Head Up, Homegirl
I was walking home from the R train when I witnessed a moment of retro irritation. Retro because it doesn't happen to me anymore, but it happens--daily, hourly, by the minute--to women all over the world.
I was walking up 95th street, enjoying the sparkly end of the day, the sun dappled sidewalk, the prancing dogs leading their human slaves on the bi-daily poop walk, when I noticed a group of young men on a stoop, laughing like low rent trolls and probably not meaning any harm. I made eye contact, as grammas are empowered to do, and their eyes met mine, skated on by, and they continued on with their manly, late afternoon banter. I saw a lovely coming the other direction; she was trim, fit, fresh faced and on her way to a work out it looked like...certainly something to give more than a glance to, were I a young, garrulous buck looking to look. It's funny, they didn't say anything, and I certainly never saw anything, but I could not help but notice that brow that furrowed as she approached their tight niche. Her eyes were dead ahead, set to nothing, it seemed, but her brow grew clenched and tense as she passed them (and, incidentally, me) as if by instinct.
God, I knew her heart right then.
It is hard to describe to the most well-meaning gents the immediate and undeniable impulse to flinch from a manscape of strangers all grouped and laughing together. After a young lifetime of catcalls, hisses, kisses, and crude promises of black, hateful sex acts it is truly impossible not to close up, lock down, and grow rigid with unease if not downright fear. Its the scarring of time, I guess. Irreparable, maybe not, but when you walk the walk of the The Object with Tits long enough, you know the score at least enough of the time to make you wary ALL of the time.
Sad, isn't it?
Do I sound wistful? I hope not. I don't feel particularly wistful. In that moment, I felt sad and strong for her. I knew what she was thinking and hoped she'd feel better, more secure, by the end of the block. That's something to hope for, right?
I was walking up 95th street, enjoying the sparkly end of the day, the sun dappled sidewalk, the prancing dogs leading their human slaves on the bi-daily poop walk, when I noticed a group of young men on a stoop, laughing like low rent trolls and probably not meaning any harm. I made eye contact, as grammas are empowered to do, and their eyes met mine, skated on by, and they continued on with their manly, late afternoon banter. I saw a lovely coming the other direction; she was trim, fit, fresh faced and on her way to a work out it looked like...certainly something to give more than a glance to, were I a young, garrulous buck looking to look. It's funny, they didn't say anything, and I certainly never saw anything, but I could not help but notice that brow that furrowed as she approached their tight niche. Her eyes were dead ahead, set to nothing, it seemed, but her brow grew clenched and tense as she passed them (and, incidentally, me) as if by instinct.
God, I knew her heart right then.
It is hard to describe to the most well-meaning gents the immediate and undeniable impulse to flinch from a manscape of strangers all grouped and laughing together. After a young lifetime of catcalls, hisses, kisses, and crude promises of black, hateful sex acts it is truly impossible not to close up, lock down, and grow rigid with unease if not downright fear. Its the scarring of time, I guess. Irreparable, maybe not, but when you walk the walk of the The Object with Tits long enough, you know the score at least enough of the time to make you wary ALL of the time.
Sad, isn't it?
Do I sound wistful? I hope not. I don't feel particularly wistful. In that moment, I felt sad and strong for her. I knew what she was thinking and hoped she'd feel better, more secure, by the end of the block. That's something to hope for, right?
posted by Shiny at 9:34 PM
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