“Behind Me” by Julia Watt
There is a young man who lives near me. The other girls know who he is and are equally unnerved by his presence. He breathes out of his mouth, he makes weapons in his free time, and he looks down on women, casting a sneering expression and knitting his brow whenever one of us speaks. He makes me very, very angry.
Sometimes, when I come back from a shower late at night, perhaps around 1 AM, he is in the hall, lingering. My hair hangs in long, easily grabbable, wet curls, I’m suddenly more conscious of the length my bathrobe, and the squelching of my shower shoes on the carpeted floor starts to accelerate. He is there, behind me. My nice girl filter comes back into my head, and I tell myself, “No, you can’t assume that every man is looking you up and down like a Christmas ham. You are safe…I think.” A disgusting thought pops into my head immediately after: “You aren’t pretty enough to be raped anyway.”
I am angry that I’ve been conditioned to think that attention, no matter how violent or harmful, is only earned if you are pretty enough.
Mr. Trump said something along those lines about an assault accuser. “No 1, she's not my type.” Why does a woman have to be “your type” to be raped? How about just not do the raping?
I am used to the double, triple, quadruple over-the-shoulder takes. Walking alone from the drum line off-campus residence, dubbed “The Drum Pad,” I was in a part of town I was completely unfamiliar with, and the sun had set an hour prior. Drums have always made me feel more masculine, and have provided an outlet for my creativity and my rage. I have played drums for rowdy football games, for formal concerts, for adrenaline-filled competitions, and for passionate protests. But this drum line experience was not so empowering. Timidly stepping through the poorly lit streets past unfamiliar houses, the numbers too dark for me to read, and no bus service to my area, I had to walk home alone. The anxiety set in almost immediately. My broad, drummer shoulders shrank in the shell of my jacket with “Michigan Drumline” embroidered across the back. Every little noise, every car, every figure was a threat. A man in a black hoodie coughed loudly and followed me for several blocks. I was counting on my phone battery staying alive to make it back safely. Division. I know that street. If I just keep going…Liberty Street. My pace quickened and sweat dripped from my brow even in the 50º chill.
My female peers and I talk about the boy in the dorm. I told them the stories of our run-ins in the halls, how he told me precisely how to wash my underwear, how he picks his nose in class, how he peers into my room when the door is cracked, and in some instances has taken some of my belongings. We talk about how we have no tolerance for him.
On my way back from the bathroom the night after my Drum Pad trek, he was lingering in the hallway, unsurprisingly. I tried to keep my head down and ignore his presence.
“How are you?” he asked. He did not wait for a response. “Just checked the polls – looks like Donald Trump is losing badly.” As he should, I thought to myself. He asserted his opinion further. “You know, honestly, I don’t give two shits about this election. Neither candidate is exactly ideal.”
Of course he didn’t – he had the room and the privilege not to care about which old white man represented him. I looked him in the eye, saying confidently and calmly with just a hint of the fury I harbored for him, “Oh, I understand. But you see, I’m a female, so I do actually give two shits.” He didn’t like that very much.
Suddenly I’m not afraid to walk back from the bathroom anymore.
Julia Watt is a rising second-year student studying Sociology, Spanish, and Music. She enjoys printmaking, pen and ink, writing, and playing both percussion and piano. A majority of her work is grounded in intersectionality, social justice, origin, and identity. Julia plans to pursue a career in law or writing but can't wait to see where college life takes her!
