It is a beautiful day outside. As I write this, the sun crests with late afternoon light and the air hums with the buzz of spring. I want to be out walking. I want to feel the sunshine on my face and in my hair. I want to enjoy every bit of nature's warmth after spending the last several weekends bundled up because of the snow. But today I am not out walking. Instead, I am sitting inside with my computer. I am looking up self-defense courses and trauma counselors. I am wondering why I didn't just bite the bullet and buy the Frontiersman Bearspray intended for grizzlies instead of settling for the gel mace. I am thinking of how blasted smart Donald Trump is for running a campaign based on fear. I am sitting inside, pondering these thoughts, because yesterday I went for a walk. Yesterday I marched out of the parking lot of the church where I am staying, arms swinging and ponytail bouncing, with a smile on my face that spring had finally arrived. Yesterday I boogied down the sidewalk like I have several afternoons a week for the past month and let myself relax into the rhythm of my feet hitting the sidewalk. Yesterday I put up with the catcalls and the honks and, like always, tried not to think of the volunteer I worked with several weeks ago that told me to take them as a compliment. But yesterday I also passed a group of men, sitting outside of a mechanic shop, that had not ever been there before. As I walked by, a chorus of voices rose up, "hey, baby," "gimme some," "here jewel," and so I quickened my pace and hoped they would be gone by the time I turned around and headed back. At that point, I contemplated crossing to the other side of the street. However, I was no where near a crosswalk and it was too busy to jaywalk. As the time neared for me to head back, I turned around, determined to press onward home with my shoulders squared and my eyes facing forward. As I neared the corner where the group had stood, I simultaneously noticed that the crosswalk light was about to turn and, out of the corner of my eye, that someone, who turned out to be an adolescent boy, was running towards me. I began to sprint towards the crosswalk and onto the next block. This wasn't a sprint like the intervals I forced myself to do on the soccer practice field at school. It wasn't the short burst of speed I find when my brother chases me. And it certainly was not anything like the lighthearted races one of the other long-termers and I challenge each other to when we go out on walks or runs. This wasn't the sprint of the predator: it was the sprint of the prey. All my humanity fell away and for an interminable moment, I was merely a being. After several blocks the bile rising to my throat brought me back to reality and, after managing a brave glimpse behind me, I began to slow. As I returned to a walk, fighting to catch my breath, a kind older woman pulled up beside me. I lied to her, telling her I was fine when she asked if I was okay. She then informed me that people who run like I was running are never okay. I managed to squeak out the truth, I don't like people yelling at me, before resuming my walk. Several blocks later, someone honked. Stop. Just stop. Uttered a voice barely louder than a whisper. I realized it was my own. Today I stayed inside. And when I got out of the car at the jobsite or the store, I shuddered every time a car drove by. I found myself cringing at every black, male face I passed. And I forced deep breaths down my throat every time I heard a honk. It is not fair and it is not right that I, a person who receives automatic privilege simply because of the color of my skin, should have an automatic and negative view of an entire race's gender. But it is also not fair or right that I am treated as an object every time I walk down the street. It is not fair that I am reduced to a piece of ass, a sex symbol, a white girl asking for it in my paint stained jeans and grungy ball cap. I will leave Detroit, at least for a while, sometime in the near future. I will find quiet country roads and shaded foot paths to walk alongside and I will once again think of using mace on bears and not people. But I don't want the next Mennonite farm girl that likes to walk/run who comes along, to fear for her life. I don't want this generation of 13 year old boys to grow up thinking it is okay to chase a woman down the street. I can buy my pepper spray and glance guiltily at hand guns. And those men can continue to stand near street corners, blasting degrading music and cat-calling women. But it is not until we, collectively, put down our guns and our radios, that we will find ways to cross cultural chasms. In a white feminist, American Sniper world, it is difficult to imagine black men and white women feeling equally safe on the same streets. But it is even more difficult to imagine the children I know growing up solely in a world of fear and hatred. Yesterday I was presented with a challenge but today I was presented with a choice. I can choose to build up the basis of fear I have developed over the past five weeks from men like those on that street corner. Or I can choose to build friendships (and right now, basements) for the women like the one in the car. Mothers, grandmothers, daughters, people. People who have trusted me in their homes and hugged me in their churches. People who want safe communities. People who want back Detroit.
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Elizabeth SchragAdventurer. Biblical and Theological Studies major. Borderline Vegan. Rebel with a cause. Archives
March 2017
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