A poem is brewing. That's good. My poetry group meets in a couple of weeks so I need to get thinking about writing some poems. But the reason this particular poem is brewing is not so good. It stems from an incident seemingly from a different life time ago when I was 17. Summer and I'm working evenings in downtown Vancouver. I go to college the rest of the year but am working in a hole-in-the-wall-and-up-a-few-dusty-staircases telephone survey office over the summer. I live with my parents in North Vancouver so have to take a series of buses to get across Burrard Inlet to the north shore.
One evening we got out late. As I'm waiting in the dusk for my bus home on a city corner, a man asks me something about the buses. A couple of other people stand around but he chooses to talk to me. So I chat. I'm an introvert but can easily chat one on one with strangers. And I've been brought up to always be polite. He seems like he needs help. Turns out he's quite drunk. Or stoned. And persistent that I talk to him. I look around at the other people. They stare off into the distance with big city detachment. I see a bus coming. Is it mine? I walk away from this guy who isn't being physical or even obscene that I can remember. Only persistent with his prattling on. He's still saying something. I turn to respond. The bus whizzes past. Wait! It didn't even stop? I check with another woman stood like a statue by the curb. Yep. That was my bus. The one that would get me home at the right time with fewest transfers. The one that wouldn't be back around for at least another half hour. The drunk guy staggers towards me. I've had enough of him. I'm mad at him and mad at myself. I flee down the street. All I can think is that I need to get across the Inlet so I head to the seabus terminal. I sort out my buses and take my transfers at the terminal. Wait for the seabus which I absolutely love. It's a hovercraft ferrying people from downtown to the north shore, Lonsdale Quay I believe. I don't navigate places well so I'm quite proud of myself that I've somehow got myself a plan B to get home. Rattled though I am that I missed the first bus. Unnerved by the man's persistence. Unsettled by the way I perceive that I caused the whole incident. Am I sitting in the terminal waiting or am I actually already sat on the seabus when another drunk guy sits beside me? I can't remember. I think he sits beside me at the terminal. But I move away. Enough of drunks and their advances or whatever they were for one night. He seeks me out on the seabus. Sits beside me in two little seats close to the front of the bus where the crew are. I ignore him. Why don't I want to talk to him he wants to know. He just wants to talk. I scrunch up to the white molded plastic around the window. The conductor, for want of a better word, comes up--a man maybe mid-30s. "Is he bothering you?" the conductor asks me. "Ain't bothering no-one. Just talking." "No. It's okay. Thank you." I worry what will happen to the drunk. "If you're sure. It's no trouble. I'd be happy to remove him." I shake my head. All I really want is for everyone to just leave me alone. In peace. I just want to be safely home in my bedroom with its lemon walls and brown flowered wallpaper, away from this raw after dark downtown world. The conductor doesn't move far. He stands, arms crossed, in the doorway of the crew's quarters, watching. The drunk pretty much shuts up, mumbles under his breath. I say nothing. I rest my head against the multi-paned window. Its coolness on my forehead soothes me. Lights dance outside the window but mainly it's dark and I can see my own reflection, the guy beside me, even if i stretch my neck back enough, the conductor watching. I study my reflection. What was it about me that had attracted this? Two drunks, the unwanted attention of two men like that, in one night? Too much make up? The wrong clothes? I still tended to wear skirts a lot. Too trusting? Too polite? Too nice? Too vulnerable? The guy beside me stays beside me. At some point he tries to talk to me again. I ignore him. The conductor leaps over. "Do you want me to get rid of him for you? I can. If he's bothering you." Again I shake my head. So weary. "We're almost there. It's okay. Thank you." When we dock, I scramble off the seabus while the conductor makes the drunk guy wait until everyone else is off. Until I'm well out of sight. I feel a little sorry for the drunk, again persistent but harmless, but mostly I feel sorry for myself. What a night. When I finally get off the connecting bus at the end of our street, Mam and Dad are both there waiting. Mam looks worried. I see her relief when she spots me. Dad looks furious. I don't think I can face him. No energy. They ask what happened. They've been so worried. How could I do this? In the street, walking home through the dark, in the warm summer air, Dad starts yelling at what I've put them through. Enough! I yell something back. Or do I? I know I stride away from them, burst into tears. Mam tells Dad to leave me alone and be quiet. She runs up beside me. We're the least demonstrative family ever but she puts her arm around my shoulder. I don't want to tell them. I blame myself. I know Dad'll be mad. But I do tell them what happened. No blame on me except that I shouldn't have engaged these men in conversation, especially the first. I barely said nothing except probably leave me alone to the second. Dad wants me to quit the job. His reactions always so extreme. Mam sees it as a lesson to learn, encourages me to keep the job, not to give in and let this situation control me. She guarantees my safety as much as she can. From that point on someone, either Mam and Dad or my boyfriend, drive across town to pick me up every night I work. I listened to the following TEDtalk (10 mins 35 seconds) for the second time yesterday. I urge you to listen if you can. It's very powerful. It's not too much in your face. It doesn't whitewash ALL men. The image of the woman being moved haunts me. Sounds too unbelievable. As though it's a comedy skit. But it's not. Imagine being that woman. I understand her fury. I feel it too. https://www.ted.com/talks/tracee_ellis_ross_a_woman_s_fury_holds_lifetimes_of_wisdom After relistening to this TEDtalk, the memory of that evening in Vancouver is what rose to the surface for me. It's not really a #MeToo. Or is it? Would these men have approached me if I was a burly man? Within a year or two, I took Women's Studies at SFU and took Wen-Do, Women's self defense. I learned lots. No such thing as being in the wrong place at the wrong time. But be aware of your surroundings. Do what you need to to keep yourself safe at all times. Even if this means causing a scene--something that I tried so hard NOT to do that lifetime ago. What you wear is what you wear and nobody else's business. No such thing as asking to be raped. All this was quite revolutionary in the late 70s. And we obviously still had a long way to go. Obviously we still do. But we're getting there. Talking and being open helps. Thank you for bearing witness to my story.
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AuthorWelcome! I'm Sue Blott: a writer of all things, a poet at heart, mom, wife, daughter, step-mom, grandma, tea drinker, tai chi-er, mystic, artist, dreamer...and now a blogger! This is my world. Categories |