I was confused before.

Because by my reasoning, it would be top priority to get garbage collectors back to work. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing last week’s leftovers as I walk home from work. More than I like seeing it, I like smelling it for blocks. Yum.

What’s hysterical here is that the country is so hung up on the terrifying possibility that schools and daycare won’t open on-time due to striking. So, people have kids and  then they can’t fucking wait to get them out of the house, so much so that they don’t see the trash on the streets and what bothers them is that their kids might be home for a few more days this summer?! I love the irony! I can’t complain about your kids ruining my day because it’s insensitive, but you can and it’s a totally rational reason for national panic?! Back to school, back to school… not if the overflowing garbage frogs eat your kids, first!

Here’s my contribution to this situation: I’m not picking up my dog’s poop so long as he does in on grass. Here’s my reasoning:  Do you really want one more plastic bag of shit in the garbage? Even a bio-degradable bag is just adding to the stench of human and animal waste that is permeating Jerusalem’s holiness. So I leave the dog poo on the grass, where it can fertilize and give back to the earth. Plus, this way I don’t have to come into close contact with my pup’s poop. Win-Win!

Here are some ways to cut down on waste, while the city workers sleep the day away and watch daytime TV:

1. Go here to evaluate your personal waste basket
2. EPA love
3. Some suggestions on cutting down
4. More suggestions
5. Stop Procreation Now (Population Control. Don’t blame me. I didn’t write it. I just wish I did.)

With much love for sanitation workers, parents of stinky kids driving them nuts at home, and Leo Hickman, who has the balls to suggest population control as a real solution to our problems!

Now that is a holy, hot mess!

Women’s Psych 101

My name is Shira and I am in therapy.

Admitting it sounds funny, even though I’m sure that most people who read my blog are in therapy (no offense, but let’s be honest). I feel like there is still a stigma, like we whisper it when we leave the office for a  ‘50 minute hour’.

Truth is, I feel lucky. I found a great therapist when I needed the help the most and I could afford it. Therapy is so hard at first,  and it’s exhausting and it’s lonely sometimes. But it’s amazing and life altering when you put the work in and trust the process.

So  I propose to you that mental health is a human right. I am sure that I’m not the first feminist to assume that for most women, mental health comes at a price- either financial or personal- that they cannot afford. Not that having money makes you happy, but not having the financial means to talk to someone when you need, can cost a woman her life and future.

Recently, the price of my own therapy was raised- and this is within the national health care package in Israel. My American girlfriends struggle with changing jobs and changing health care providers and the issues of prescriptions covered by the previous carrier but not the new one, and waiting lists for appointments with covered doctors, new doctors.

So we turn to the wonderful world of Non-profits. Non-profits that provide therapy for those who need it and cannot afford it, are amazing. The work they do saves lives. But their resources are limited and they usually work off of some sliding scale of need, which cannot begin to take into account the diverse needs of  a multitude of women in different communities like those that exist in Jerusalem.

• It is valid that a woman who has a full time job and makes ends meet still doesn’t want to make yet another payment at the end of the month.
• Therapy is not a  “leisure” or “extra” activity, though it is deemed so when compared to her otherwise socially-acceptable needs.
• It is hard enough to get out of work, when, for example, one non profit in Israel could only offer my friend appointments during the hours of 9am and 5pm.

So, though I am sure they are understaffed and underfunded like the rest of us, women’s health non profits don’t quite seem to be able to help, across welfare lines.

3 stories, just samples of many, to rock your gourd:

1. In Israel, one such org  told a friend, who barely makes ends meet after taxes and has student loans coming out of her ass, that her income (before taxes, and not taking into account her debt) implies that she could afford full price therapy. She was welcome to come in for an appointment at 11am on a Tuesday. Thank you for invalidating our feelings, our financial state and our work day.
2. On my own mental health journey, when first inquiring within my national health care provider as to mental health  in Jerusalem, the person answering the phone had not yet had her morning coffee and she was brutal. When I asked regarding English-speaking therapists (I inquired in Hebrew, mind you), I was told to learn the language now that I live here and suck it up. She hollered something rude about immigrants and I asked her name and hung up. This person who answered the phone is the first stop for all people in Jerusalem who are looking for affordable mental health help and she’s heinous. To be judged or yelled at, in your vulnerable state,  is a mockery of such a department and all departments in the field. I called back after that first conversation, spoke to the manager and told him of the unfortunately incident. He was sorry to hear of the correspondence but he told me he was glad I called, so he could take care of it. I doubt he did. Thank you for embarrassing and traumatizing us after we muster up the balls to ask for help.
3. Another friend of mine had a wonderful, affordable  therapist through a non-profit. Her  therapist was fired, with no warning, and she was given no forwarding information to allow her to carry on her treatment. Thank you for giving us a glimpse into what privilege can buy. Thank you for showing us that only money, and not good intentions, assure you stable, consistent professional help.

Point is, it is hard to find cheap, quality, consistent therapy. Maybe the revolution needs to start, at least for now, in our minds. Because I want to see a day when a women’s mental health is as important as the needs of her children, family, work, car and even the puppy.

Without our marbles, ladies, how can we save the world?

The Beast- on quitting smoking

Reporting to you today, live, from the belly of the beast, I’m Shira and I just quit smoking. Again.

I’m sorry if this shocks some of you in America- my smoking habit was closeted in the land of “ew, smoking is so taboo, it’s so 1999.”  But in Israel, it was full blown, it was well supported and it was glorious.

I have been smoking for more time than I care to recount and this is probably my 4th or 5th attempt at quitting. Each time, I am so sure I’ve really kicked the habit. For months I brag, and preach about my sobriety like those little quirky D-list celebs on Celebrity Rehab after they complete a 7 day drama marathon detox with Dr. Drew (if you missed that metaphor, you don’t watch enough reality TV- get on that). And then I realize that I quit smoking so well and so forever that I’m strong enough to just have one drag. Well, that one drag turns into only one cigarette, only one a day, I don’t buy I just bum and then just one pack, and then, well, months of pure JOY.

That’s right, smoking is joy. It’s fun, it’s cool, it’s awesome, it’s social, it’s relaxing, it’s distracting. Sure, it also smells awful, makes you sick from coughing to cancer, it’s expensive and gross, but we all have flaws.

So today, as I write my blog, my body withdraws regretfully from Nicotine and all the other wonderful chemicals that I have been dumping in my body for the last 3 months (since my last quitting endeavor- I was ’sober’ for nearly 10 months that time). My blood and lungs miss the torture- the abusive relationship my body shares with cigarettes is a love-hate, push-pull kind of marriage. The cigarettes are bad to me- they treat me bad but I love them. I can’t imagine where else that would parallel in my past life…

So now I will take my angry, frustrated, anxious, furious, annoyed withdrawal symptoms and take them out on everyone I see today. And most probably tomorrow. So, for all you goody-goodies always trying to get my to stop smoking: Fuck you! You try it. It’s hard and it’s horrible. I’m probably going to lose all of my friends today- and maybe even one of my jobs- because you thought that I should definitely quit smoking:

“You have to!”, you said.

“Set a date”, you pleaded.

“Stop killing yourself slowly with those cancer sticks”, you teased me annoyingly to no end.

Well, now where the hell are you?! Are you willing to spend the next few days with me? Right, I didn’t think so.

“You’re on your own with this one, dumbass”, I tell myself.

“Well, then, fuck it, I’m going to buy cigarettes!”, I reply to myself.

But I don’t. Because I know I have to quit. I sing in a band, for God’s sakes.  But it’s hard.  I can’t live with it and I can’t live without it.

Maybe the fear of relapsing, as I have already so many times, is what keeps me from being optimistic and seeing past these next few days to a time when I will have clearer skin, clearer lungs, more sensitive tastebuds and whiter teeth. But I don’t see those times ahead. Because right now I am scared of failing and right now I am sad.

I’m mourning. Because cigarettes are like a best friend. They are always there, they always listen, they never answer but you know they feel you. I’m losing that friend today. Nothing fills that void. No amount of gum or licorice or chocolate can fill the place that cigarettes held. But I’ll be damned if I won’t try.

Now I’m gonna eat until the pain of quitting goes away. As Oprah would say, I’m going to eat my feelings. Bring on the lbs, my knees can take it. So instead of dying of lung cancer, I’ll die of one of the many side effects of obesity. At least obesity is socially acceptable in America now. Unlike smoking, which is gross.

92 Days

Well, it’s done. I got my get- my divorce is finalized .

It’s over and I’m so relieved. It was a surprise- a pleasant one that got thrown together when the opportunity presented itself- and the quiet in my head is tangible. I think I actually saw the weight lift from my shoulders as he repeated the words after the rabbi in the rabanut.

To my surprise, the rabbis were sympathetic to my place in the unwanted relationship with an unstable man and they seemed to understand the urgency of this ceremony, allowing the arrangements to go on for hours, once the opportunity presented itself.

That having been said, the process in the rabbinic system is RIDICULOUS. The ceremony of divorce involved the man doing a lot of  ‘repeat after me’s and the woman doing a lot of ‘waiting outside so as not to worry my pretty little head over this big man business’. I spent the better part of the time in the hallway/waiting room. It’s mildly offensive. Also, I have not counted out the possibility that there was a game of circle jerk going on inside the courtroom while I waited outside during the “writing of the get”. I’m just saying, it’s possible. The sexual tension in that room was overwhelming!

At the very end, when they recalled that my ex was actually divorcing me and not the 9 bearded old men in the room, I stood up and did my part- no talking, no words, no voice- just catching a paper and walking to and from a door (that’s actually all true). As a part of the ‘repeat after me’s, my ex said the words that freed me from him and freed me for others. Thanks to no will of his own, while repeating after rabbi oldie mcoldberg, my ex acknowledged our divorce, my desire to get out and be free, out loud and in my general direction. It wasn’t heartfelt- it didn’t need to be- but it gave closure in retrospect. Somewhere, hidden deep in that nasty patriarchal world, I found something symbolic that only made that sweet day sweeter.

The rabbi informed me that it is now illegal for me to marry a Kohen- a Jewish man who is a descendant of the bibalical Aharon- and that it is illegal for me to get married within the next 92 days. So unfortunately for you, you will not be receiving a wedding invitation from me in the next 92 days- well, i guess 90 days now. Brilliant.

Thank god for the wisdom of… well, 90 year old Ashkenazi homo-erotic rabbis. Thank god for the strength and support of my friends and family. Thank god that part of my life is behind me.

ascending to where?

My aliyah- my move to Israel- will meet its 5 year mark in September 2009. Hard to believe I’ve been in the holy land, in the holy city, for this long already. It was everything I dreamed of. It was more than I ever dreamed. Sometimes, it was a nightmare.

My life in Israel is vibrant, warm, exciting, fulfilling, hard, lonely, challenging, comfortable, comforting and mine. I have been through a lot. I have built my own family, I have lost love and found love. I got a dog. I have yet to lose my dog and have kept him alive, despite the doubts of some concerned family members (you know who you are- 5 years and the dog is still alive!!!).

The beginning was as hard as they warned. I rose to the challenge. I found work, home, communities, friends, family. I waded through bureaucracy, mean Israeli secretaries whose main goal in life is to prevent you from doing what you need to do, and awful customer service- and I came out on top.

I dated, I married, I left. This week I unwillingly joined the ranks of women in Israel who are being refused a get.

I marched, I organized, I protested, I celebrated, I danced with drag queens.

I sing in a band, I meet new people. I make new connections. I speak fluent Hebrew. I plan to learn Arabic. I make future plans. I want to travel to Thailand.

I love my country. I am proud of my decision, my hard work, and my life I have created. I have learned more in the last year than I even thought possible and I am so strong. I don’t regret a minute of it.

But lately, I feel unsettled. In 5 years I haven’t gotten used to the agressive culture, the constant potential conflict. I feel exausted all the time from the push and shove. Of all the things I learned about independence and the vast multitude of my strength, I also realized the absolute necessity of the proximity family.

When I moved to Israel, I was a young, innocent, self-conscious, naive and bright eyed 22 year old girl. I was at a crossroads. I came to Israel. Now I find myself a young, strong, conscious, experienced 27 year old girl.

I am at a crossroads.

Lewd Acts

I am breaking the silence about a violation that I have experienced more than a handful of times. These lewd acts are random personal-space invaders coming at you on the street: public masturbation.

Public Masturbation, definition: a man, always a man, standing or sitting in a public place, masturbating while looking at live subjects.

Now, I know this subject is uncomfortable but this is obviously a problem in which very rarely- but prominently enough for me to see them- men can only (or preferably) get their jollies in public while watching passersby. Here are a few examples of various expressions of this  crimes that I have eye-witnessed, to my great regret:

• Man whacking off in car as I passed by with girlfriends near our off-campus apartments in New Brunswick, NJ. We scream. He drives away.
• Again in hub city, NJ, on the same street as before, while walking with a group of girls, we notice that the young man walking behind us is having more fun that we are– and he’s alone, with his pants open getting down with his bad self. Again we scream, we run into our apartment and lock the door.
• At a bus stop in Jerusalem’s city center (oh no! not the holy city! oh yes…) while some random girls  and I sit and wait, a man stands right in the middle of Jaffa street facing the bus stop, whips out his wang and ‘goes to town’ (pardon the pun, i couldn’t resist). The girls scatter- myself included. I decide it is a good day to splurge on a taxi.
• And lately, twice to be exact, a construction worker working outside a building across the street from my apartment building  stares at me while I pass and pleasures himself. He does not stop looking at me and touching himself. I drive away.

This act infuriates me. It scares me. It disgusts me. It disarms me. It objectifies me. It silenced me… Until now.

I want to be clear that this violation- being stared at and used in a live-fantasy unwillingly- is not personal or related directly to me, nor is it happening just to me. The act is directed at me because I am female and because I am in public. It happens to us because we are born and because we leave the house without a man by our side.

This last and latest violations hit me hard because it happened outside of my house and in my neighborhood, where kids walk around alone, because it is usually very safe. For that reason, I called the police.

The police are supposed to protect and serve but ever since NWA came out with “Fuck tha Police”, we’ve known better. So I was wary. When I called (imagine me saying “I’d like to report a man masturbating in public please” in Hebrew. oh no, not the holy language! oh yes…) a nice woman police officer (read, former frecha) took the report and my name and number in case they couldn’t find the house. She said they were sending a car. I don’t know if they ever did.

Before that day, I had never done anything in response to these invasive incidents because this is not an act you can easily fight. I didn’t respond because I feared that anything I do or say at that moment to stop it will actually encourage it. It doesn’t seem to warrant a violent reaction, and it’s so gross, who would want to get close enough to throw a punch?! Running away, escape, is the only option left to you and at that moment, all you want is to get the fuck away.

So calling the police isn’t the ass beating that this perverted fool deserves but it’s better than nothing. It did not make me feel safe. In fact, after calling be police I felt vulnerable, particularly because this was happening across the street, and I felt like I could easily be named as the caller, being the victim. I was scared to leave my house that evening.

I hope the police car came to the street. I hope, in the very least, based on my description, they got the guy kicked off of this particular job site, so that he won’t be around anymore.

I also hope, if nothing more comes of it, that I’ve opened up a discourse on a violation so foul and so humiliating that we never speak its name. The silence is part of what allows this and similar acts to go unpunished- objectifying us and violating our feeling of safety in public. If we start to talk about it, breaking the silence can free us from feelings of guilt, maybe someday inspire a solution and remind us that we are not alone.